Wooden Floors

April 21, 2000 (12:10 am)


I’m in Bay City right now trying out my cousin’s multiple colored pens. This one writes like a dream. Okay, here’s another one, Liquid Express. The color is green. Bob Dylan’s Greatest Hits VII is creating a mood. This is a much needed fix since I left my most favored album “The Free Wheelin’ Bob” at work my last day there, and believe me, I’m not going back to retrieve it. I’m hanging out with the family, I guess you could call it a kind of Cousin Reunion for the Easter holidays. The four of us are all twenty-something freelancers making money by going to college or doing temporary jobs wherever and whenever they pop up. This is the kind of writing that records any meaningless thoughts that venture into existence. Whether it is done to take up room, kill boredom, or fulfill some need for accomplishment, at least it is something. So I have about two more weeks left in my philosophy class and I have taken the view many others have taken – there is no such thing as nothing because acknowledging “nothing” would make it something. Green is the ending.

In One Place Too Long

March 9, 2000 (4:25 am)

I got kicked out of my room due to family this weekend, and, feeling the need to be alone, I jumped in my car and just started driving. Sunday night means nothing to Humble traffic as I found myself sitting through another green light gone bad due to trucks and minivans blocking the intersection, but I did not grow irritated for I had nowhere to go. Memory lane was a straight shot down 1960 and I followed it all the way down to the big “A”. Much of the old neighborhood had changed as rows of trees had been transformed into rows of apartment complexes, but the landmark of Atascocita still sat proudly, cemented into the ground and looking the exact same way it did when I first laid eyes on it ten years ago. I drove by the old house and had to circle around because (as it always happens) someone was behind me denying me the chance to linger. I could still see myself sitting on the curb smoking a cigarette at the fragile age of twelve underneath that street sign that still reads “Magnolia Bend”. I wonder how many of those exist. I drove around for about an hour toking off my one-hitter and pondering the concept of time. I was babbling to myself about how, at the age of thirteen, I never would have seen myself driving around the Jr. High like some perverted child predator, or how ironic past conversations, adolescent attitudes and student half days are to me now. I drove by my best friend’s house who died about six years ago. Why do we do this to ourselves? What is the point? The past that I remembered down memory lane was the past I already knew.

“Most of the afternoon was spent watching a fat man in suspenders trying to fly a pink kite.”

These nervous habits worsen when the scenery fails to change. When I can’t breathe I smoke too much and when I can’t pay I spend too much. Life in my early twenties seems more like a cliché than the best years of my life. It’s okay, I won’t start whining, I’m just bored and ready to be anywhere than here. 3/31/00 (3:00 am)


April 16, 2000 (2:00 am)

My grades have been remarkable this semester. I’ve amazed myself. They haven’t been all “A’s” though a good majority have. I’m into the college thing now more than I ever have been in the past, but my personal writings have become sparse. I bought RHCP tickets for their show in Austin this May and I’ve also got Cure tickets for June. That $1000 I put back before quitting my job sure has come in handy. Oh yeah, remind me to tell you about Beth. She’s not dead after all.

Feeling Quite Smart

February 2000

It is at times like this that I no longer feel the need to fear myself. Whether it be a moment of realization or a mellowness brought on by chemicals, I can see where I exist and am able to exercise that much needed frame of mind. It is too easy to doubt myself. Why is that? What is the point? All this talk about saving the world, finding truth, and capturing happiness will prove useless if I keep feeding myself negativity.

Suspended in September

January 16, 2000 (8:13 pm)

Remember when we used to walk down to the docks to get away from life? For hours we sat under that bridge talking about our dreams and crying about our current situations. I need that now. Tonight is hard to handle when the past repeats itself and the future already decided. I am finding it hard to deal with sensitive feelings that are looking to me for explanations. Keep it to yourself. Suppress. Deny. Keep it together. I wish you were here to walk with me for miles and lend that ear that I used to take for granted. I wish you were here to throw glass bottles with me against graffitied concrete over and over again until the last of our hidden rage was exhaled. I know this now that I could have been a better friend that you were counting on in the end. How did you know it was time? I wish I could have been home when your last phone call dialed my numbers the night before you…

