Therapy

Dear Reader,

          Hold onto something now, I'm about to divulge and go personal. Something so intensely personal, so cathartic, that your head just might break. Or turn into a jigsaw puzzle. Just a warning. But, all that aside, on to the show!

Between the hours of 12 and 1 AM on what is channel 11 for me, therapy comes up on the screen. It's a cleansing ritual that I use to clear my head and relax and just take a breather. Yes, back to back, occupying the 12-12:30 and the 12:30-1 time slots is Sex and the City and Will and Grace. I sit on m couch with water and I watch the two shows one after another without any bathroom breaks. And it works. I forget all my troubles, and though it is very lonely, it's therapeutic. I'm not alone with my mind, I'm alone with sitcoms. 

(The End)

Daisuke

The Broken Hearts Club

Dear Reader,

          If you don't know, this entry is named after the rather excellent movie that bears the exact same name. If find that certain books and movies just trigger something or push a button that makes me sit down and write. Perhaps they are that good, or perhaps they just reflect something so deep that I can't hold it in anymore. Like right now, I'm listening to Feist's I Feel It All, and it's about to change to My Moon My Man and I have no idea where this is going. I don't know what to write about or what I will write about. Unlike the other entries, I have no guiding light. I'm just opening up the container of orange juice and pouring out the contents. 

It's really a brilliant movie. Really, but I'm just stalling at this point. Worlds shift all the time, but I've never noticed more shifts in my life than in the past six months. Perhaps I'm becoming more aware or perhaps everything is just changing at a more rapid pace. I want to say something, but I don't know what it is that I want to say. Maybe I'm too afraid to dive that deep, or maybe I have no depths to dive into. I wonder, is that it? Or is it the fear that I have no depths to dive into that is paralyzing me. I'm sure there is something, and that would explain the stream of consciousness that I'm doing right now. I'll probably wake up one night, splattered with moonlight (Interesting word choice there...) and I'll realize what it is I'm trying to get across. And then I'll just grab a piece of paper, no doubt my AP summer assignment and I'll scribble something down on it. Of course, once I faint from exhaustion and wake up in the morning, I'll realize that whatever I wrote is completely illegible. Maybe the quest and the grail can't coexist in the same universe. There is no grail without the quest and without the grail there is no quest. So if I do find the answer, it would have to vanish, otherwise what is there to live for?

Or maybe I'll find the answer and then find another question. If you can't tell already, I still have no idea where this is going, but something is starting to formulate, so bear with me. Of course, if you bear with me, you'll have to deal with more paragraphs of this nonsense. Which, on a tangent, is an incredible word. The meaning is in the form. It's so structuralist. Look at the word nonsense. Non. Sense. Nonsense makes NO SENSE, and the word itself makes that very clear. It's wonderful. I'm broken. I don't make sense. I recognize that and I feel like I'm going insane (Right now it feels like I have fiery wings growing out of my head. I'd say about 128 fiery wings.) and I'm caught by this mania, this insanity to write. I'm not even writing anything of substance, anything that relates to anything else I've written, I'm just writing. It's like somebody has taken over my hands. Right now I'm look at my hands and wondering whose they are. Really, the only thing that's holding all of this together is my punctuation and my strict adherence to the rules of grammar. Oh, and my nearly impeccable spelling. But ignore the fluffing of my ego, it won't fit through the door.

I know something and I know that I know something and I know that I know that I know something, but as I've already said, I don't know what that is. And apparently I don't even know what I'm talking about since I'm referring back to something I've already written. So clearly there is some thread holding all these shards together. I'm tired and cold. I'm bent and crooked. But I'll love my crooked neighbor, even if it's just myself with my crooked little heart. And thou shalt love thy crooked neighbor with thy crooked little heart. Neck in neck you'll walk and walk and walk on the shore. And as you walk you'll detach from the spiral and you'll watch your mind shift perceptions. It's the oddest sensation, becoming aware that you are watching something, that you are perceiving something in a completely different manner. It's like lying very very still on the ground and feeling the rotation of the earth. And it spins a lot. My head spins a lot. People spin a lot. This is becoming increasingly fragmented and I don't know why I am putting all of you through this, I don't know why I'm writing this. What can I do but cling to the hope that there is a reason for writing this, that there is a purpose this existence. I'm so sorry. I'm becoming needlessly dramatic. And I just didn't spell dramatic correctly although you'd never know it since I have spell check. Thank God for machines. Although it is rather pompous that God capitalizes his name. I mean, the Jewish God doesn't even use his name, he just uses initials and all those are capitalized. Rather pretentious although I fear that I'll be struck down with lightning for saying anything.

