And both of them are kinda old (I'm only twenty so you have to realize that four years old or more seems really old to me). These were two of my favorite songs throughout high school and I've been listening to them alot lately. So here's their vids.
This one is "all things ordinary" by the anniversary
This one is called "at your funeral" by saves the day
Enjoy
Friday, April 4, 2008
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
I'm listening to Enya right now and it's strange how hearing a familiar sound can launch you so far into memory that you forget who and where you are at the moment. When I listen to Enya I see into several different moments starting with an old dirty apartment that my aunt and uncle used to live in when I was about five. My aunt would watch me during the day while my parents worked. I think this was before my parents divorced because I think we we're still living with my granparents while steve and julie (my aunt and uncle) were living in that apartment. It's so funny to go back to places you used to think you knew and to see them now; with your near-adult eyes. To see where you came from. It's never as pretty as you remember and always at least half as big.
Anyways the memory. My aunt julie was a stay at home type of person. She hasn't really worked before and when she married my uncle steve I think she basically expected him to do the male thing and provide. Which he did, often at the expense of my grandparents while my parents both worked and starved. At least thats the story my mom tells.
(She was always a little bitter that my grandma seemed to never give anything to them (my parents) when they first got married even though they both held down full time jobs and had two kids. Yet at the same time my grandma was always ready to hand money over to my dad's two brothers steve and del (both who were married at this point but neither of their wives worked).
So Julie didn't work so she offered to babysit my sister and I during the day which she spend listening to INXS and Enya while painting and working on other artistic and crafty things. I was fairly indifferent to the INXS but for some reason the Enya really stood out in my mind and I would often lapse into daydreams which would last most of the day. After that I would want to hear a story or be taken somewhere. I always wanted to go to my grandpa's office (which incidentally is now my dad's) because he always had treats and toys.
I suspect he mostly kept these for us kids since apparently he hated selling insurance but loved goofing off and telling us stories (I can see the family resemblance), so he would have things there to entertain if we ever dropped by. The thing I loved the most about his office though was the stuffed mountain goat's head and the paintings of the swiss mountains. I would sit in one of the front chairs and stare at the head until the dead black eyes found mine and I would look away. i would then ask about the goat. Where it came from. Why grandpa killed it. Why people liked putting dead things up on walls (not that I was complaining or anxious about it, I just wanted to know what it meant because it seemed so complex and adult at that time). He would then tell some story or another but I can't remember what. Then I'd ask about the paintings. They were so cool; all I wanted to do was visit the mountains in the paintings, to see the wild goats that must inhabit those tall dark mountains. He also had a picture of two people using a rope to get from one peak to another. I really disliked that picture because I would imagine them falling. My grandpa was such a strange man.
A somewhat powerful man in his own right. He had money. He was a bishop. He knew everyone in vegas. We couldn't go anywhere without him knowing at least ten people. And meeting at least ten more. He would walk up to people and go, "I don't believe we've met. I'm Wayne." My whole family would get frustrated because it meant shopping trips could last hours. I was such an impatient child too. I just didn't have time for old men to talk to boring strangers. But there it was.
He was allowed to eat red meat only about once or twice a year near the end of his life after he was diagnosed with cancer, and he would pick me up from school and take me to In-N-Out for that precious red meat. I was so proud that out of everyone to spend that time with, he chose me. Which is quite silly because it was just a hamburger, but that didn't matter. He also highly indifferent to everyone else, which was great when juxtaposed to my slightly overbearing grandma who told me at least once every time she saw me that I was going to go high in the church. That I was going to go on my mission and reunite my family with the gospel. I would single-handedly bring my father back as well as my step-father and repair all the hurt that came from the divorce and my father leaving the church. This was my responsibility to the family. To repair the fucking damage caused by her fucking son.
I remember her telling me that once in front of the family at a family reunion and my aunt stephanie pulling me aside afterwards to tell me that my grandma was crazy. She told me to not worry about what my grandma had said and that it wasn't my responsibility. I remember telling her it wasn't a big deal; that I was used to hearing it. The typical "It doesn't bother me" response. She looked at me like I was lying then went back inside the house. I don't remember what I did after that but I don't think I came back inside for awhile. I remember that was when I was first conscious of feeling some anger towards my grandma which I hadn't really felt before. I was a little ashamed and empowered to feel hostility towards someone like my grandma. I was only about eight or nine at the time but I didn't really know what hatred was I don't think at that point. It's weird to think that it was stephanie who helped me understand that it wasn't ok for my grandma to say things like that to me. I guess it fits though the more I learn about stephanie, although I'm reluctant to accept help from her for some reason. Maybe because inside I feel a lot of contempt for the family I used to treasure so much.
