CRAZY MAN SPEAK PRETTY

I don't need her anymore...

All I need are a few more years before I die.


I'm too insane to live past the age of 30.

There's too much stuck up in my head, I can't fit it anymore, I can't feel pain anymore, I can't feel a thing.

Nope.

But occasionally I laugh a lot.

Too much.

Actually i'm wasted pretty much all the time now.


But i'm also a huge pussy.

There's nothing more to say.

I gave up trying to prove my love for you

Because it was sad and blue

How could it be true?

When you asked me who I was writing for

I had walked out the door

So lonely and poor.

I stumbled around naked, talking to distant stars

Like you they were far

I'm too young for the bars.



Now, can you see how love can drain a man

In the palm of your hand?

You conquered my land.

Into the vast distance, I called out your name

It sleeps in my brain

As a constant refrain.

Now the pain's gone, I can write again

And though I am feeling thin

I am starting to bend.



You were not ready to look in my eyes

For you were the prize

Reflecting these lies.

I was not ready to understand you

Because I was sad and blue

How could it be true?

It tore out my heart and I screamed so loud

Making this bloody cloud

I now wear as a shroud.



The sun has gone down on the two of us

I was riding a bus

My seat full of rust.

I knew I was going away from the hurt

Toward a sheltered yurt

That couldn't be burnt.

Still cursed with your memory, I waded through mud

Thinking of Love

And a last farewell hug.

You mean so much to me
And i'm sure you'll agree
That all the shit I did before
Because I couldn't see
Led to places near and far
Sillouettes and old bazarrs
Roadhouse blues with a guitar
When I was hanging on a star

And so I stole your love away
Because I knew there was no way
For me to look inside and say
That what you saw in me could stay
And now I find it plain as mud;
My innocence mixed with your blood
The angry father's failed son
Has spoiled everybody's fun

It used to be so easy, friends
It shouldn't be so hard.
It used to be so wrong to live
Without this jagged shard.
From where it came I do not know
But it's been here a while;
The pain has left me feeling low;
As helpless as a child.

Your razor-blade purse and anonymous curse;
Waiting on the levee, hoping it will burst;
And your second boyfriend, Mr. Caveman Jim;
When's the last time you recall standing up to him?

You finally got what you wanted, baby;
God's Grace is gone.
You've gotta find the strength, baby
Gotta stand and carry on.

Your humorless conviction without three dimensions;
Drawings of a lunatic are blocking all your visions;
And your sultry genocides we watch on pay-per-view;
What would happen If I took them all away from you?

You finally got what you wanted, baby
God's Grace is gone.
You've gotta find the strength, baby
Gotta stand and carry on.

I offer you protection, but not until election;
Your enemies abroad will surely draw connections;
I'm joking with my Jihad suit, so baby don't you cry;
That's just how I dress today, i'm an average guy.

You finally got what you wanted, baby
God's Grace is gone.
You've gotta find the strength, baby
Gotta stand and carry on.

Your ships with their quarter-decks have sailed far and wide
Your lonely insignificance abroad was satisfied;
Your sharp critiquing of the seas comes as a surprise;
I welcome you with open arms and a copy of the times.

Your brawny cut-throat family and all their pirate friends,
Your slightly short-cut hair and the pain that never ends,
Your aroma of embarrasment I now smell everywhere;
I tried to cover up them all, but they're beyond repair.

Hello again, my friend, my friend
I say "hello, my friend";
It's been so nice to see you
We must do this again.
Hello again, my friend, my friend
I say "How have you been";
It's been so long since i've had you
Upon which to depend.

Your reluctance to engage taking place most every day-
Your hatred of oppresion and your violent drunken rage-
Your petty schoolroom bantering upon a trampoline;
I am not your janitor, your father, or your king.

Your wingless fairy lunchbox your mother threw away-
Your dreams of a castle replaced with Perrier-
Your streetlamp confessions and your hand-woven scarves;
I can't fill their shoes, but I can take you to a bar.

Hello again, my friend, my friend
I say "hello, my friend";
It's been so nice to see you
We must do this again.
Hello again, my friend, my friend
I say "How have you been";
It's been so long since i've had you
Upon which to depend.

Well mama, what are you gonna do?
When i'm all gone you'll be sad and blue
See, the wind of change is blowing through
Genesis for one I know, but not for you.