Wait for it.

Nothing. I haven't been smote. That was a close call, although considering the circumstances it probably wasn't. I guess I'm condemned to be free and to live and yes I stole that very observant of you want a cookie? And I'm sorry about that last sentence, I appear to be losing my grip on something though not the something that I'm trying to find. A different something, something that I would call reality, but I don't actually know. I tend not to know. But I'm not as happy as I think I should be if we/I assume that ignorance is bliss. I guess I just disproved that unless I'm grossly overestimating the state of bliss. Or maybe this is just a period of Self Discovery! That must be it! I'm just experiencing a rather late period of DISCOVERY! I FOUND THE NEW WORLD NOW LET'S GIVE ALL THE NATIVES AIDS! And then they will all die and we'll call it Thanksgiving. Amen to that and let's stuff our faces full of flesh. The turkeys will rise one day and kill us all if the robots don't get us first! Wahoo! I'm going crazy! My hands feel like they've detached from my body although I suppose I can't refer to them as "my" hands anymore. No. The hands that used to be mine have been detached from what was my body. I think I'm just some incorporeal spirit floating above all of this watching my mind whir and spin and gyrate on its axiom. I mean gyrate on its axis. Unless I didn't. I really don't know anymore and I should be finishing this soon, but I get the feeling that I won't be done for a while. I should see a shrink or get my head shrunk. Maybe it'd fit through the door then. I think I have moments of super clarity maybe. Moments in which I can see through things. Like super sanity. But these are very rare and I could be making all of this up. I mean, no I don't mean, I say, "Where does all this come from? Is there some spring of eternal thought that these just well up from?" I said it, but by using quotations it feels like I didn't actually say it. A character named Daisuke Kawachi did.

A new paragraph.

Another one.

And a n o t h e r one.

Space and silence say things, but the people get tired of it. They want solid things. So I'll defy them and give them void! 

(                 )

(                )

  (         )

(                     )

(       )

    (           )

(                            )

(                            )

(                            )

Connect the parentheses and it's like some fabulous building.

I'm done!

I'm not really but I have to go to my dead end job tomorrow and I need sleep.

Assuming I can sleep after this.

I wonder what I'll dream about.

It's a statement now, not a question.

Love perhaps, Caution yes, jazzy riffs on a keyboard no,

Daisuke=Kawachi

Something Of Vague Interest

Dear Reader,

Here's something interesting. Somebody recently approached me and said, "I read your blog the other day. It made me depressed." I laughed. Somebody else asked me why I wrote online. Why I didn't just keep a journal. With my overinflated ego, I responded like this, "I'm half-convinced that everything I write is somehow important. That at least one of my thoughts will hit somebody and change them for the better. Or for the worse. But that it will change them nonetheless." So I thought that now would be a good time to revisit my reasons for keeping this blog.

I haven't censored anything. I've changed names and used pseudonyms and whatnot, but I have not censored anything. I write everything stream of consciousness style and I do not edit. Well, I edited once, but that's because I was being incredibly cruel and I thought it would be prudent to delete that vicious insult. But I write that way and in such a public forum so that I can watch myself evolve. Or so I can watch myself stagnate. Either one works. It's like a living record of who I am, who I am becoming, and who I was. It's a holocron (If anybody can tell me what that term is from... I don't know what I'll do, but I'll give you something.). 

And in a part of my mind, a part that has considerably less spiderwebs than everywhere else, I do believe that what I write does change people. If it changes how they see me, or how they see the world, it is change nonetheless. So even if this does become depressing at times, I'll still persevere. So there. That is why. And I haven't checked, but I think my reasons for writing this blog may have changed since my first post.

From (Obviously),

Daisuke

The Tin Man Has No Heart

Dear Reader,

I can't remember when my last confession was. But to be honest, as a non-catholic, I don't think I've ever had a confession. But here is my confession. Imagine it being whispered under my breath in a dimly lit confessional cell. The priest is holding his head in one hand, tired from the day. My knee trembles, I've never done this before. I don't know what to do. He coughs, a polite cough meant to get my attention. A cough laced with enough sarcasm so as to say, "Get on with it!" So thankfully, every movie I've ever seen kicks in. "Father, forgive me. For I have sinned." 

