Chapter I


I always knew my life was a strange, awful, super-causal absurdity of / and for others to enjoy, and be entertained through . . .

It was all added together, when my mother one day told me she'd enrolled me for college totally against my will.

She said, "Brendan."

"I enrolled you into Husson college, in Bangor, Maine."

Almost, in perfect robotic alien speak.

I said, "Okay."

"What..?"

"when..?"

"The truth is, I really know you've had nothing to do, and you've been doing nothing with your time this whole time."

"You say you make music, so I thought if you got to Husson, you could transfer to NESCOM eventually and studio audio engineering."

"Oh." "I see."

I was angry, immediately.

I thought of her lack of empathy.

Toward the song, the idea, of what I wanted to produce ..

She didn't understand, how in my own studio I had total control over my music.

I looked at her, with invisible tears in my eyes, she didn't see at all. There were actually no tears on my eyes at the age of
19.

I looked at her, and she said, "Okay." "So, when do you want to go..?"

I spun around on the floor, insane with anger, and she watched with a mystified look on her face.

"I'll go to college."

I said, and walked out of the room.

She didn't understand why I was so angry.

A few weeks later, I was talking to my future roommate on the phone. And, making plans to see him, and live there soon, I mentally
knew it was a good idea to get away from these people.

My parents didn't understand how terrible they were.

If I left home, even if they think it's such a good idea to test me, the drama isn't so much. I can really go to college
actually, and probably learn enough to be better at audio.

I bet they doubt me, but I probably could defy them entirely, and be a very good engineer some day . . .

I took the idea, and started writing new songs soon, and I was arranging my (then, five songs), ending with the song, "The Digi"
a CD idea I had, to "cure my mental self" called "The Committed CD" or maybe "Control M" meaning, CTRL + M like the key-command
on a computer to quickly mix a song.

I meant this, to the day I posted a legacy track out of the song, "Committed," and the CD was available on the internet soon.

I made it available on Spotify, and in the futurity of this effect, I knew Trent Reznor himself (one of my past nemeses in the 
music industry) heard it, liked it a lot, and then helped me make a new CD called, "The Alternative Cool," some day in the future
when I was truly able to prove myself to the world, and the CD to this moment in time (I know) is one of my best.

I wrote the songs, to my own interest, out of a religious interest, to prove my belief in christlike science, a biogenic fringe-science 
for how our minds and bodies can be made "perfect" over time, to self-liken ourselves, to what our best incarnation (out of our every
incarnation) the one which is the best incarnation.

We look at ourselves, or our own "one unique person" (the singularity we are now) as a scientific byproduct of our own genius,
And, finding this power, a new idea or power can come or arrive out of our divined ideas, so that our new ideas can take reformed
interests in the sole-product, needs, and everything of a new style itself, where we arrive at a betterness in ourselves, called
the biogenic science of healing. Where in this, the original Essene gospel proves and also many books on the subject of healing
that, "both science and art" are enough to ontologically heal the mind-body connection to the body or spirit itself, since the soul or 
emotions are the best things to heal at the exact same time, in a unitive or mystic style of living.

Which, in this, there is a better way to live. A much better way, also, is through the vantage of the eyes of God, Christ, or a safer way 
to live in general, like marijuana is harm reduction to some people, some pills are made safer, when only taken "once a year" for the rest,
and for true victims, I knew (or, I always knew) I had a reason to downplay the power of others, en mode with a modus operandum of which
I knew the solution to my programs of interest, the movies, films, and experiences of my quest was always revelated by most people
to be needed on a universal basis.

So, I took notes, and taking notes the whole time I was going to college, I also personally chose my classes, selected where I wanted to 
spend most of my time, and made my friends naturally, without trying.

The wave of expression I was on was new, so I listened to as little rock music as I could (for whatever reason).

Also, when I stopped listening to rock music, certain things became very obvious to me.

I saw that certain artists like "Trapt" were a lie, and their corporate industry-driven interests were not enough to keep me
en league with the bad ideas of the industry itself, so I over time looked at the industry as though it was a thing I could truly
divine a new understanding out of, because I truly "liked" the industry, or the idea of the industry, and I knew that I wanted most
things in my life to be positive, so I wanted to think of things as a new idea in general. I tried new artistic expressions in my style of
what I viewed. I wrote poetry, for one or two nights, and imagined a new philosophy a few moments, that night I first thought of the
general re-arrangement of the tracks to control. I looked at the idea of the five songs, going from Rightness to Blood and Air. And I
didn't really know, why I "had" to look at things so prosaically . . .