The night before now six years ago but I’ve been meaning to write this letter. I have been selfish today and yesterday as well, but I need time to myself in moments like this. I need time to myself for hours on end. With instinct I grew numb just as they said I would, but this year I am still not gone and the numbness has slipped away leaving me suspended in September. In dreams I have seen your smile smiling back at me as if my mind had been playing tricks again and your heart never missed that beat. Tonight I feel like walking to the street where magnolias bend but my feet remain planted in an empty backyard fenced in.  -To Julie- 

Wasted Ink

January 9, 2000 (3:25 pm)

The thought of living outside the state of Texas is something I would like more than anything, but sometimes it can be a difficult concept to grasp. It’s true what they say about Texas being a country of its own. Not that we still ride around on horses wearing spurs and holsters (well, some of us do) this is just a big freaking state. You can drive for 48 hours straight and still not be out of Texas. I’ve lived here for 22 years and have yet to visit certain places, or see all the “wonderful” sights. In 97’ my friends and I took a two week vacation traveling through New Mexico, Arizona, California, and Nevada and it was on this excursion that I realized how foreign the rest of America was to me, but about a week on the road I found myself sitting in the backseat chanting the word “Houston” in my head over and over again until the once familiar word became absurd to me, and the actual place then became foreign as California (being a word and location) began to make sense. It is true that you cannot leave the past behind, but the power of a new start, a new location, and a new identity is the antidote I had been searching for.

The spring semester starts next Tuesday, and although I am excited about going back to school after a year of working a brain dead job, I am reluctant to commit myself to this place for another five months. My plans of transferring to San Marcos to finish off college are practical, and it would be better than living in Houston (hell is better) but how much more difficult would it be to transfer to a different state? These words have been exploited for four years now and under the same roof I sit at the beginning of another journal. When will I lose interest? As you probably might have guessed, that Seattle thing will most likely not happen. My friends are slackers as I am as well, but we have our excuses for what it’s worth.

“I had the biggest smile on my face as we passed the state line into Southern California. My friends had fallen victim to sleep but I could have driven all night.” – Next Stop Hollywood –

Back for More

January 4, 2000 (2:14 am)

I am beginning to see what all of these melodies mean. Stranded again under the fist of time, but it is useless to struggle for his grasp will only tighten. These days it has been less about me and more about everything else for this is where meaningful material is first conceived. I have come to a new understanding for plastic trees and rubber knees that I used to look upon as sensationalized commodities. It is true that everything happens for a reason, but this is not an excuse for lazy lifestyles for we have all been given the power to change. It is simple. It is complicated…

I am addicted to journal writing. At the end of the last one it was conceded that I would not be starting a new journal, and if I’m not mistaken, I have recorded that very same sentence before. One of these days there will be more to write about. My next choice of destination is Seattle. Once again, my friends and I have been discussing future plans to travel there in late August. There is a Twin Peaks festival being held there and tickets for this event will seize to be sold after March 1. The tickets alone cost $180, and after we purchase them there will be no turning back, but we have yet to order them. I already have the money in the bank, I’m just waiting on them. I’ll keep you informed. School starts up in a couple of weeks and I still have yet to register. I’ll get around to doing it soon enough I suppose. I love my new journal. It’s much bigger than all the others. Hopefully it will be a good one.

Cabbage Patch Kids, Hula Hoops, Rubik’s Cube, Twister, coloring books, Pound Puppies, My Little Pony, Smurf cereal, Zilker Park…

my life as a child in Austin.

Just Another Millennium

January 1, 2000

A different tint takes to the sky and floats through the clouds imposing as one, and to the blind eye its routine is magnificent. But the world did not end by a slim chance we were saved and so back at the beginning we shall stay watching the clouds dissipate.

What is there to say, I have done nothing since my last page. There is no conclusion to draw. There is no happy ending. There is only an ending, until next time, take care.



Here We Are

December 31, 1999

And if we fall asleep to never awake carry our remains to the ocean depths. Follow behind in a roundabout line until the edge of the world falls into view. And if we are threatened by the light of the sun close our eyes again until we are swimming on a mountain top. Take the lead if the leader trails and change the course if it seems fit. And if nothing appears after all would our existence remain in vain or could we wake up and start over again?

“Come one come all the day is here let’s have a ball.”