They all loved me so much. I was the star of the family until not going on my mission. Suddenly I'm out of the loop on everything. People feel uncomfortable around me. That or they feel superior to me. Or they act like they feel sorry for me, that I somehow deserve their pity because I'm now going to hell. This is the rite of passage though. This is why my dad didn't receive a lot of support from the family. Neither does my other hero: my uncle Allen. Once you fall from grace it doesn't seem to matter what you do for the family. That's because everything you do now is temporal. In the afterlife you'll be in hell for eternity while they're in heaven; which of course will make them sad. Why the fuck would you do that to them? You selfish fucking prick.
I need sleep. Hopefully no one reads this again.
Anyways the memory. My aunt julie was a stay at home type of person. She hasn't really worked before and when she married my uncle steve I think she basically expected him to do the male thing and provide. Which he did, often at the expense of my grandparents while my parents both worked and starved. At least thats the story my mom tells.
(She was always a little bitter that my grandma seemed to never give anything to them (my parents) when they first got married even though they both held down full time jobs and had two kids. Yet at the same time my grandma was always ready to hand money over to my dad's two brothers steve and del (both who were married at this point but neither of their wives worked).
So Julie didn't work so she offered to babysit my sister and I during the day which she spend listening to INXS and Enya while painting and working on other artistic and crafty things. I was fairly indifferent to the INXS but for some reason the Enya really stood out in my mind and I would often lapse into daydreams which would last most of the day. After that I would want to hear a story or be taken somewhere. I always wanted to go to my grandpa's office (which incidentally is now my dad's) because he always had treats and toys.
I suspect he mostly kept these for us kids since apparently he hated selling insurance but loved goofing off and telling us stories (I can see the family resemblance), so he would have things there to entertain if we ever dropped by. The thing I loved the most about his office though was the stuffed mountain goat's head and the paintings of the swiss mountains. I would sit in one of the front chairs and stare at the head until the dead black eyes found mine and I would look away. i would then ask about the goat. Where it came from. Why grandpa killed it. Why people liked putting dead things up on walls (not that I was complaining or anxious about it, I just wanted to know what it meant because it seemed so complex and adult at that time). He would then tell some story or another but I can't remember what. Then I'd ask about the paintings. They were so cool; all I wanted to do was visit the mountains in the paintings, to see the wild goats that must inhabit those tall dark mountains. He also had a picture of two people using a rope to get from one peak to another. I really disliked that picture because I would imagine them falling. My grandpa was such a strange man.
A somewhat powerful man in his own right. He had money. He was a bishop. He knew everyone in vegas. We couldn't go anywhere without him knowing at least ten people. And meeting at least ten more. He would walk up to people and go, "I don't believe we've met. I'm Wayne." My whole family would get frustrated because it meant shopping trips could last hours. I was such an impatient child too. I just didn't have time for old men to talk to boring strangers. But there it was.
He was allowed to eat red meat only about once or twice a year near the end of his life after he was diagnosed with cancer, and he would pick me up from school and take me to In-N-Out for that precious red meat. I was so proud that out of everyone to spend that time with, he chose me. Which is quite silly because it was just a hamburger, but that didn't matter. He also highly indifferent to everyone else, which was great when juxtaposed to my slightly overbearing grandma who told me at least once every time she saw me that I was going to go high in the church. That I was going to go on my mission and reunite my family with the gospel. I would single-handedly bring my father back as well as my step-father and repair all the hurt that came from the divorce and my father leaving the church. This was my responsibility to the family. To repair the fucking damage caused by her fucking son.
I remember her telling me that once in front of the family at a family reunion and my aunt stephanie pulling me aside afterwards to tell me that my grandma was crazy. She told me to not worry about what my grandma had said and that it wasn't my responsibility. I remember telling her it wasn't a big deal; that I was used to hearing it. The typical "It doesn't bother me" response. She looked at me like I was lying then went back inside the house. I don't remember what I did after that but I don't think I came back inside for awhile. I remember that was when I was first conscious of feeling some anger towards my grandma which I hadn't really felt before. I was a little ashamed and empowered to feel hostility towards someone like my grandma. I was only about eight or nine at the time but I didn't really know what hatred was I don't think at that point. It's weird to think that it was stephanie who helped me understand that it wasn't ok for my grandma to say things like that to me. I guess it fits though the more I learn about stephanie, although I'm reluctant to accept help from her for some reason. Maybe because inside I feel a lot of contempt for the family I used to treasure so much.