Eventually, I started to think of what books to read.

Strangely, as I picked up certain books, the effect of certain peoples behavior changed around me, though I really didn't want to 
note on this. Looking at old book covers, and where the door was to my bedroom, I saw strange movements of the two sisters I knew,
where they really rushed past my door more. I noticed, also, more memories of my past and history looking as though dawned-upon
more than imagined. I also knew, the strange way I truly felt "empowered" to smoke a joint at night was something I needed to not describe
out of personal reasons alone . . .

The revelity of what I felt, also, in writing new words, in a scribelike manner that I thought might also remotely heal or universally
help others somehow is the way I knew the future might be good because of the psychology I was changing all on my own. Good mids in a mix
to a song proved to be very helpful for dissonant rock music I made. I also found that grunge in alternative was a useful way to make
my mind stronger in moments of disagreement with others. Positive dissonance like this was like the cure meets the church, and when
new artists like the idea, or the word itself seem to be universal, I could use the songs as programs or ideas to use to control
or entrain my mind to a good form of positivity I knew was like a program. I had to keep doing this, because 'A Forest' -- like a
reverie poem by Poe, or Jesus Christ himself, might allow for me to look at the faces of such people as what I see so well to also
know, like the face of Ulysses on the fifty dollar bill, I feel is a quest that is truly universal, and this odyssey -- to such a place
as tech school, when you already in a self-built studio, is sort of like enter the dragon, or a new way to look at the matrix, or virtuasis
in a way, that you can see a new reality and learn from it from a place that is already much like it, from your own.

I walked past the TV, one day, and I looked at my notepad.exe. I had open that morning.

The TV was on, and I thought, "I want to watch a movie today."

The sun was bright. Bright yellow, with a tint of gold or orange on the edges of the clouds around the glow of the sunlight shining.
Through the window, I "saw" the silk of the white. It was powerful. I heard, "Brendan, you got a package in the mail."
It was from India. About 500 pills.

I didn't care for them at first, and ignored the package for about a month.

The arrival of my new books in the mail, a thesaurus, and a few other things were cool to know I had, instead. Poe, Kafka, and a few
other books glimmered off the bed in my bedroom, while I hemmed a new black shirt that night. I knew some people on the internet,
who, making me so sad, they appeared to be drug addicts, or miserably hateful toward themselves. I thought of them the most when I 
hemmed my shirts. I wanted to help them. One of them was known as Nicole, or maybe just "Nik" to keep her safe. She was the nicest one,
just to talk to me so much. I knew she was kind of messed up. She loved to make fun of ideas I thought were tasteless to mock, but she
would do it anyway. We talked all night long sometimes, and I actually talked to her a few times while I was high early on.

She liked to hear the ideas I had on lyrics, and songwriting.

I know, also, how good it felt to describe music to people.

I had the thought that I didn't want to work, for a reason I knew I felt personal to me. I wanted to study hypnosis, also,
and I learned that transcendental styles of psychology were my favorite.

I was a tedious style of worker, good for both manual labor or actually technical work, mysteriously enough, though I didn't know how
to tell people how much I loved meditating constantly throughout the day.

I worked on a song for almost two hours straight, almost at random, at any given moment in the day.

Nothing really got me down, so much as a movie would.

The movie on TV that day was "Donnie Darko" on HBO.

No one had heard of it, but me.

For whatever reason, these car-crash scenes seem to always threaten my interest in the movies I see, when it's like the devil causing a fall
to an object in the room, expecting it just be fore it falls, I know a car doesn't really hit you, just in the same waythe devil lies about
gravity or kinesis, since I myself am aware of the factuality that our own minds would go into shock, right before anything anyway, and we 
would personally "think" or "see" something else in our imaginations, in our own imaginations anyway, secular thoughts of our own design.

We can make of this a new reality, I thought if you smoke enough weed, while smiling, living in the United States, and just "looking at
the American flag of the united states of America" while high on pot, salvia, and later a little bit of alcohol, like a red-bull vodka
to top off all of your feelings. At the end of your meditation, you'll plan to write a book like this, "The book of life," or something.
It's amazing how well your mind will work when you learn about biofeedback, memory-adjustments via hypnosis, future regression therapy,
and the natural rememory work that takes place, when also you use one of your past-life knowledge-bases, such as a prior religion or belief
system and re-integrate it into your presentday understanding of life.