Stayed up late until I got on back
To where I desired to be; on track
Train station'll sell me a sturdy pack
Genesis has gotten me whatever else I lack.

I lost you somewhere in those woods
Surely you can survive on unbaked goods?
My apologies miss, I thought that you could.
Genesis for me, you're still stuck in the woods.

Traveling homesick, like an infant child
Staving off hunger and an instinct for the wild
But it sure is better after I rest for awhile;
Genesis doesn't come easy, so expect some trials.

When I come to a town larger than my home
I'll learn it all and make it my Rome
I'll study it all, no longer alone;
Genesis means for ambition, and a thirst to roam.

A night where your mind opens up to the universe and the universe itself peaks inside;
A night when you feel something completely different from anything you could ever have known before;
A night that makes sense of everything you've been pondering about for years;
A night where depression leaves, laughter prevails and the night keeps on coming.

The night to begin it all.

My life up to this point has been lacking something important, and i've been searching for too long. Finding it sort of makes sense of things.

A pristine pane of glass has been shattered, but the fragments are more beautiful as far as singular entities go; each piece is different, original...but still part of a whole.

The ground holds each piece up.

Friends with meters on their minds
Leaving quarters for pigeons to find
The city bespeaks of death's face;
Spikes and shiny metal grates--
I cannot write of its embrace
You're blocking me, you ingrates.

Leave me here to dwindle away
A perceptive bundle of slow decay
I need you now, more than ever babe
Just keep me in the everlasting day.

Demons walk my streets at night
I saw a businessman take flight
the evils here are many and cunning
they know how to stop you from running
A single blow, and then you're slumming
It's that easy to steal Pooh's honey.

Leave me here to dwindle away
A perceptive bundle of slow decay
I need you now, more than ever babe
Just keep me in the everlasting day.

Colorless and bland, my apertif
I wait for a joker and a thief
To join me around this rounded table-
We'll sit and eat as long as we're able
Poor Mary Jane has to eat in the stable
I'd like to put her back in her cradle.

Leave me here to dwindle away
A perceptive bundle of slow decay
I need you now, more than ever babe
Just keep me in the everlasting day.

Hey Miss Melanie, hope you're doing fine
If I knew what to say I'd make you a rhyme
But my mind is empty and my mouth is closed
I'm happy but you still hold a burning rose.

The separation is complete, don't take heat
So you're a beautiful girl who likes to eat--
I think you know what I mean when I say;
Don't blame yourself anymore after today.

Hey Miss Melanie, hope you're doing fine
If I knew what to say I'd make you a rhyme
But my mind is empty and my mouth is closed
I'm happy but you still hold a burning rose.

Do me a favor, dear, and take that rose
Put it out with a drench from that fire hose.
Throw it down and crush it with your heel
Make the world know that you can heal.

Hey Miss Melanie, hope you're doing fine
If I knew what to say I'd make you a rhyme
But my mind is empty and my mouth is closed
I'm happy but you still hold a burning rose.

It's a fun time we had but now it's gone
Search your thoughts and say what's wrong--
It has to do with a rose and an ideal
Waffles, bacon and eggs; his appeal.

Hey Miss Melanie, hope you're doing fine
If I knew what to say I'd make you a rhyme
But my mind is empty and my mouth is closed
I'm happy but you still hold a burning rose.

I could win a thousand bucks for a poem I wrote in 2 minutes.

One of my poems was selected as a semi-finalist in a poetry competition at poetry.com. I received a letter in the mail tonight about it.

Sounds pretty cool.

I was walking one night to the river
when I heard your footsteps on the dock
I turned and saw you call me thither
so I followed as you went behind a rock.

I searched for your dimly-lit form
but we were lost in the fog
I knew i'd never find you in the coming storm
so I sat down on a rotted log.

Wrapped up in discord, my ears are defunct
I used to want this, now it's just getting me funked
Wrapped up in discord, my senses are reeling
your soul is entwined with another on my ceiling.

The storm ripped right through me
And when it was over I stood alone
Your non-existent ears couldn't hear my plea
I was so disoriented, I couldn't find my way home.

I wandered the dismal, cloudy shores
looking for a clue of your existence
Hard to look when lies escape from my pores
Excessive and blinding, yet my only subsistence.

Wrapped up in discord, I don't know where you are
From what i've gathered, you sure have gone far
Wrapped up in discord, i'm just playing a lonely tune
If it didn't remind me of someone, i'd serenade the moon.

