february twenty fifth.

This is it. The last broken glass shards of reflection and regret lie within this block of text. One year. That's how long its taken to go from being normal to completely fucked up to being normal again. A year ago on leap year, I moved back to Vacaville. It took a year for me to realize that my negative experiences don't define the person I am today and the person I present to the world in the future. A year of mistakes and burnt bridges. But now that I'm here, I'm glad that I have none of the unimportant in my life, save for a few lingering clingers. I like being a real person. Me. I wish sorry meant something, coming from my lips. But its just a promise tainted with venom. I find its better to say nothing in such situations, rather than make an attempt to level with certain people. Ill either always be on a pedestal, or always be the drunk you once knew me to be, but I will never be level to most people. All the pride, integrity, morals, self-respect, and discipline that left me for more deserving souls has returned home and it is an amazing feeling. Most people, in the course of their life, never truly know what it feels like to hit rock bottom in essentially all aspects of their life. And even fewer who get there know what it feels like to come out on top. I'm 20 years old and I can say I know both of those feelings. You don't like me saying it? Fuck you. People always tell me I'm an old man. And you know what? I am. You don't live a full life and not get old. That's just not how it works. There's something important missing in my life right now, along with a lot of money. But I've learned to not rush either and that both come and go. I'm laying in a room I pay to rent, on a phone I pay for the luxury of using, listening to a cd I bought. I drove around all night in a car I paid for listening to cds I bought. I came home and played on drums I paid for also. The tv... a gift. The bed... borrowed from a friend. The shirt.... free. The pants.... stole from my dad. I look around at all the stuff that's mine, and I can honestly say that it is all MINE. I am the original DIY. I am everything you write songs about. And so much more. I'm giving this trophy to myself. From myself.

This month:

I bought a car
I started an acoustic project with a good friend (be on the lookout, its fucking rad and we're writing/recording tons of shit)
I started a new hardcore band with Mario, Luis, and Dewey (once again, be on the lookout, we're takin it back to 2006 in the name of lyrics and music that mean something instead of flannels, black slim fits, trucker hats with "suicidal" written on the bill, and maroon vans with holes in them. Sk8 0r di3. Oh yeah and FUCK all the rich ass sac area kids who play dress up and go to DIY shows and play in and groupie and fuck dudes in DIY bands when they're really just ashamed of their own wealth and trying to fit in)
I made sentences with long parentheses sections
I started a jam band with a bunch of good friends. We play everything. Its insane.
I spent many nights awake til 4am.
I drank a lot of nyquil.
I started playing baseball again. Me and this wild mexican dude Javy I've known since I was like 3 ran into each other at the gas station and we've been playing every other day since.
I've cut out friends.
I've cut out un-necessary people.
I've lied. Typical.
I drank a whole bottle of southern comfort and watched big fish. Ironic?
I went sober. Yes. For good, more than likely. Straight edge?
I've made contact with old friends from the golden days.
In april, I'm flying to denver for seans birthday and we're driving back. Its going to be a good time.
I've started stealing from retail places again. Low scale. Petty cash and merch for personal wear. Once again... typical.
I did not have one romantic interest all of february. Wild.
I drank a lot of coffee at mels. 2$. Unlimited refills. Can't go wrong.
I was a good friend and shoulder for somebody on more than one occasion.
I played jazz.
I had two job interviews.
I worked a lot.



Can't stop. Won't stop. Can't slow down. Won't slow down. That spot on mount everest is mine.


See you at the top.

I in favor of I say I

I am in no mans land.
The anchors and weights are ten thousand leagues below in a watery tomb.
The ropes that once served as eternal bonds pull me with a phantom force.
I kick harder.
The metallic screams from the abandoned iron relics coax me from lifetimes below.
I've simply outgrown them.
One day, the shackles came off my ankles and I didn't bother reattaching them.
Instead, I slither through miles of forgotten ground.
No mans land.
I am alone.
Ten thousand leagues below, lie my past and the anchors that held me there.
Ten thousand leagues above, people fish from boats rather than sift through silt to see if the dog threw them a bone today.
Maybe I can make it to heaven one day, if I kick hard enough...

February Twelfth, Two-Thousand and Nine

I don't have a very good long term memory. I don't remember most instances from my childhood, up until around age fifteen. But I always remember the settings and situation...

I was an unexpected child, I presume. I say this because at a very young age, I recall being crammed in Los Angeles with my mother, father, and newborn sister in a very bad part of town. My dad worked two jobs, loading moving trucks during the day, and delivering pizzas for Dominos at night. My mom cared for myself and my sister all day. When we went out, we usually made short trips to the grocery store, post office, gas station, or any other dutiful errands that nobody likes to do. We never had weekends picnics in the park, or went bowling, or even rarely saw movies. In that studio was security. And my parents defended it and did their best to afford it. Country Crock butter tubs became reusable bowls, and sometimes, paper towels doubled as plates. It was rough, but it worked.

Now, fifteen years later, we live in a relatively ordinary looking house in Creekside. The outside is plain and indistinguishable, but on the inside, its a happy delusion of a faraway place in a nice neighborhood. My sanctuary. It was built from grass roots on the inside, to always give myself and my siblings safety and security. Over the years, my neighborhood turned to shit. I never wanted to be home, because, as an adolescent, there is so much more excitement in the unknown. Why not explore?

Its absolutely heartbreaking to see my brother walk down the same paths I did. And start to make the same mistakes I did. And no matter how hard I shake him, or loudly I yell at him, know in my heart that my words mean nothing without his will to perservere. He's fourteen... fresh meat for the wolves to feed on.

Building heaven on earth is one thing, but keeping the angels at home in the clouds playing their harps is another. Who needs heaven when you don't know what hell is yet?


Today, my brother and one of his friends got jumped by some scraps at a park. My brother doesn't even like red. He doesn't even know what XIV or norte even means. But now, he's going to ask around and find out... and he's going to align himself with whoever picks him up on his feet again. And I wonder who that will be.

Tsunami.

On the rise
On the rise
On the rise
On the rise.


Xibalba.
Phoenix.
Vesuvius.
Atlantis.

No indonesia.
No katrina.
No world trade center.
No crash.
No crest.
Its all one long peak.

Only a rolling swell to wash it all away and inundate the newly sown seeds.


I am the one towering over crumbling civilizations now.

February Eighth, Two-Thousand and Nine.

This song is track twelve on Kanye West's new album.




"On lonely nights I start to fade
Her love's a thousand miles away.

Memories made in the coldest winter
Goodbye my friend, will I ever love again?
Memories made in the coldest winter.

Its 4am and I can't sleep
Her love is all that I can see.

Goodbye my friend, will I ever love again?
Goodbye my friend, will I ever love again?
Goodbye my friend, will I ever love again?

If spring can take the snow away,
Can it melt all our mistakes?

Memories made in the coldest winter.
Goodbye my friend, I won't never love again....


Never again..."

One Month Later.

Yes. It is. A lots changed in that month. A lots the same. No more for you people. Not giving anymore. I see what happened here...


Tonights going to be my last hurrah. One more half full glass to cheers away to the night. There aren't even puddles to wet my feet in on the island I'm headed to. Dry. Very dry. Quenched mouths crack dry tomorrow morning.

Slipping back into the cloaked oblique is tough... remaining in stagnance is even harder.