I thought on buddhism, in this notion of evication to the usual reality, i knew, I wanted to look at reality in a new way, so i started
to read more books on the subject of psychology alone, focusing entirely on the mind instead of the spirit, and for a long time I avoided
spiritual and religion books.

I also looked at the clock, that night, and when I got over the tears from Donnie Darko, thinking about the last ten minutes of the movie
As I stared plastered with tears at the movie, and didn't know why I laughed and felt so good when I saw the end of the movbie, "Back To The
Future" that night in a moment of which, like a big bang occurring in my mind, a loud vibration took place as one of my microphones was left
too loud when I added an extra layer of vocals to my song, "Committed" and it made me far more ecstatic, when I attempted to re-tune a track
and also turn up the high-frequencies a bit, capturing the entire effect of the song, while I imagined the words, "Where we're going we won't 
need roads."

Echoing, passed the first line, and becoming history, I kept altering them in my head, and didn't know which way to spell the word 'Past' or
'Passed' and I kept thinking about how it was really true. How, I didn't kept my license yet, I stil "wanted" to get my drivers license,
But in reality, I lived in a small town on an island, and it was easy to get around with or without a car. I was also advantageous to have
my two parents drive me around, as the  youngest one in my family, and always seemed to get a ride from people when I needed to go places, just
as I was able to go home for a weekend every now and then, and for an entire week on thanksgiving breaks and midterms, so I could get a mental
fix and work on my music back at home, where I was just as revelational in my thoughts, and filled up notebooks on the subject of life, poetry
and revelation itself. I reviewed the thoughts i had on the alpha-state of the imagination itself, and how the subconscious layers of reality 
were all like pages in the layers of my notebook itself, within the skin of my own effect layered in each page, nothing more than the many-layered
sides, ends, and behings of the very side-effects of reality. I knew these are my effects, so I stared at the notebook, meditating foreverly one
night.

Somehow, thinking on a girl's hair I knew at school -- Sally R. was so pretty, and I knew the truth about her, unlike most men, and how pretty
she was, I knew she would never love me, but somehow I didn't care, and stared right through the pages. Somehow, I could see through the notebook,
into the basement, and then into the Earth below.

My eyes went straight into some strange control-room at the center of the Earth, described as the "place of the original astronaut." I also saw a
garden within this place, and several confused astronauts all walking around. One of them was watching a screen, and said, "Oh look. That guy is
doing a new book. He's got a new show. Fisher and Thompson have a new movie. Check it out, this guy thinks he has a entire field of dreams."

Someone glanced at the camera to the right, and saw me looking in, "You serious..?"

"Yeah. This kid is miserable."

"Really..?"

"Totally suicidal. Doesn't even know it."

"What's he going to do..?"

"Try to kill himself one night."

"Why..?"

"Still nobody knows."

The dweller awaits, the control-room echoed, with a mysterious far-off glance (also) from the beast within the depths of the caves beside the techno
dromatic machine, with its humming and whirs keeping the mysterious figures safe in the kept-bay, where they were quietly now thinking on a good
remote solution, to save his life.

The remote interests, back on Earth, while Brendan was lying in his bed, looked up, at the ceiling of the universe, and saw golden, entirely
golden walls.

The universe shined back, and some angels, and a few people in-between, some on different worlds, and a few other men, and also families said, 
"He shines the brighter way."

That saying this, somehow an angel between it all agreed to help lie for him a little bit, and tried to say something like, "He knows how to
time travel" even though it was entirely untrue, and he didn't know how to.

The revelation of how people didn't even really know how to tell if it was funny or not, allowed for also the individuae of his family and friends
to take him to the mall that evening, and bought a alien-effected piece of art-work, known as the "classic poster" from LIFE magazine.

He put this on his wall, and the Life Magazine image was a image of a audience of people looking up from the black and white rows of onwatchers
of a movie called, "The Bwana Devils" that was depicted to be seen before both World Wars.

In 1928, after the movie was made, also, the movie, "Seven Samurai" was also made, proving that early on action films would make their way to
the best directives and powerful forms of revenue for the industry to achieve more money and power through the advantage of such actors as
Seagal, Van Damme, and Bruce Lee, and other action stars.

