Look Yonder.

My hand feels as if it's going to fall off. I've strained my right hand so often from refusing to type my thoughts. Somehow they feel much more everlasting and impressionable when written rather than typed. Similar to a CD or vinyl versus an mp3. CD's and vinyls have the implication of creation by hands, personal touch, rather than machine. Pictures drawn to paper, appealing to all the senses, the visual album artwork, the fresh smell of printed and glossed paper as you carefully slide the cover from its container. While on the other hand, the audible sensory implication of an mp3 is as easily satisfied by the click of a button, and it recedes just the same.

I've been writing a list of concepts and ideas of a possible production. Production of what shall remain unnamed. For some reason, saying or disclosing its identity aloud feels as if I was pitching the idea for some sort of common approval. Which I assume at some point in time people some must deny, but it's not nearly due for the strength of rejection. By "it," why certainly I mean, I.

There are so many things ahead of me. Things consisting of years, goals, maturity, people etc. For now, I need to keep my focus on school and manage a short-term oriented plan that can be accomplished. The plan needs to work like the Brownian Movement, and I find it humorous that the molecular theory gives me motivation and hope that the happening of greater things are soon to occur. Start small, go big.

Now, all I have to do is maintain this attitude.

Hipsterrunoff.

I don't know how I will survive without XM radio. Recently I've been listening to this station that plays music that I typically don't get on the radio such as Ariel Pink's Haunted Graffiti, The Yolks, Arcade Fire etc. Anyway, as some sort of punishment for listening to indie music I have to listen to this crap in between, which is a guy with this robotic monotone voice that likes to announce reviews of shows and then cheaply attempts to leave a lasting insightful thought.

"Some people differ in opinions of Animal Collective
Everyone is a critic.
Everyone is nowhere."

I should have soiled myself while basking in all this enlightenment.

Last night I finished some painting of hands, then started to draw faces all over the hands. I kept writing bullshit all over the back of the painting and wondered why the hell every time I create something I immediately want to destroy it. It never really seems like anything I do is completed, it only feels like frustration reached the point of no return suddenly halted. That was it. Done.

Chris comes over sees it, and I tell him to take it away because I don't want to see it. Almost as if I'm hurt by a past production, an idea I once held onto that never turned out the way I had wished.

Lately I've been biting my tongue, more so than ever. I can't be as brutal or emotionally explosive as I've always seemed to be. My convictions are all entangled and soaked in some sort of solvent that is slowly ripping it into flimsy threads. I'm upset with the overplay of MUSE, all rock stations sound like they're trying to commit mass murder by overdosing its listeners.

I can't think straight. I only want to say things as they come, understand things for what they are, and be as I am.

Vampire Weekend bothers me.

There are too many half-read books on my shelf.

Mentally I think I'm still eighteen until I meet someone younger than me and think "What the fuck is going through your head youngling?"

I want to make houses, buy shit pieces of land and turn them into amazing awe-inspiring places of enjoyment---purely for my own pleaure.

I will never be as intelligent and I want to be.

God is too unknowing.

Where the fuck are you capital T?

I don't want to care about what you think, but I do anyway.

I'll give you more credit than you deserve.

I'll give you less credit than your entitled to deserve.

Backwards.