i need to post on this more...probably?

"not titled"

my Point will never be made.
I am no God.
I am no deity
my Life cannot save
the millions or hundreds of
ones that I love
It's like screaming in your sleep
or falling in a dream.

At some point you have to wake up.

Pacing

"Pacing, Exhausted, Beat"

I'm Pacing.
Not only the depths of myself,
but the halls of my home.
Drawn between choice, I find it only
necessary to Pace.
Tell me to stop, Go Ahead!
At least someone will be giving me
a legitimate answer to
one question in my life...
'Should I stop Pacing?'

Having a great day?

"ihaven'tbeenanywhere"

SHow me a street,
a place, a face,
I haven't seen.
SHow me your shattered
and broken glass
and I will call it a mirror.
TAke me down the abandoned street
and I'll call it heaven.
LEad me to the old house,
And I'll call it home.



And some art, to mix it up. Its a space bird about to seriously take down some scary thing. ENJOY!

DYSTOPIA!!!!!

another English Class gem for you. (You being all three people that read this! WOO!)

If it doesn't make sense in the beginning, read 'til the end..it shall.


“Nothing makes sense anymore,” he muttered under this breath. In the background, whined some unmelodic tune they define as music. They defined everything; even the dictionary did not make sense. “Nothing makes sense anymore,” This time these words threw themselves upon the blank wall in Arthur’s room. A white wall, now given life; life no other being, inanimate or animate, knows. Red. Poignant, vivid Red. Beauty at its finest. The Words freshly dripped down from the place on the wall, to show his passion, show his meaning. He knew that it’d all be over in about thirty seconds. This all was a dream anyways.
He was trapped where he had been for about four years now. Arthur knew this was his last year, “Final Year” as it was called by all the attendees and educators. But at this point in his learning career, everything felt cold, useless, like all the pointless data he had been told was important and on the next exam was as far from necessary for his life beyond this year.
Bursts of cold shed their being on Arthur. He shuffled across the room to close the window. They finally allowed Final Year students to have open windows, be it their record was consistent and clear of any problems. Feeling the life-filled air get sucked out by the window shutting made Arthur think about all the book work he had left to due before tomorrow’s morning sessions began. He’d probably make up answers or get a hold of someone else’s work at morning meal before sessions began. None of the educators cared anyways. They barely were paid enough to put a decent amount of food on the table for evening meal, so it goes.
Knocking awoke Arthur out of his inept thoughts. “Well, it took him long enough this time,” he thought out loud. There were sensors on every window at New Era Preparatory School, so as soon as an attendee opened and shut a window, someone, usually a Final Year attendee who was in charge, came by to make sure no one had jumped out said window or in worse cases, broken the window. Luckily for Arthur, the boy in charge of his hall was Arthur’s tutor for math.
“Everything check out all right, A-Squared?” Samson hollered through the door.
“Yes sir. Just getting some fresh air. All this bookwork is making me ill. Good thing we have off day after next.” Arthur replied, whole-heartedly knowing he opened the window to get rid of the paint fumes.
“Don’t I know it.” Samson had always had Arthur’s approval, except for that horrible nick-name he gave Arthur when he started tutoring him back in Third Year. Just because a boy replaces an “A” variable, with a squared term of the same value, does not mean one should go about calling him a horrible, pointless nick-name.
   
Walking down to morning meal was always a hassle. Thirty boys in each hall piled into the staircases which were filled with the eight other halls that comprised the housing unit Arthur called home. Getting the meal and finding a place to try and enjoy it was an entirely new crusade by itself. The boys were constantly watched during this entire process. Leading the way in the newest technologies ‘of the future’, New Era Preparatory School had their eyes on every attendee in any place at any time of any day. Control Boarders had nothing else do to but sit and watch their monitors streaming from every lens of every camera perched on every wall in every room of every building at New Era Prep. Every action had its consequence. At least that is what the boys were taught from day one. New Era had a way of inflicting conformity, precision, and serenity without lifting a single one of its intangible fingers. Ever since the New Societal Campaign was installed into law five years ago, almost every school in the nation was this way. Arthur knew only this kind of composed education. His parents were number one on the list to sign him up for ‘New School’, as it was so aptly named by the committee assigned to fix education in the country when all hope seemed loss in the intelligence of a new generation. Any half-educated-liberal-politic-aficionado was driven to stand behind anything ‘new’ and promising with full force and full bank accounts. For the children, the new attendees of these schools, this meant twelve month schooling, difficult courses, and educators and peers that would push them to become something above average.
For Arthur, all this meant was that as long as he kept his grades amid perfection and kept out of trouble, his parents were pleased.
At the head of the meal line, Arthur spoke to a couple of boys he knew in the science class of which he still needed to complete the assigned bookwork. He managed to get a hold of the assignment with relative ease and before his meal was cold.
Opening his science book, Arthur caught a glimpse of a bright red brush mark of paint along the deteriorated spine. At first he was convinced that it was just a hallucination. Being it before sunrise on the last morning before the end of the week, he knew it was completely possible that the streak was not real. “A quick glimpse back, just to make sure,” he thought. “I know I wasn’t even near my science assignments last night when I had the paint out…wasn’t I?” Too bad for Arthur a camera precariously perched at the end of the table answered the question of whether or not the mark was real or not before he could.
   
