Nauset and a Small Update

There's something calming to me about obnoxiously turbulent wave patterns. I don't like the quiet lap of the water at low tide. High tide makes me feel like there's a section of my life's chaos that is right where it should be. A categorized rampage. Nauset is that rampage. My family and I visited this shore during Hurricane Bill of 09. We braved the 12 foot surf standing in a circle holding hands.

Yesterday the waves were much smaller but the thought still counted.

Okay I said I'd post more new place pictures like... too long ago and even these are outdated because we have furniture now. Except my mahogany desk from Bob's. Stupid Bob's. They literally damaged it three times. Guess I won't be doing any Summer work until Friday! Thanks Bob. More pictures featuring the actual finished project later I guess?

living room

fireplace. and router. i love the router.

back porch. the yard is miniature so I don't like it very much:(



kitchen to the left, basement to the right

The Forever-Man

The following is a short narrative concerning my childhood as a thief.

Armed with a small flashlight (my phone replaced this soon after), my limited and fleeting knowledge of where the creaky floorboards are, and a midnight appetite I glacially gravitated from my bedroom towards the stairs. Actually, it was never that I was really hungry; just a combination of boredom and the necessity to confirm lie to myself about the dominant ownership I had over my own house. Are these internal contradictions what drive children to so easily throw logic to the wind? Whatever.

I used to kid myself that these astounding Spiderman skills were the driving factor that allowed me to go uncaught by my parents but it was probably just that they didn’t feel like getting out of bed to reprimand me. Anyway I had bigger fish to fry, such as figuring out a way to eat wheat thins in bed while avoiding sleeping in a blanket of crumbs afterword.

It's kind of like how you see a plane fly over head, and you imagine all the people inside can see you, there on the ground walking your dog late at night. And you imagine all those people wonder about your story the way you wonder about theirs. But then the plane flies out of sight and you think about something else for a little while.

It was 200 years ago. No one here now was there then and a lot of people forget that time existed at all. But you can see the remnants of their convictions and intentions and normalities if you're really into that sort of thing. History can be tricky because there's no Forever-Man who we can go to and ask "1947...? Did that really happen or is Grandpa fucking with us?". And he'll look down angrily and reply "Of course it happened I was there." We're forced to keep shotty records of our day to day and bury shoeboxes in the earth. Even I know you can't house an entire memory in a shoebox.

Look what I found!

A dusty old barn in the middle of Millis holds promise. Breaking and entering conviction promise yes, but that's beside the point. Anyway we were getting ice cream like 2 minutes from there anyway, so don't tell me the feeling of ownership I had is void of law.

It was dark inside, and the only source of light we had to work with was the occasional stick of yellow sun on the floor from a crack in the wood ceiling and the old flashlight we got from one of the cashiers at the ice cream place, which was pretty much of batteries anyway. There was a greenhouse attached to the barn on the left side and it was teeming with life, so it was really hot inside.

Contents not pictorially recorded:

(1) box of old moth eaten 90s clothes, among them a once stylish jean jacket
(2) porn tapes featuring Pamela Anderson and an (I'm quite sure fictional) softball team
(6) empty coke bottles and one snapple bottle inside a stained cooler (snapple? how old could these have been? whatever)
(1) unopened jug of Canadian Whiskey that could have only gotten better with age
(2) pigeons flapping around the rafters the entire time we were leafing through this stuff
(1) mason jar stuffed with doorkeys. We couldn't find anything they opened but some of them were made of brass and really old.
(1) set of trivia cards that must have gone to some board game
(also)a bunch of farm supplies, including chicken cages, old boards, hundreds of bails of hay, the pulley chain off of a crane, and a few flower pots

Some of the stuff we kept because the place was bound to burn down sometime soon and there was no one within shouting distance to claim it. lol.

Plus I wanted pics.

there were crates of these really old alcohol bottles. I loved this one because it says "Boston" on it. Many of them had no inscriptions and some were colored like sea glass. Upon research I deduced that it was a Root beer Liquor Bottle with the raised inscription "E. Hartshorn & Sons, Est. 1850, Boston". This company was popular in the mid 1800s but ran out of business in 1935 (probably in the Great Depression). Really dirty but I plan to run it through with vinegar and baking soda or something.







This lock (really heavy, by the way) was interesting. None of the keys fit, we tried them all. I love how it says Yale on it. Maybe the owner of the barn was pretty smart? But then why... nevermind.




My fave: two lighters found in a dusty box FULL of junk. Old screws and nails and plastic jewelry and other stuff. I hope they aren't still functioning. They're both really rusty and made of brass I think. Look at the designs on them! Pure vintage.


