I would very much like to be

Bukowski

Old and

All too aware

Hunched, miserable,

Alive.

 

I would very much like to be

That 5 year old I saw in the Art Institute

Writhing in his mother's lap with boredom,

Not caring that his shirt was pulled up to his armpits because the bench he lay on was

Cool

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My mind has left me

                                                                                    blank

As the canvas that sits idle, questioning, before me

Its nonexistant values and colors usher me into oceans of thought that pull at my thinning conscience

Because my fantasies are not water soluble

And is it not the conception, or the act of painting which is really the majesty of creation?

In this carnal race against your clock, my time limit, his arms are looking enticing...

I have you matted, locked into finality and unquestioning adoration.

I have you framed and signed and I've sealed the deal as a successful lover and art conquest

But what if...

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hey guys...sorry i havn't posted in a really long time.

 

i'm in NY right now studying for a few more weeks (i've already been here for 3 weeks, hense the posting delay), and we have limited internet access. i will post something cool when i get back...perhaps my term paper i'm writing while i'm up here.

 peace

Paul McCartney's birthday wasn't May 18.  It's June 18.

 

I think this makes my previous post all the more ironic. 

I looked down at my hand, petrified. I had done it--it was appalling, disgusting. The slut wave.

I had answered a catcall by bringing my hand to shoulder level, not extended, and flippantly bent my middle two fingers loosely, all while throwing a flirty, airheaded smirk over my shoulder. Aaaah, I've done it now...

Can I blame my behavior on my environment? This ugly, monotonous town that turns it citizens into crazed nymphomaniacs out of sheer boredom? Or was it the experience that directly preceded the accepting hip slant that absolutely screamed,

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I AM a narcissist. Because besides loving to watch myself exist, I feel so difficult to resist. And on top of this, have you seen my hips?

I hate my lips, i hate my lips, i hate my lips.

It's sick the way I walk, try to talk. Above all my graceful curves, while I saunter, clear the hall--it shan't be me who takes the fall, after all.

I'm so small, i'm so small, i'm so small.

My eyes are tired. But that doesn't seem to stop their glow, even so! Come after me and I'll say no, it's just for show. It's all below.

I can't grow, i can't grow, Can't I go?

 

It's 11:23pm on Sunday, May 18, 2008.

I had a decent day.  However, I'd felt all day, even last night at 4am, that there was something special about the date.  Something that I couldn't quite put my finger on.  Someone's birthday.  A couple of you might know what I'm talking about already, but it took me until bedtime to realize that today was Paul McCartney's birthday.  He turned 66.

Those of you who are Beatles fanatics, and those of you who know how much of one I was, are probably wondering how I could forget.  Those of you who don't know are probably thinking "Who cares?" or are confused.  Basically, from 7th grade, all through high school, I was obsessed with The Beatles.  I checked out books about them from the library, wrote reports about them in school... the whole bit.  But slowly, it's fading.  It's been fading for several years, really.

I'm not who I was in middle school, and I'm not who I was in high school.

Growing up is weird.

Happy birthday, Paul.

*Forewarning*

The following article contains direct references vulgarity, racism, hate, and vague references to something that will probably never touch your lives directly. That being said, try to remember that the author does not advocate nor encourage Hate in any of it's manifestations... I'm a Lover...

In other words, the opinions and views expressed in the following post do not necessarily represent the  opinions and views of Crazy Rockwell.

Plus, I'm drunk.

*/Forewarning*

 

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So, I am leaving for Israel in less than a week, and I haven't done a thing for packing. I really feel that the term procrastination is an understatement in this case. I just don't know what to do with myself.

So I tried my hand at some writing this past week. I did some free writing, and I guess it went okay. I don't really know. I can't tell. I started writing a short story, but I only got three sentences out. I just don't know where to take it.

"Hark, who goes there!" I screamed. Well, not out loud. I was definitely thinking it though.

I think I like that beginning, but I'm not such an experienced writer to where I would really know. I guess it doesn't really matter if it's good or not because I am writing just to write. I don't plan on becoming a novelist. Though that would be funny if that actualy seemed to be the case. Well, maybe not.

 I guess that the title of this blog makes so much sense. It seems to me, that I just don't seem to know very much. Oy vey.

 

A collaborative poem by open mic participants:

 

 

Sam:
It must have been fate that Elad the Great started Open Mic
Which Elates all of his Mates at Eddie’s here tonight
He’s done his part to make the web a place to voice your thoughts
So people can read and conceive instead of letting their minds rot
He’s shown us we can use the net as something powerful and bitchin’
For other things then finding porn to watch and choke the chicken
We think he’s Bomb we love his dreds and his innovation
So we each wrote a stanza to show our appreciation

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DAMNIT now my sandwich is facedown on the floor, and all I know is how I lost the words I wrote before...

A perfect night for destruction, perhaps I'll stab you in the back,

A loss of appetite when my lunch leaks out from it's sack,

The loss of a friend once loyal, thrice missed and twice removed,

Be careful now, do you allow? his words flow unapproved....

I'm lying, preaching chastity, my belt is WAY too tight,

And when I'm done with prayer I'll spread my legs for you tonight,

'Cause in my black sketchbook, you stain my pages more and more,

Your blotting ink is no longer just a doodle I'll ignore.

So I'll paint my face and pierce my tongue, and preach till my palms are red,

Because the only reason for my faith in God is your movement in my bed.

1. I think the real reason girls wear tight pants is to make it harder for guys to take them off.

2. Am I going to remember and appreciate all the wonderful people I met in the last month, year, years in Arizona when I leave?

3. I have so many personalities, I'm starting to forget who I am. There's Manic Elad, Depressed Elad, Yetzer Hora (Animalistic) Elad, Yetzer Tov (G-dly) Elad, there's Hitting On Girls Elad, there's Online Elad, there's Balanced Elad, there's Crazy Elad. If I found Plain Ol' Elad, would he just be added to that list?

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The perfect profession would have to be priest. Or cardinal. Or reverend. Or rabbi. Or something. People never kill those guys. They're too scared to. Whenever you hear people talking about a nun getting killed they sound so sad. Like it was so much worse than a normal person. Yeah. I think that's what I'll do. Especially if there's actually a god. He wouldn't kill me if I worked for him.

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I have a beef with God.

There, I said it.

 

Not to say that I subscribe to the idea that our universe is the manifestation of a big white guy in the sky,

 

I’m more inclined to say it’s more of a mechanical mechanism than a man, supposedly superior, but clearly in control.

 

The poor deity is likely incredibly lonely,

according to the Catholics he sends artists to purgatory.

However the story goes, we all seem to know

some sinners are saved, and some saints receive the low-blow

 

Moses,

my man,

holding holy courage to stand,

 

up to Gumption Alrighty

‘scuse me,

Mr. God Almighty:

 

“Moses,

My Man,

drag those chosen people through the sand

snack on manna, the nectar, then I expect you to stand

outside the Holy Land, the Battle Grounds, pawn unto a larger plan;

Arguing with Me? Be proud to be a sacrificial lamb.”

 

 

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I had just gotten out of class, and was trekking across campus.  My car was about half a mile away.  It's my birthday on the Gregorian Calendar (My Hebrew Birthday falls on April 1st this year).  It's about 6 hours before Shabbos, and in between then and now I had (still have) a pretty packed schedule--all the usual preparations for Shabbos, plus having lunch with my dad.  All this, plus the excitement of it being my birthday, was going through my head as I walked, until I got about 20 feet past the fountain at the heart of campus.

 I felt odd.  More specifically, my legs felt odd.  Not in a medical sense, necessarily, but they seemed to resist me going in the forward direction.

 ----

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