I came to a house, all scattered and in pieces
After pausing a second, I sat in the middle
The sun and moon made a full rotation, stars as their nieces
And when the new day dawned, I hadn't solved the riddle.

So I turned from the beach and faced toward the city
Lights flickering warmly in the cold winter night
I met a sea-crab, who told me I didn't have time to be pithy
He said I should just keep walking and forget about sight.

Wrapped up in discord, all meanings converging
While travelling the beach i've seen one too many mornings
Wrapped up in discord, the story's not over
Just the night, now's the time to rest in the clover.

Found a bottle of pennies once on board a ship
I shined 'em up pretty and dropped em in the drink
The engine moaned and I decided I would slip
Down the stairs into the coal bin where I could think.

Smoky nightlights fill my room
I've left my heart out in the square
Beauty rests inside her gloom
A true and good counter-weight is rare.

Took some rotten apples I happened upon last June
Down and out from the orchard, Adam and Eve walked on by
I took a bite of the forbidden and realized too soon
My greeting to them was wasted; they didn't even say "hi."

Smoky nightlights fill my room
I've left my heart out in the square
Beauty rests inside her gloom
A true and good counter-weight is rare.

Well i've revealed myself to the gargoyles on top of the Dame
We went walking on top of that building's spine and fell off
The houses below did little to break our fall; unmitigated pain
France and foreign countries don't bite unless you're soft.

Smoky nightlights fill my room
I've left my heart out in the square
Beauty rests inside her gloom
A true and good counter-weight is rare.

Wherever the old man sits he brings his chess-board to play
I sit in the cafe to watch him as he steals my mind
His shaky hand-movements and fading resolve to waste the day
Become forever imprinted on the plight of my kind.

Smoky nightlights fill my room
I've left my heart out in the square
Beauty rests inside her gloom
A true and good counter-weight is rare.

I've decided to keep doing Carl...
The first series is a complete work of art in 90 pages, and I am currently trying to get the gumption to promote it and see if anyone will sell it or something.

Part four will be the start of a second trilogy. The first trilogy dealt with religion, art, the mind, fantasy, and eventually evolved into a story, somewhat. I guess I finished what I set out to do that day two years ago when I decided that it was time to try my hand at a serious work...but I still have doubts. I can't explain it, but i'm afraid that i've succeeded to an extent no one will ever know about, due to the nature of the book's connection to me. It sounds strange...and it has more to offer than just that...but I think the main point of the book is that it means so much to me, yet I think so little of it.
The second trilogy begins after Carl goes through the door in heaven; leaving the artist behind him, Carl sets off expecting to find God but realizes that somehow he has ended up in a circus. He can't explain how he got there, and there's no way out. So, Carl gives up and becomes a clown...for a while.
All of that is just metaphors heaped on top of metaphors...clowns, the circus; all of that reflects the way I perceive my life now, in relation to others. I'm on this grand quest, and everyone else is just part of the diversion; part of the distraction that keeps me from finding God...or, rather, finding meaning in place of void; an artistic truth.

I always intended that after Carl faced off with God at the end of the first trilogy, I wouldn't need to continue the story...ie, after I had completed what I set out to do, (a 90 page graphic novel) this allegorical self-representation genre/idiom I had somehow let myself get into would no longer be needed. I would have some form of a definitive answer to the questions I had about life. It seems that I missed the goal, or I just don't remember a lot of why I wrote some things in Carl...all of it has meaning; nearly every single line has meaning. I guess that is the philosophy I was looking for; I see meaning in pretty much everything I think about. Many would argue against that, but that's what working on Carl has done for me...I see things in a different way now.

The first part, even though there are no female appearances, the issue of love is hidden in many places...thoughts about my relationship with women can be gleaned from several key parts... the Dreamer's Ankh represents emotional maturity--Carl uses it after the Dreamer is killed to unlock the door to God. What could that mean? Is Carl maturing? Carl maturing translates into emotional maturity for me; i've been through hell, i've been in purgatory...i've fought my way back up to heaven and i've unlocked the door to get out of Carl's world...i've left the character of the artist behind intentionally; he represents the past, now; as soon as Carl opened the door the artist was no longer neccesary to the storyline.
Now, the second part will be from a different perspective; it will still be an illusionary, metaphysical world (circus), but with more realism being worked in--finally getting closer to relinquishing the idiom of allegorical self-representation; which means full emotional maturity. It's not that I WANT that to happen (emotional maturity, that is), but it's something that WILL happen regardless of what I do or write or say. So it's more an accurate translation of my life than it is a hinderance (at least now it is).