It says "McDonald Funeral Home, Weymouth"








Super old razor. Pre-80s if Google serves me. The "1, 3, 5, 7" on the dial is for how sharpe you want the blade to be.








Political campaign pins for John A. Volpe, running for reelected MA state governor in 1964 and US Ambassador to Italy in 1973, and Goldwater/Miller from Arizona running for president also in 1964.




More photos once I clean all this stuff? Maybe.

The New Place

Okay, I took a few pictures (few meaning very few) and there are more to come, but it looks pretty rad so far. Considering moving is not up for discussion, I guess this is an okay option.











some of my shit. can you spy the stack of Rolling Stones'? Yeah I made sure not to lose those.



Thoughts?

Re: Stacks

My mom left today. I'm content with it, I think. I watched her pull away in her teeny car and it felt like any other evening when she would make a last minute drive to pick something up. At first I was so angry. I was fuming. She had something I didn't. She was able to escape; to go some place where the yelling couldn't penetrate the walls of her bedroom. Of course she deserves it more than me, but I'm still feeling like a little kid who got duped out of a day at the beach. It just makes me look forward to leaving this town forever. Can't come soon enough, although I'm fairly certain I'll miss it dearly once I'm out. My life is a fractured series of longing for what I had minutes before and no amount of instant gratification or appreciation can undo that inevitable yearn.

Re: Stacks matches my mood right now. Bon Iver has the most beautiful voice.

That said, only excitement for this weekend. Showtime. Stage. Adrenaline. Fucking spotlights. What I live for. Dancing has proved to be the only extracurricular I've actually enjoyed this year. That sounds awful but honestly the rest I'm only doing for the credit. Screw honorablity and give me good beat.

I really like taking pictures.










what do you think?

Cars & Spurts of Consciousness

My mind has been on driving for a while now. I took a vow that as soon as I got my license I'd be out of here. Where is here, exactly? Do I expect to leave all of these worms behind? Honestly, what do I think is going to happen... Nothing. I've got a snake tied to my foot and it's striking at my chest because it's the only part of me that moves as I breathe.

I've got to get this done soon or I'll leave it for later and nix the whole thing entirely because it's sounds stupid once fed back into my own ears. But the beauty of it is that at the time it sounded perfect. One must learn to respect his own spontaneity despite its danger.

Young people are naturally drawn to risks. We are physiologically attracted to our own destruction. Is that what I attribute these urges to? Do I owe my need to go and lick the ground for a few minutes to how many years I've been alive? I've discussed this previously.

Is this stream of consciousness style too upbeat for you? Shall I switch it up.

I sank into the passenger's seat with a thunk. Car door slam (wow car themes again, don't call me inconsistent). "You just can't seem to get it right, can you?" my brain says with a sneer. I ignored it and picked at my finger nail, then sank further into the cushion at the realization of forgetting shit in my locker. All the same, maybe it was some subconscious upheaval of all responsibility.

No see it doesn't work this is still just my brain talking about shit only I care for. The name "stream" is pretty fitting but maybe "spurt" would work better. Typing this shit is just a handle for the door to what goes on inside my head all day. I don't start thinking this way every time I hit "New Post", rather: it goes inside this box instead of looping back around the curves of my spine.

A certain thing has been giving me trouble recently. Whenever I exit passenger side, and go to shut the car door, I shock myself. The metal slaps my hand back with a snap of invisible lightning. Sometimes I remember just in time and plant one foot on the front lawn before touching the door but this is a poor substitute for a remedy.

I really like the name Isaac. Or John. Have you ever noticed that you can't name your kid the name of a person you dislike, even if you liked the name itself to begin with. Enemies have a funny way of having a lot more loyalty than some friends. If I dislike someone, I just decide to not give a fuck about them because hate is a form of caring, and why should I care about the asshat who stands still in a hallway of moving people? Seriously get out of the way or I will push.

I don't it just doesn't look like it's gonna get any better. When you're young you believe that you'll have the perfect life when you're big. I keep trying to get it right and I keep failing. Or I do but I'm not happy. Sometimes I just think I would be happier if I was a homeless pot head. Having no one to answer to seems like utter bliss.

If making other people happy, makes me happy, then why am I so goddamn sad when I get good grades and don't go to parties. It doesn't make any fucking sense and there's no answer to this stupid equation. Whenever I try to communicate this to someone I just pussy out and tears come. I hate when people say that no one understands them. Are you fucking kidding me EVERYONE understands your situation because EVERYBODY goes through this. Everyone is just to pussy to actually talk to anyone else when it's not psychobullshit consisting of "did you do the english homework" or "omigod she's such a slut".

Do you know why there are stereotypes in high school. Do you know why there are 8 million cliques. It's because people need a place to hide.