Brendan was in this poster, in a way, since he might've also held a fragmented design in the matrix, needful of a present-integration somehow of his 
the-living avatar, so that even though both the samurai, and the general, were operative as one and the same person, each needed the likening of the poster
in-between the TV-set, and the Samurai poster, since Life Magazine, and the American president were always too drunk to be truly psychic, Brendan inter-
vened with his 10 pills one night. Which, even though it sounded like a lot, "ten pills" is really not that much compared to how many pills someone
like Thomas Jefferson might've taken once, with other presidents and human figures in history to whom were far more avid and opulent drug-addicts than 
Brendan, tried far worse things to effect their bodies with drugs.

In fact, the drugs were proven to be highly weak, placebo sugar-pills that were not even generic, from India, but not even designed in a lab.
They were proven to be only somewhat "soaked" or semi-tainted with real valium, a low-level of diazepam had (in the studies from future possible looking-at,
viewings of the chemical make-up of what pills he had taken that day, were not enough for him to truly know what it was that made him so sad,
but even though he never really wanted to bother Sally so much, he truly stole something from her that day, he spent too much time at the drugstore she
worked at. She sold milkshakes there, and it was a similar job to one he'd work one day. I didn't know how to tell her I was going off to college, so I
acted like it was a powerful idea, and "news" to her, but she didn't care. She actually walked away from me almost wanting to say something,
but the truth was she had just given me a prescription to die.

I looked at the red lipstick, or whatever the ink was, and it was "Benadryl" or something, "DXM" "Feels like heaven" and I looked at it, and looked
at it.

It was a bad drug, one of my friends told me, after I bought the first robotussin stuff she recommended, when Gabriel told me, "it'll make you feel 
'SOMETHING.'

And then, I already knew not to completely trust the drug.

Sally looked like she really hated me.

For some reason, I knew secrets about her that were totally unintentional to know.

She was a brutally judgmental girl, when I knew she wanted to tell me something sometimes, I don't really know what it was about her that made her
hate people, or me so much.

The night I tried the robotussin, I actually bought, I was talking to Nikki on the telephone, on my couch for an entire hour the next day, and also at night.
She affirmed me I was okay, and helped me feel good, the nightmare visions in my head, and  how awful I was feeling just to know such images exist.
The idea of how I wanted to feel good, itself was almost fading from me. Nikki told me a story of how her own boyfriend Daniel was once stoned
before class, and didn't want to go to school because, and she laughed, with ehr then-cute kind of nasal sounding voice, only 19, and inexperienced
about life, like me. "He was just staring at a rock the whole time, and didn't know why, so he just stared at it for an hour because he was so high."
"So he didn't go to school."

And she laughed.

I thought it was funny, too.

The base, general kind of stupid joke was somehow enough to jog my memory of better thoughts than "dark imagery from a lame goth girl" at Bar harbor high.

Actually, I knew how to smoke pot and take better drugs anyway. I smoked off my other girlfriends pipe, when I was seventeen, and the V's (valiums)
I used to take were always getting me so high. I loved to write when I was high, and I knew I would feel better, too.

The valiums really didn't do anything to me, when I took them, and I knew it was a lie to try and kind of put all of the weight of the original misery 
on Me. I am good with the idea, since I always was, trying to be able to tell someone how, usually, with the psychological awareness of how I knew
that if I wanted to, I could always commit "Seppuku" if I failed my master, but if I wanted to, I could just acknowledge the slight indifference
in Sally's blood to my own, and how somehow she might be somehow omnigenetically hateful toward me for racist causes, so that I had a interest
to just avoid her totally, since I knew she hated me so much. At least I didn't need to care about her anymore. Honestly, she had no 
sense of humor, and was never funny, or really made sense at all. It was like she was crazy. I didn't know how to say it, sometimes, but talking
to her was sometimes like a joke in itself, because of how hilariously weird some of the phrases that would come out of her face affected me. She had
this pale, weird face, and moved her mouth to the left and right when she wanted to 'appear a certain way' but I didn't know why, when the entire
time I wanted to tell her I thought she was pretty, she kept on insulting me.

I would walk to school, sometimes, almost half-way to school, get a ride the rest of the way, and then walk the rest of the way, sometimes.

My parents worked at a shop, and owned a sailboat (a yacht) when I was about 12 or 13, and when I walked home from school, I would go for boat-rides
with them after school sometimes, and I'd be feeling the wind blow through my hair, after some lame dude at school is a punk to me.

I wrote a new song, every night, for a week sometimes.

The unique, new effect of wanting to go to college was fun.

I knew I'd meet better people than Sally.