My parents don't get it...all they see in it is the profanity.
I guess, in a sense, it IS just profanity...

In times of war and times of peace
there lies a fountain underneath
a vestibule of lies and truth found naked
twice removed from my aching head.

Times come and seasons go
i've traveled the road to the meadow
i've lain in it's soft green fields for an hour
but I make my home in a pristine, glass tower.

Why did you leave me standing in the center of the driveway?
I've never felt this way before
I've found solace in hay and slept all the rest of the day
waiting for you and learning my dead lore.

I've got no memories worth saving for tomorrow
They've all been flushed down to the sea
Do you have some crutches that I could borrow?
I'm sick of all the great apes taunting me.

Times come and seasons go
i've traveled the road to the meadow
i've lain in it's soft green fields for an hour
but I make my home in a pristine, glass tower.

Melanie is the coolest person alive.

Wow. That last entry was interesting.

I guess that not having worked on Carl in a day or two really made me lose it.

Interesting.

For better or worse, I feel myself congealing into SOMEONE rather than no one. I'm settling into a role, and I don't care if it's misguided. It's MY role, and whether it changes in the future or not doesn't matter to me now. I'm no longer a donut hole...

I'm done with the story.

I felt the world beneath my feet for an instant, but as soon as I realized that I was on top of the mountain, the reality fell away beneath me and I was adrift on the breeze.

I realize now that everything happened the way it should have and I can never go back.

I don't think it could have gone any other way.

It is special. It doesn't matter if it's marketable to anyone. It doesn't matter if it's important to no one else. It doesn't matter what happens to it now...If it burned I wouldn't care.

I'm not going to burn it...i've actually wrestled with this a lot. I've heard about artists and authors burning their works before, and it seems like a petty, childish thing to do. I firmly believe that now Carl is over, I am a child no longer. Burning it would seem self-pitying, a childish trait. I am beyond self-pity now. I have learned the hard way what it can do to you.

I've also been thinking a lot lately about how much the winery has affected me.
I don't think about the winery.
I don't appreciate it at all, really...at least not what it means to my dad. It's his, not mine. I can relate to what it means to him; Carl shares the aspects of importance and legacy. The difference is easily discernible...a building on top of a hill overlooking a vineyard is grandiose, opulent and excessive. It is an institution to what man makes for himself. The works I have wraught in comics (and hope to continue doing) have societal goals and intentions to revolutionize an art form...I am a servant of ideas, art, creativity. But right now I can't seem to concentrate on them...all I can focus on is Carl. My future encroaches on me relentlessly.
I use the winery as a retreat at times, but that doesn't mean I believe in what it stands for. My dad's life philosophies don't apply to me. I have to make him realize that before high school ends.

Why have I chosen this path?

Whoever knows the answer to that, truly, would know the answer to life itself.

It is beyond me to even speculate on why I wouldn't just accept the same path as my brother...it seemed too easy, I guess. I knew my parents would pay for my college, no matter where I ended up going...and they will. Big deal. Where's the conflict there? Life needs conflict. I need conflict. I can't just be myself around anyone. I don't even know who I am. I know who i'm trying to be. I know that what i'm going through is a mistake on many, many levels. It is stupid to persist on many, many levels as well. I know it's stupid. Why do I do it? It goes against everything i've ever learned. I'm just repeating my dad's misconceptions on life albeit on a different level. So is my brother...he is choosing to submit to the goals of family. We all make delusions to suit our ambition...his are no worse than mine, and are no worse than those of my dad. The problem with his delusions is that they fuel my own; I tire of speculating endlessly in the vein of his making...the three of us, my dad, my brother and I are all alike in our single-minded determination that our views are correct.