They all loved me so much. I was the star of the family until not going on my mission. Suddenly I'm out of the loop on everything. People feel uncomfortable around me. That or they feel superior to me. Or they act like they feel sorry for me, that I somehow deserve their pity because I'm now going to hell. This is the rite of passage though. This is why my dad didn't receive a lot of support from the family. Neither does my other hero: my uncle Allen. Once you fall from grace it doesn't seem to matter what you do for the family. That's because everything you do now is temporal. In the afterlife you'll be in hell for eternity while they're in heaven; which of course will make them sad. Why the fuck would you do that to them? You selfish fucking prick.
I need sleep. Hopefully no one reads this again.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Friday, March 21, 2008
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Tired and still slightly drunk
Lust is real; love is a dream; manipulation is the main proponent of lust and love; we are all fools. Gahhh I hate drinking when I'm not feeling well; it only intensifies my feelings of dissatisfaction. It's not that I don't think love exists, I just think it's a base, drug-like emotion that we give significance to because we like to feel that way. We like to feel special, and to try to shove away this overwhelming loneliness. A loneliness which is undefinable and never wholly leaves. It just allows itself to meander to the back of my mind for a while, and the longer it stays in the back, the more terrible I feel when it comes back to the noticeable front. I can't live like Allen. As much as I try to pretend to be the stolid and indifferent philosopher; I am something different. Something I have rarely come across in others. Something I can define, but never distinguish. Although I am NOT unique, nor original, I feel the most at home when I am. Or at least when I truly accept that I am NOT.
This doesn't make much sense.
I was doing well there for awhile, although I can't say for how long, nor in what specific way I was doing "well." (I'm really starting to hate ambiguity and relativism).
Why am I cute? I have heard that from many different voices, and yet none give me a satisfactory answer of HOW exactly. Maybe that's an unfair question. Maybe I'm just trying to feed my own vanity, or confirm my own biases. Just please tell me what the word cute means. Is it acceptable for a twenty year old male to be cute? Who is defining the word, and are you drunk when you said it? I know myself but sometimes it gains me understanding to pretend that I DO NOT. "No I was not aware that I did that, please tell me more about me. I'm ever so curious to hear." Fucking attention whore? Who knows. I tend to not want to believe that of myself, but there you go, the digression from objectivity. Brilliant. Love you all. Goodnight.
This doesn't make much sense.
I was doing well there for awhile, although I can't say for how long, nor in what specific way I was doing "well." (I'm really starting to hate ambiguity and relativism).
Why am I cute? I have heard that from many different voices, and yet none give me a satisfactory answer of HOW exactly. Maybe that's an unfair question. Maybe I'm just trying to feed my own vanity, or confirm my own biases. Just please tell me what the word cute means. Is it acceptable for a twenty year old male to be cute? Who is defining the word, and are you drunk when you said it? I know myself but sometimes it gains me understanding to pretend that I DO NOT. "No I was not aware that I did that, please tell me more about me. I'm ever so curious to hear." Fucking attention whore? Who knows. I tend to not want to believe that of myself, but there you go, the digression from objectivity. Brilliant. Love you all. Goodnight.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
I nearly wept when I saw this.
It was one of the last days in Europe and I was in a perpetual mood of feigned interest. Interest in the scenery; interest in what my dad had to say about Europe and about the evils of capitalism. I was torn between just wanting to leave to go back home where I knew I could at least avoid my family, and wanting to get away from my failed expectations of what I though Europe would bring. I thought I'd see something new in my dad, but I didn't. I thought I'd see something new in my sister, but she will never change. They are so alike it's no wonder they can't stand being around each other. The only reason either of them agreed to come on a trip together (which hadn't been done since I was about twelve) was that that I would be there; to moderate, which I hate more than anything.
I even tried to get out of the trip; when we couldn't find my passport I almost smiled, I suddenly felt that I would get out of having to babysit my sister and father for the next few weeks abroad. My dad almost started crying. He began screaming because of the passport and I told him to stop, that there would be another time to go. After that my step-mom pulled me aside to tell me that the only reason he set up this trip was so that he could see me. I almost felt ashamed for not wanting to go. Then we found it, it had been at my dad's office the whole time. I didn't know what to think. My dad was so happy he really did have tears in his eyes. I felt sick.
Gahhhh. I'll have to finish later.
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