I wrote a few pages of a new book idea, and that night I also started trying writing a new idea for a mock comedy about how the Bible is made fun of
by so many people in how it's re-written so many idiotic ways, I wanted ot write a book idea called, "The 20-Page Madnestrocity" that would be like an
ongoing short comedy, I'd contiually re-write using my pot-induced humor, and when I was evocalizing these ideas, I'd be stoned the entire time,
always rating how i felt with a degree of how much the T H C was affecting me, with a 1/10 level of judgment, usually at 8/10, but when it was the night
I was 9/10, and actually never really had any 10/10 ratings, I was using a vaporizer in my bedroom, and my parents didn't know i smoked weed.

I got away with getting so  high, I developed a new style of singing, and bought a Hawaiian style ukulele, and began to play the guitar, and meditate
more. I told my present girlfriend, "Michelle," I wanted to have a break, yet still be friends. We agreed ot break up amicably, and I was going to
Husson soon.

The week coming up, I was working in my dad's warehouse. I hated the violence in the movies I was watching, recently, the movie, "The Fly" made me
angry in how badly made it was with the bad effects and disgusting make-up. I was angry at the blood in movies, and the sex-scenes were tasteless
and hateful, to me, in a way, I mentally knew (apprecaiting glory more than hate) that "gunshot scenes" could be less effecting also, to the imagination,
you cover your body in the place where you get shot, and it doesn't scare the viewer, would be what a good director should do.

I knew that there was such a thing as the, "FCC" (Federal) laws, or rules for the soundwaves, and televised, and broadcasted electronic media, music, and 
movies in the world. Laws for these things really do exist, and it is not just copyright laws. Precedents for defamation cases, violent lyrics, and
hateful racist things, or other forms of threatening remarks, vodun practitioners, bad magic, and use of negative hate in media is proven to be
used. Taken advantage of by America, and all of America, the reality of a "badly used media" is the form of hatred in the United States that started
to truly separate me from my friends.

While they smoked cigarettes, and did things like LSD, and smoked weed avidly, I didn't want to do much more than create a new idea for a movie, or by-
product of my imagination.

We argued one last time. ..

One last time, me and Mario took a ride down the road going from Bangor to Ellsworth.

Arno had proven to me he didn't care about the law, the previous time he'd driven me, but I thought he was nice, so it seems he should (I figure)
always kind of be above the law. Mario, for whatever reason, really wanted a drink off my milkshake. I didn't know how to tell him, but I had already
had a sip, and it wasn't fair to my germs, DNA, or waves, so to speak, if I shared it with him at that point, because of the straw. He still demanded
this, so with a lifting of the cap, and drink out of the cup from the cup itself, Mario drank a few sips of my milkshake.

I told myself, "Gross" and ignored the milkshake for the rest of the ride.

He smoked two cigarettes, also, on the ride home, from an evening with the naziish friend i really didn't want to know. Who, inviting me to the
apartment to drink with him and some comic-book writer, the previous night, who looked like Jack The Ripper, I thought that it was the worst night of my
life only because of how miserable they all were. Yet, the Ska music played in the morning, at almost 100 decibels was enough for me to stay positive,
because I was already quietly in love with the girl who was living in the apartment with them, who was also 19, and I was actually only 18 at the time,
I just was born on November 5th, 1985, and for whatever reason with my astrology i've always felt older than everyone in my grade. I lie usually about 
one year, or one thing about my age, because of my strange magnetic relationship to reality, and she was nice enough to even play the  Bosstones.

I woke up, the next day, and thought on how I "never" wanted to even "try or care about" cigarettes.

Of all drugs, it appeared to be the worst. At least, they were not for me.

Whoever wanted to talk to me, it was usually Michelle still.

She was nice. The last few times I talked to her, she was inviting me to stay a night or watch movies at her house. I would be watching the movie or
TV show to the left of her in her living room, on the top floor of her house. On a street near a red-rock also near my house, the "first" house, south 
from my parents shop, I saw the house was a nice display with the antiques, in a way that the antiques were so well-arranged, in a systemic, almost
programmed appearance of arrangement, so totally professional like some of the few then-escalating-in-wealth lobser-shops, and resident gift shops in
Bar Harbor, because Super or Robert (whatever his name was), -- Michelle's dad, was such a genius, he could drink a bottle of whiskey a day, and still 
keep his antiques shop perfectly organized each and every day.