He tells me to continue.

"Father...Father, I have no heart."

And I have confessed. I have told the world, or at least one priest, my secret. I am a tin man, an empty shell devoid of a heart. I have no heartstrings to tug, no soul to wrench, no muscular organ to pump blood through my body.

"Child, everyone has a heart."

Everyone, except me.

The tears I cry?

Fake. I've installed pipettes in my eyes.

The sobs?

A recording from the voice box in my throat.

My voice too comes from that mechanical wonder.

And in my head is a computer. Inside my skull sits the gutted core of and old IBM laptop.

For I have no heart.

Really, I don't.

The Father has given me some prayers.

But they will do nothing for my mechanical parts.

For I have no heart.

Not Sincerely, Not Lovingly, In Fact, Devoid Of All And Any Emotion,

Daisuke

P.S. Since I have no heart, I can't even tell if I'm being serious. But I don't care either. Because I have no heart.

Rejoice!

Dear Reader,
Rejoice with me!!! Teen X has gotten rid of his/her/its malicious comments as well as the blog that they were hosted on! Although, is all this drama what X wanted to begin with? Who knows? I could care less. X is probably home right now drinking the sorrow away. As X should, after all, that's what X wants, right? To drink and be preppy? Here's to you X. I raise my glass of sarcasm to you. May you never develop a beer belly.

Righteously yours,
Daisuke

P.S. It has recently come to my attention that I have neither heart nor soul. Just a little heads up for you all.

A Pity for the Fallen

Dear Reader,

I've moved past writer's block. I could care less now. When it comes, it will come. And if it doesn't come... Well, I guess I'll make something up.

Anyways, on to the main event. I've been doing some reading. And I have read some blogs, some blogs that are quite sad. In fact, they are quite pitiful. It sounds like a child being told that he can't have a piece of chocolate. So the child becomes sullen and the child begins to whine. Of course, that is just a metaphor. In reality though, this child is actually a teenager. Of course, one with a childlike mentality. To be blunt, I would guess that it would be around 8 or 9. And like many teenagers, this specific teen (we'll call this teen "X" for the sake of anonymity.) loves to drink. But oh! Poor baby! X doesn't get to drink as much as he wants. X doesn't get to go to the parties where all the kids do is get wasted. It's so sad. All X wants is to drink and drink and drink, but no. X is denied even the simplest pleasures. It's so sad. So tragic. So very...tortuous. 

He wants, but none of X's friends go to these parties so X naturally cannot go. It would be such a travesty to, perhaps, grow a spine. For if X were to have a spine, X could tell all X's so-called friends that X really doesn't like them. And then X could also go to said parties, sans escort. And if X wasn't invited to them, X could certainly just drop in like so many others do. But poor X.  Poor X likes, no. Poor X loves the life that X doesn't have. It really is tragic. One would half expect Arthur Miller to write a play about it.

This life, this life full of polos and gin, has been placed on a pedestal. But poor X cannot see past the flashing lights. X cannot see how very shallow, how very cold it is. X cannot fathom the reasons that these people do what they do. Nor can X see how many others want the things that he wants. Granted, there is quite a variety of the things that these people want, but nonetheless, they exist in the same class as him. It's perfectly fine to want things, to dream about something more and to wish for it. But to ignore where you come from, to ignore the cold truths in favor of the bells and whistles, that is unforgivable. 

And so I pity X. I pity X and all the others like him. I pity all those who want to drink the night away. Those who cannot find the courage to admit the simple truths to themselves, or the people, that by social necessity, they associate with. They may be judgmental, they may be rude, they may be opinionated, but by no means are they cold. By no means do these "friends" drink for the sake of drinking or party for the sake of partying. Nor do they do these things to fill themselves up. No. These people already have themselves mostly figured out. These people already know what they want and how to get it. These people exist without the fears that X lives with.  So I pity X. And if you are reading this, know that I pity you. I pity you as much as you want to replace myself and all the others who stood by you and acted as you pillars when you so desperately needed it. 

For ever and always,

Me

Block

Dear Reader,

I've run into writer's block.

But I've started another project, a play.

It's going to be called The Bus Stop Snapshots.

It may be produced at my school.

Maybe.

Me