-I am uncomprimisingly correct because I believe that every other person's choices are correct. I have faith in universal symmetry, or art. I believe there is meaning to the universe, but the only meaning in the universe are the ones we choose to create for ourselves. There is no one real "truth," because it is all truth to some extent. To some people, there is truth in the smallest things because of the way they think. Art is a human device used to rise against the tide they find themselves being buried under...that tide is anonymity and universal thinking; conformity fits in to this philosophy to some degree but is allowed only in a limited aspect; but mostly, originality is a pure and delightful point of interest that human thoughts revolve around their entire life after childhood, as it should be. Originality is different for everyone; conformity is also a means of originality in many cases. Out of neccesity to other parts of my life philosophies, I am unable to conform.

-My brother is uncomprimisingly correct in HIS thinking because he believes that knowledge is the only pure thing in the universe that you can do for your brain in order to cultivate it. He believes in the pursuit of knowledge and self-improvement (especially in linguistics and global language). He believes that there is no order to the universe and math and science can easily prove this. Therefore, it is an effective way for him to delude himself into an unshakeable life of unfulfilling, shallow pursuits. Shallow pursuits are indulgences that take the mind off of issues that make up the space between the lines...he is afraid of what he might see in there, and so chooses to ignore them. Which is an effective way for someone to live, I have no problem with that at all, except that in a personal sense it creates a rift between us as siblings; we connect only on the most shallow and unfullfilling of levels. He has chosen this path from an early age, and I think if our respective ages were reversed, I would go much the same way. You never can tell...but maybe it was ordained he would come before me; in that case, universal symmetry makes sense because I wouldn't be writing this, thinking these thoughts, and writing about these thoughts/delusions/opinions. Of course, if I believe it was ordained to be fate then I have created meaning for my life. I cannot have meaning for my life if I am to be an artist...my brother has meaning to his life because he has embraced harsh realities, something I may not be able to do without severe emotional handicaps. I will bear them much as I have born all the other handicaps i've been given, however...as best I can. Realizing the delusions of everyone in the world to some extent as a truth is one of the few things artists can believe in without their castle crashing down around them...just as science and math can serve as tools for self-delusion, so too can pursuing the craft of artistry.

-My Dad is...well...
i'm mentally tapped out right now, i'll get back to you.

A mailman came to the door and set a box down just now, causing my dog to bark.
I looked out the window and saw him run back to his truck like a thief with his pants on fire.

I'm buying into the whole learning how to play the guitar thing. It's hard to get past the mental barriers, but ultimately it's an enjoyable experience. I always fancied myself more of the singer type, though...It's been ages since I sat down and composed anything. It's just been me drawing and drawing for weeks and weeks trying to finish this damn comic book. Now that i'm close to finishing it, however...it's like I don't really want to somehow. Not sure of the reasons behind this; they all sound like bullshit "introspectiveness" to me, but it could be either that i'm too emotionally invested in what Carl is to me to be finished with it...or it could be that AND it could mean that making art is a way of hiding myself. I might just not be ready to be released...it could be the fear of the unknown...since so much of Carl is improvised and drawn directly from my life, it seems fragile and aesthetically bland. Public opinion never mattered much to me because I could always hide behind my many masks...but having masks and using those masks are different things. I don't know when to use the masks, with who, and where...I have to please everyone, all the time. Like I said, it's bullshit-esque...but pretty much ALL of what I say is bullshit-esque to some extent, and i'm cool with that.

Seriously...I don't even think i'm being self-deprecating; I just think my mind is spread too thin or something...it feels like the only thing I can rely on is something I don't understand; the unknown is my only constant. I can "fake it" musically, but I don't understand it...and sometimes I feel like i'm "faking it" with art, too...it's undeniable that I fake it at school.

I know about arpeggios, scales, octaves, forte, pianissimo, phrasing, key signatures, and all that jazz...

But I don't think about them. Ever. I don't have to. I don't even...well, I understand them...but I don't have knowledge of them. I really have no explanation for this...but it kind of freaked me out last year; I was afraid that because I didn't really understand what I seem to be talented at, my charade would catch up to me sooner or later. I'm sorry to say that i've acted for everyone at some point or the other...

I could never tell if I was "good" at soloing or not. I had no idea what I was doing. It didn't make sense to me, and it never has...
but it never really seemed to matter, because everyone said that it sounded fine.
Was I tapping into something I didn't understand?

Is that what art is?

Of course it is.
But was I? Am I an artist? I know I am an artist, but that could be because i'm just an actor. Actors are artists, when they choose to be. Did I choose to be an artist?

Beat the dissenters into the ground.
A discussion already happened in my head, however, and it will never be said aloud.