A loud, monotonous voice broke the arid silence of the meal hall…“ARTHUR PETERSON: REPORT TO THE OFFICES OF REPRIMAND WITH YOUR VIOLATED TEXT BOOK.”
Arthur stopped breathing in response to the announcement. For a few, timeless seconds Arthur dangled in the presence of death. Thinking that maybe if he held his breath long enough, he might fall over and they’d pity him. No one ever gets called down to Reprimand during meal at New Era Prep. The meal hall in entirety turned to stare Arthur down with an intensity that instantly brought him to perspire. He gasped, but more or less wheezed like a ninety year old asthma patient.
Too many thoughts were crashing through Arthur’s conscious mind at once; thoughts that made no sense to him. Every meaningless ounce of human reaction Arthur possessed was screaming at him. He just visualized his parents getting the daily update from the Headmaster. His father sitting back and sighing and his mother standing up and walking out the door of their home outside of the city and sauntering into the almost green garden she cultivated only in the autumn of every year…





annnnnnnnd a photo?

You know what always makes sense...Writing.

Well, simply, this one's up for interpretation. In a more complex way, this one goes out to anyone who's brought me back to sanity.

'Nothings'
I'm convinced everything I thought was once a lie,
has proven itself true.
Everything that once held my reality, I question with my thoughts.
Actions never speak as loud as history
or as painfully as future and present.
Someone has got to tell me.
Tell me why when anything makes sense, it breaks from it.
Think myself crazy? Never.
Think myself one who questions?
Only when I know the answers.
Anon.

Just words this time

All my photos are on a different computer. These are just words. Enjoy?

'ours'
Ours is one of tangled mess
of broken lines, of broken speech.
of fallen city and fallen building.
Ours is awful taste and heartless
ideas.
ours is nothing anymore.
ours is nothing.

number deux

I guess I best be posting on this thing often.. keep myself occupied, cause I know at this point no one is reading it! HA! Here we have a little sketch I did up. My friend and I heard that apparently you need a prostitution license in Nevada, so I imagine this is where you get one.

And for some writing: a little piece I wrote on sand. enjoy?


'Some Amazing Neural Details'
The Sun. no man, that has been blessed with the gift of sight, remembers a day of existence without its coarse presence. This correlation of thought comes not from the sun, but of the sense of touch, the touch of beaten earth and of other's memories and of the coarse sand.
At first, when you embrace the simple elegance of the nylon beach chair, you find the sand's being an annoyance, a mere disadvantage to the famous pleasures of the ocean air and calming crash of the waves on the shore's break.
The sun resumes its persistent embrace of your skin. Causing perspiration, a sweat that is no longer something of discomfort, but something your body has learned to coincide. But back to the sand your thoughts flow.
It flows like the ocean, cliché in body, through your fingers, like it always has. Always will. While you sit, thoughts form of how it is so discomforting, the coarse, the heat, the sand.

Mother sits and reads her compelling novel of lust and mystery.

Father lies, like a corpse, dead, trying to forget the pains of big business.

Sister tries to alter her skin. Being it darker, more guys will find her attractive, physically.

You, still filter the sand through hands like a baker. When the flour, that has no pleasure in smell, but in taste, has lumps and unwanted residues, he, being a baker, must make preparation for his creation, through flour that possesses no smell pleasing to those who might be courted by the arrogant young boy.

Still. Still. No body part moves so much in this moment, as the hands. Still caressing the sand, although the nerves and touch say it is displeasing.

Still. Still. Still. The same pile of coarse, aged rock runs again and again, from hand to ground and back again, touching neuron after dirty neuron.

But yet, Still. Still. Still. You remain.

As mother reads and as father dreams and as sister flaunts, the sand no longer feels so coarse and no longer disturbs your touch, but becomes part of it. Whether it be that the coarse substance has changed the very mean of touch, or the very mean of touch has changed it. Matters not the cause, but still the effect is what your senses obsess.
The perspiration still collects on the small spots on your body that cannot find a way to avoid the sun, although the way in which heat causes the body to sweat feels unpleasant, at this moment, you still embrace it.
At this moment, you don’t want to move.
In all essence…you can't move, except for your hands, which embrace the smooth, warmth of the sand piles around your seat.
The very idea of being moved from the very spot is moving enough to cause you to move your hand in such a way that moves the sand the same way it has been moving, the same way it has always moved, and the same way it will always move, through your hands, and back to the ground.

numero uno

uhhh..hello, internet?

First, I would like to say. I have no idea what the hell I'm doing.

Second, mi mucho bueno amigo, Evan, does. He is here:Gangliness Ultd.

Third, this blog thing is for pictures, art, writing, I accomplish while trying to scrap my way through high school. Real life, I pray I get there.

<<>

Lastly, my true love, writing. This is one I scribbled down a while ago, in midst of a rant on highschool.. enjoy:

'breath out and in at the same time'

The world breathes. I've seen it.

Exhale

Inhale

The world is human, You've seen it.

It falls ill,

it hurts,

it feels, it loves.

The world breathes, and our lives are but

a short gasp in its lifetime.

To-morrow is but a flake.

The world breathes the way you and

I do.

The way you and I will one day cease to.

When all is forgotten of you in generations future,

will you sit and ask yourself,

'was my breath worth it?'

Adieu,

Andrew.