“An Introduction To Me”

Sunday, September 09, 2007
1:00 AM

Me, eh? That’s an interesting concept. A’course you’ll have to take into account all worldly things pertaining to I in order to achieve an unbiased full understanding (or at least introduction) of who I am. And that I shall do.
     I am I, though I am not Rastafari; however I do follow a one revolutionary by the name of Jesus. I go out on a Saturday night, have a few beers, a coffee, and a few smokes, and attend a systematic routine of salvation on Sunday morning – it’s not quite as a paint it there though, it encourages community and lifts you from reality in a focus-based trance with the sun shining through stained glass windows which would’ve been better spent helping the homeless; after all, that’s the physical pinnacle of what the Romans deemed “Christianity”, after they established a following that was inherently anti-establishment (and is largely based today on the letters of a proud Roman citizen’s selective interpretation of some of Jesus’ teachings). That’s not a typical Saturday night though; I haven’t been inebriated since the birth of “Comeau’s Tapes” out in a sandy provincial park, about a month a bit ago.
     Well, let’s get down to business; spontaneous-wise. I use semi-colons way too often in the wrong places. I wrote a good deal of this in a mad rush of teeth-brushing but can’t remember it all – oh well, it’ll come back, and time is an illusion so really I do remember I just don’t remember right now. I hope this all somewhat coherent. I’m tired as fuck. I have to censor myself for fear of my parents; which really undermines my whole sense of art. After this I’m going to read a book of Edgar Allan Poe’s poetry. I’m listening to Wish You Were Here, when I could really care less if YOU were here (but I suppose secretly, according to you, I want you, I want you, I want you, so bad). I delivered an ultimatum to my ex-girlfriend tonight. I forget my tape recorder. The night’s prospects were bad, it turned out awesome, but I didn’t really know on the way home. I’m obsessed with leaving relics for the future – that’s the closest fucking thing you’ll get to time travel if you’re aware of it (and I’m always fuckin questioning my English). I keep lining up things to say but forgetting them by the time I can write them down; I always wished my thoughts would write themselves down.
     Love holds a strong priority in my nature of being – it’s completed me and wrecked, brought me to every point in the spectrum of emotion. I have an incessant obsession with academia, but sometimes it pops into my head that it might be a distraction; but then again, it doesn’t a whole fucking lot more of the time. I expect everybody to understand every wide motherfucking abstract connection I make between two things or more. I finally have my writing desk because much as I loved them [drums] those are fuckin outta here! I think Shane Claiborne’s got it down; the world is incredibly unequal and it doesn’t fuckin have to be that way; voters are ignorant so why run for parliament; art’s where it’s at; music tells it all; Keith’s is class; calm down boy, have a smoke; festivals are ruined when the kids run it down; I’m gonna keep an eye out for Little Bird’s tapes on Edge FM; I gotta get me a Hohner D6 Clavinet; I have to get down to reading all those books I read [bought]; I don’t know whether I accept Plato’s theory of Forms and Ideas yet – I think I’m like Mr.C, I believe it in the abstract but not in the concrete; what does hair mean anyways? My wall provides a, well, wall of inspiration which I can tear down with my pen! turn on the radio, I can hear my penstrokes; oh, here’s a trip to the past, am I ready for it?
     Is this all I’ve made of myself? I’m actually pretty happy; I’ve got insightful newspaper articles plastered all over my room; I can play a plethora of instruments and I’ve got a lot of bands (I’m giving up modesty for a minute); I have a mile of friends; I have a firm grasp on English; I’m overflowing with potential; I can write a song in my head just like that *snap*; I can decipher a song as I’m hearing it for the first time; I’m well-fed, I have a home, I can get around on the subway with a monthly pass; I only have severely minor money troubles holding me back – but money means nothing, so I’m free.

     Look at that organ, I poured my heart out on that a while back, after I no longer had her organ to pour my heart out with. That was a long time ago, eh? That’s why she’s mad. Fuck it, it’s done. No. I’m falling asleep and my other eye hurts AND NOW I’M MAD AND I HAVE A PEN in a Kerouac sense. Love is everything and once you’ve had it you can’t get away from it even though you have to try, even though you know you’re licked from the start; that’s real courage is. I have school and God and music what more must bother me? I’m in love with Aphrodite in the pouring rain; I’m reading Ginsberg on a post by the train; I’m wasting time in smoker’s corner that I could’ve been spending with; I’m running with the wolves to catch the 3:15; I’m heading to Grossman’s to ruin my life; I’m drinking coffee to keep myself alive; I’m hankerin’ for a Rhodes but I just don’t trust no one with the money I don’t have; I’m livin’ by your side behind a curtain and a veil; I’m trusting in my pen to take me home to you; I’m glad I kept writing; Time is an illusion. I ended this at the start and now I’m slowing way down (listen to that piano roar). Jesus was homeless and love is free. This is unedited because I’m embracing spontaneous prose by the hukka at 6am controlling my lust and feeling content. Goodnight.