These are juvenile ponderings.

The sun has bled in through tiny slits of plastic and dried up all evidence of midnight longing. I can breathe again, and thus am left to my own devices and my own internal thought. It’s morning, and the mourning has lifted, you have gone away for the day and the air is so much thinner. I suppose you’ll return in hour’s time, but for now, I can be me without you.

Listening to the brewing of the coffee pot, gargling and bubbling up adrenaline to lengthen my day that much more, I am draining. I’ve shed too much skin to jump start new chapters and awaiting trains. I’ve run parallel to the passenger beast and have only stopped to watch it trail off without me. There were no seats that could hold such restlessness and boredom, I know this. These are juvenile ponderings.

That same T.V. remains mute. So many other noises around me to cover such bleakness, but it’s all nonsense and irrelevant. It’s knowing that the end is so much closer than the events leading up to it and everything starts to lose its meaning. It’s dedication to a novel that when the ending chapter comes you lengthen the amount of time it takes to finish. It’s tripping at the finish line and it’s parting ways with an addiction. It’s whatever you see fit at the time it fits. It’s things that couldn’t and shouldn’t be; it’s me and it’s you.

I’m not going to lie, oh most precious of readers. I’m terrified to pick up the pencil, to pull out the paper and see what such clutter forms. I’d rather just distance myself from such crude and smite-ridden thoughts, all of these distasteful neuron explosions. It’s nothing but a burden and a blessing to inject such meaning into lyric and books and writings. But the coffee awakes a giant and the silence ushers in the crowds and all we have is shattered glass and remnants of populace never to be admired.

Hell, we cannot remove these robots from our skins and the mechanics of this now machine-infested universe we now only lust. Every action, reaction, every lie foretold, it’s all the same, and just as easily mapped to our gears and levers and pulleys and shell and hydraulic pumps that keep us breathing and beating and seeing fog and thermal passerbys . Happenings happen and it is cyclical madness to not conform to the brutality of the wheel and invention and robotic efficiency.

It was under a tree when I found out that my company was only my doubt, and the leaves began to fall. My faithlessness killed the growths of the tree and everything came down in full force, decaying, dead, rotting, and everything you could expect. What was I to do but let it all come down on top of me, leave me no room to breathe, until finally I am covered, smothered, and my little robotic quiet heart pumps one last time until it…..

Read more...

The going-on's, a camping trip, and a slim look at the future.

2 days and counting.

Spring break is near, and I am overcome with excitement. It has been 4 months now since I've had some kind of break from the monotony, and finally it has come. But one thing I have to look forward to until then is the fact that it is 11:30 AM, and I have no school until 5:00 tomorrow evening.

Fleet Foxes is filling my ears as we speak along with the sound of the washing machine in the other room. I just went bought my harmonica holder for the show and have been bluesing it up ever since. There is three months left until I graduate, where is my life about to head?

My eyes have been glued to the west coast. I can see myself in a decent little apartment, working for some production company, taking strolls on the L.A. beaches in my free time, writing for some local column. Maybe even find a little artsy brunette to keep me company? Hey, it could be a possibility.

Aside from my dreams and aspirations, I have a few more months of this strange little life in the panhandle. As strange at is it, it has made me quite nostalgic and has boosted my music writing profusely. The only problem is, I cannot write a song that ISN'T about love and heartache. Have I gone country? I suppose I need to buy a gas-guzzling pick-up truck soon.

I suppose I haven't even blogged about my camping experience last weekend. Woah. I really need to get back on track with this.

April 4 & 5

Ahhh camping. The thought of me camping STILL makes me laugh (and apparently more people than just me). But besides all that, my friends and I ended up with a little free time on our hands so a trip was an order: St. Augustine, Mark, Dan, Liz, Rob, and myself.

Well, the weather was supposed to be ridiculous. The radar looked bloody and ridden with lighting bolts. But I am from the swamp for goodness sake. I swim in the same waters as gators and every breed of snake. A little rain won't do much to my hair; I don't brush it anyways. Some were concerned but finally gave in. It was like 3-4 o'clock when we finally decided to get a move on after finding an opening at Anastasia Campground. We loaded up Dan's creeper-pick-up-kids-using-candy van and headed out.

The clouds were graphite-like but didn't kill our spirits in the slightest. I was in the back with a little fan keeping me company along with a packet of bacon (such a random group of friends). We arrived a mere 2 hours later and seemed that we had taken the last camping spot. It still looked like it was going to hail/pour/lighting/anything, but we seemed to of had God on our side, for some strange reason.

The first thing we did is create a rain evacuation plan. Dan and friends created a roof for the table using a tarp in between trees held by bungees (freaking genius), and we made sure only the necessary items were out of the van. After everything was set up, we ventured off in search for food around the "oldest city in the country" (and firewood).

Apparently firewood is the HARDEST thing EVER to find. After calling pretty much the whole city, we randomly found firewood at a gas station close to the campsite. We found a Wal-Mart and stocked up on the essentials and brought them back to the site.

Burgers and hot dogs were the choices. We built a fire, because it was pretty dark by then. After some shenanigans and eatage, we went for a stroll on the beach. This is when drizzles started to usher in.

Yet, that's all they were. Nothing climaxed more than a few drops here and there. But it did get mighty chill after a while, so we headed back to comfort and fire. A few of us stayed up until 3-4 in the morning, only to sleep for 2 hours and wake to go fishing.

This place looked like fishing heaven: shallow cuts of water, a bit grassy, with shelled creatures on the sides (I still don't know what those were). Thigh deep in water, we casted, and caught nothing. But the sun rising over the beach gracing us ever so gently, beautiful reflections off of the water, were all enough to cover the pain of fishlessness.

By this time, we had realized that no such weather came across our mini-vacation. We were filthy, worn out, and home-bound. The ride home was miserable. Sleep attacked me from all ends, but I couldn't give in.

All in all, it was an incredible trip with a good group of friends. We created many inside jokes (beans, what?, other explicits). And better than everything else, great memories were made. Being my family is from St. Augustine, it was nice to see where a lot of my history happened. Hopefully soon I can return to this beautiful place.

Read more...

The Clock Stops. Now.

Something is sweeping in
And placid blue-black is breaking
Sounds and life is being sucked away
Into a phantasm of a vacuum

One that slashes through smiles
Burns through happiness which
Can only be due to
The souls of the wicked-
The capabilities of the heartless
Taking the air and turning it into
Midnight black with coughing lungs

There is no more room for such glee
No more capacity to be so fearless because this
Money degeneration has left power souring
And this apparition favors those rich and
Together they beat cardboard boxes
Hack through alleyways to steal such shelters
Inflating one’s lack of determination to live
Making it impossible to survive, at least
Contentedly.

Control beckons from rooftop parlors
From left-wing halls, “viva la revolucion”

Our eyes are now a sponge and
Our ears are forced to favor
The most bitter of flavor
For the future has now been mapped
And the poor are only trapped
By this new frontier that arises
An economical turn capsizes
The ship that sailed towards free
Leaving us washed up in the sea.

Read more...