| Wednesday, November 27th, 2002 |
| 12:11 am |
just like old times
************************************ _____________________ is killing me. ************************************ I don't know if this is where I am hiding... if it is, I am hiding in A ghost of memories from someone elses catacombe. a gripping dialogue... a haunted reason...... curse |
| Tuesday, November 26th, 2002 |
| 1:58 am |
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| Monday, November 25th, 2002 |
| 9:05 am |
The competetion has been shut out.
My mornings are black. COmplete blackness. Moon doesn't even reflect onto the snow. Black. If I pump one more dollar into the bleeding CHrist whore Xmas blow out, I fear I will bust something internally that's crucial. Too crucial to go on... I got shit for this whole town. Every man woman and child. It's a play to get left alone. The streets over the weekend were littered with staggering Salloon promoters. The health aid (our doctor personality) paid for a charter flight to the next village to pick up a couple hundred pounds of the good stuff. Charter flights are a rip off. He was last seen trying to walk normal from his neighbors house. I gotta stop acting like birthdays are so special. Birthdays are a dime a dozen. Everyday theres an infinity of special people. I get to replace a hydrogen sensor at the earth station soon. I anticipate shocking myself. A phone duck did tell me that I could use "roach clips" to section off the current, as I replace the old sensor. All those burning buildings.... all because someone told someone else that some pageant tripe looked like their wife. Nothing is real. I am not real. Saw octopus swimming around. It was orange. Mass Destruction. Never bothered anyone before. |
| Thursday, November 21st, 2002 |
| 8:32 pm |
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| 8:32 pm |
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| 12:38 pm |
The new VPSO who is coming here, apparently had a mustard bottle shoved up his ass as a kid and he took some self defense courses, and now, he will be our village cop. He's also a pot-head. |
| 12:30 am |
cold as I want to be.
Cold as I want to be. I can only melt things when I don't concentrate. I have to keep a beat. one more chance before I rip you up. you suck. you juvenile. you are shot to hell. come at me again. I can't even tell. you suck that hard. oh i pay attention to constellations. since becoming one. covered up graffiti. rag time. drag me down as a group one more time. kick. kick. kick. hounds. get down. come back around. |
| Wednesday, November 20th, 2002 |
| 8:45 pm |
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| 8:45 pm |
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| 6:54 pm |
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| 6:46 pm |
Ted Pedersen
I have a feeling this was the lighthouse keeper at Cape Sarichef, which is the western most lighthouse in the Northern U.S. He was enlisted at a different site, but indications are that he was our watchman after it was first constructed. The site also has naval radar stations and rotting fuel with PCB's which were abandoned by the coast guard, and the Wildlife refuge director. Since a tidal wave took out the initial lighthouse, all that remains are large concrete slabs with rebarr. I hope to one day convince a fisherman, or the mayor who has a plane, (gravel runway is actually larger than our gravel runway) to take me to the site for pictures etc. I am interested in creating a memorial for the site.  |
| 6:07 pm |
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| Tuesday, November 19th, 2002 |
| 7:14 pm |
|
| 11:25 am |
oil spill
20 million gallons is a devastating amount of fuel to spill. Every resident in Alaska, man woman, child, receives $1500-$1800 a year for eternity because of a spill half that size..... |
| 3:04 am |
FUCK
Not only do I take it all back, but I return it. I'm so mislead. Apparently, I can't go anywhere. |
| 2:28 am |
i guess you can't have it. I hope everyone saw their own meteor. |
| 1:54 am |
settlers
I am sick with it through a jungle on my back, sliding along, pierced by sunlight, guided by steel decking, tagged by faded yellow warnings, cut and torn by exotic principales with archaic hand weapons, panting like juveniles from all corners... but then here comes the people. as terrible as you not half as good as you divided, but not hard enough. |
| 1:29 am |
Dial
Can I forget when you spoke to me? No. How many I have I spoken to? One. Wolverines. |
| 1:26 am |
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| Monday, November 18th, 2002 |
| 11:38 pm |
drop spot
Sean Penn. I see myself through ten thousand miles of dry ice, wrapped like a mummy in fur and cheap fabric, huddled over a chill scrape, and carving circles in the storm, beneath my feet, loosing balance, in moments of clear exhilaration when my neck cranks back and feeds my profile with tiny white branches, sweeping me into a dizzy state, where I slam my head back to the front and pretend to have a sexual nature. Pretend. Don't let on, that you actually want things. Have spontaneous, errogenous bouts. Only spy fuckers who have no business having business, can see you out there. Not always. So jaded. Postage is a toll. Nothing is right. Where do you go? Don't say the trail. Watching meat prevail. I want to come see you. Onto the ice we go and losing half our body in eternity just to save some drowning ideal from sinking under... not to mention we used it as it's own bait. I love death diving more than I love posing for skin cream. I love sawdust and rotten shells more than I love special bonded paper. I love cum-like crane lube, frozen like icing more than I love shaking hands with royalty. I like hanging halfway off the pier, rescuing fiberglass from the other side of the planet and feeling my lip hit the planks as I make a go for it. I like running out of time. I like running out of time. I like running out of time. I like running out of time. Come to me. Go to them. Call. Ask for him. Speak with her. Drag out of every source, a confession that means nothing. In ten years. It could still have a destination. Highly likely, or very close to hanging. Current Music: The Bangers who stole the fire |
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altar_boy's journal
