whiskey song

just watched grand torrino

we do what we need to be free....

i find myself at a loss for words so very often that the idea of being able to speak my mind escapes me and i am left with a choking depserate feeling that seeps through my veins like an unquenchable flame. let me out let me out let me out.............a cry for the insatiable and unattaibable. i feel like a child locked into a playpen. parents gone drunk somewhere searching on the horizon for their own epiphany while i scramble around searching for something to ease the pain i have been dealt. the pain i have been dealt? rather the pain i have dealt upon myself. bu why, honestly, should we contain ourselves within these material walls where life eats at the very walls of our minds like some sort of scientifically engineered parisite? god let me sing this away. let me scream until my voice is raw and tangled with emotioon and no longer able to adequately communicate the least of conversations much less somehting as streanuous, tedious, beautiful as what i have to rant about. what makes me so much more than these that i should feel the need to communicate so dramatically, desperately, wholly, completely? what makes me more than these?

that i should feel? that the very desperation within me should coagulate, bond and rejunviante itself by my own desperation misery and fear? what are we in all of this? what am I in all of this? what what what what does it all fucking mean?

not a GODDAMNED thing.

really, we search for so much. for answers, for feeling for meaning? what does that fuking mean? meaning is nothing if there is no emotion to back it up with. because really, what are we but ceaseless beings on some quest for the unknown merely because the unknown is what makes us feel inferior. but inferior to what?

CHRIST!!

the answers are innumbera ble the questions infinite and yet the time we have is so finite that i find myself at such a loss for words that i am rambling on an internet site hoping someone, anyone, everyone would understand that said depseration to such an extent as to extend me some fucking comfort by way of communication.....

ive been slamming on christians a lot lately.

not neccesarily because i find them drab and somewhat ignorant (which, honestly, i do) but  because they seem so content to blind themselves from the truth while still in such a lifelong effort to portray the truth. it is not the hypocrisy that irrotates me. it is the comfort of their hypocrisy.everyone is hypocritical. seriously. there really is no way arround it. people hide what is truly within for the sake of a social group they really and truly way deep down care nothing for. that is the way of things. and i am afraid that that is our entire problem.

fuck all. it never makes any sense. but somehow...i know youre paying attention. cause you are just as pissed off as i am. and that makes all the differnece.

beginning of THE book. enjoy?

Force Feeding
Part one of some...

"In the beginning was the word..."
the beginning was a word. a breath of euphoria that raced through me like smack through a junkies weak, screaming veins. i felt it. i felt the rush of blood to my heart, the rapid beating that rushed the blood on to flush my face. it was like finding love, that sick feeling in the stomach signifying something terribly significance, something to be noticed, catalogued into the memory for later inspection and reverie. for such a time as this...

i was an impresionable child. i am still an impressional adult. though now in a bit more grown up way. i was curious about everything, everyone. i loved the subjects in school that enabled, or rather required, one to dive into the depths of knowledge through experience. through touching, examining, deciphering things. i loved how chemicals fit together so precisely, loved the infinite possiblities that they held within their being. being so curious and exuberant about life and living, left me with a passion for that old time religion of the south . it was always important to me, the faith involved in it. the belief in the impossible. the stories were beautiufl. like the stained glass windows of medieval time and represented a deep longing hope to me hope to me. i loved to sit there in the cold hard pews and hear the stories the sweating, straining, boisterous intermediator for the devine would unravel; long threads of beautiful words you could wrap up in like a warm blanket on a frigid day. words that rolled off the tongue like sweet, pure honey. oh there were ugly stories though. i would ponder long into the night, sometimes until the hot, heavy alabama sky slowly turn from black to a shade of greyish blue and the cicadas and the morning birds would be slowly beginning their chatter about this vengegul wrathful god and his seemingly manic-depressive relationship with this people of israel. my parents had me in church three times a week, sunday morning, suday night and wednesday night. and then there were potlucks and youth events, and choir and Girls in Action. i was in the bible club. we memorized passages and recited them to recieve gold stickers on a posterboard chart. i shared my testimony woefully on "open mic nights", unraveling my own story of having been a sinner and accepting the fact that i needed this god to truly make me whole as a human being. there was a jesus shaped hole in my soul that i would never be able to fill by the sinful ways of the world. all before i was thirteen. what can a child have to fear standing before a wrathfull venfeful, yet loving, god, you may ask? exactly.

and then i became a teenager.

i hate to be stereotypical. but i was stereotypical. i was beginning to learn about life. not my life, life in general. that outside world that we try so hard to shelter our children from even while knowing we will not be able to keep them blind to it forever. i hated my parents. i hated god. i hated myself. i hated the people around me that were supressing that self that i hated. i started smoking cigarettes just because i wasnt supposed to. because i was a rebel. because to rebel was to accept that life my parents believed was ungodly, dangerous, deadly. and i just wanted to piss them off. i met christian the summer of my seventh grade year. we were going to the same school come august. we would meet at the skating rink and discuss recent blow outs with our super lame parents and sneak past the guard to smoke cigarettes and drink whiskey out of christians dad's trunk. he was a wine alcoholic and took to passing out before seven every night so christian would take his car and pick me up under the pretenses that his dad was waiting in the car to drive us. we discussed things like where we would rather be, things we could do if we only had the means. but what we were really lacking was courage. christian was just as scared and lonely and apprehensive about the knowledge we as teenagers were learning about everyday. the knowledge that we weren't those supermen our parents led us to believe. that the world is a harsh, angry, hateful place sometimes and by god we wanted to find a way around it. we wanted to rob a bank and bolt to the coast, hop a slowboat to the islands and lay low for a while. then we would travel the world, hitching our way here and there, exploring the depths of the human soul. we would not be sucked in to that trivial world our parents clung to so desperately. we would be different, we would be new, we would be rebels. but the truth was we never got very far passed the skating rink and the long discussions of love, life, all that jazz. i never did anyways. i dont know about christian. we seemed to lose touch after that summer. he transferred to a different county after his dad crashed into some family's front porch on a late night wine run. he got five years or something. i got a taste of something that summer though. and it has stuck with me ever since. the duplicit joy of substance............

Christians are strange.

How could a religion that supposedly embraces peace love and understanding manage to produce such close minded ignorant ass holes?

We have untold resources at the very tips of our fingers. And, while I have never been one to advocate the growth in technology, I cannot deny the power of information. We have information from around the world sitting in our living rooms. But do you research your religion? Have you ever delved into the depths of what Christianity is? Have you ever studied, searched, sought after information to prove your faith? Even a little?

NO.

You go to church, read the books they tell you you should read, sit through hours of some sweaty over zealous over weight hair plugged lying stealing bastard telling you how terrible of a person you are. You let some man stand there and tell you over and over how the desires you feel as a person are sinful, evil, despicable. And what can you do about being the filthy disgusting sin infested lot that you are? Prostrate yourself before the altar and confess your sins to the son of god who died for your sins, lay your sins at the foot of the cross, oh and by the way, don't forget to pass the offering plate!

"it's not like you killed someone. not like you drove a spiteful spear into his side...he did it all for you!!!"

-tool

invisible lines...

where is the line between child and adult? where is that boundary that seperates the me that was from the me that is and the me i will be someday? is there ever a definite boundary? it seems that these lessons tend to melt into each other, that these stages are never really stages, just one continuous evolution of the heart, mind, spirit....

it is long and tiresome and i find myself lacking the determination and will power to continue. but then i look at your beautiful face, your chubby cheeks and big blue eyes and remember why i must...