The glass wares were my favorite, with how he had so many good things that were usually dangerous to some people, he never had a single product of this
type, break, once, the entire time he was running the shop. He also ran a sandal shop early in the seventies called, The Super Sandal all of the
hippies would hang out at, or outside of, while the many hippies in Bar harbor were smoking pot in the Village Green, everyone talked of Christ
and New Age beliefs, like John Lennon and the entire cast of the Hollywood rat-pack were always right next door, and right beside the bar, from the
Thirsty Whale, because Bar harbor was early on recorded, and from preknowledge, known as Eden, to be a place of similar respect to Plymouth rock.

The things I did, from this moment, forth against her chest, I threw my phone at my sister once, the same night I argued with my dad because
I didn't want to get a job, at the early-on evolved point in my life when I was starting to take drugs, I knew (for some reason) it wasn't smart
to take drugs, and do something "someone else wanted me to go and do" like mow lawns, or work at shop, because the subtle effect of brainwashing
might get to me, and force-induce me to do, also, other things they want me to. My creative mind would want me to do something that really helps my
future-self version of myself, and even in spite of the other subtle form of brainwashing I'd already felt, there are (maybe) some exceptions to this
concept, except in how I refused creative force on any of my work, I love / always love sex, but I don't want people to try and control or influence
my creative mind.

Michelle was nice about this, and we even almost made a simple short film together, when I was seventeen. The movie was based on a trashed, old broken down
house near mind, that was called, "Journey's End." The house had moved from place to place, being driven all over Maine, one of the many houses that was
actually through a trailor's help, through the use of a large truck, gone across road, to raod, and ended up near the campground, close to the bridge,
off in the direction where I would once look back on, or forward from, the same cross in the entrance to the island of M.D.I. (Mount Desert Island),
close to the high school also, where at Mount Desert High, I was always able to get pretty good lyrics out of the notebook, especially the silver one's,
I wrote my lyrics in study hall. usually with black pants, wearing a black shirt, typically in a black and white decor, I wrote the lyric, one day,
"Diaphanous." I wrote the movie-script for the horror film at home, that was 20 pages, and I also gave a copy directly to my computer teacher,
who was then my video class teacher, "Mr. Lowe."

The truth I think, about a world like this, to a mind like mine, is an imaginative sphere, based on the imagination alone.

It is a poem about invisiblity, and how the world itself, the Earth, is sometimes to some people like a glowing, and yet invisible sphere in space.

I wanted to explore space, to myself, and for my sake.

The poem might be safe, in the hands of a girl I once knew, at the time. In these hands, I know she is able to read and know what I originally knew,
that she is Virginia Clemm, and I truly love her.

Still, I don't know really where the poem is.

I lost it, sometime ago, or maybe it was "quietly purloined" by her, along with the entire notebook, when I knew a buxom, dark-haired girl known as "Jordan
M." later in life, who might've desired to know me also, who I tragically was not able to know. Like Romeo and Juliet, she went back into life,
with an adjustment to the matrix, and I looked at the world through a mere "singular vantage" of the eyelens of teh virtual perception I had, with also
the many running lines and run-on perceptions I had about the world . . . since I was young, I wanted to think forever. There was no end end to my 
thoughts, and there seemed to be no thoughts, also, to the sentences and ideas in my head.

I kept on thinking, and planning for the future ahead. It was like I was going to the moon itself.

I looked at the moon through the trees one night -- in a way that, prehyphenated beyond things of a general nature, I knew was of a stone, or a crystal
type of rock.

The rock, or the kind of rock the moon is made up of, is a variable shell, recess in this, concept to a gravity itself, to the stone's indifference
to our weight of matter on the Earth, in a much lighter material, bears less density, and in a totally less gravity also to the atmosphere,
is a lightness to the step, in what I felt I knew was like a light step to everything if walked upon rightly, so that a proper meditation, if
one were to or if one should ever meditate on the surface of the moon, their thoughts would be put to a prefected, prefectual, or pretty much "ready
mode" due to the feeling of excited painlessness, excited to experience, and pre-prepared to try anything. Not scared, when the fear if abused by
anyone else, like a girl or person who is his challenger, on the field of love or romance, I see the girl who is -- unlike the redhead I love, a maybe
Aryan blonde nazi-girl, or something like this, I thought, there might be also such a thing as a dumb movie with propaganda suggesting nazi's exist on
the moon, when they don't, anymore than a few ghosts of some dead astronauts, maybe, but no nazi's, and I supernally knew this, also, along with
the preturnatural understanding of the stones, and white colour they bore, whiter than white in the sun, and easy to see like on a beach in Mexico
a beautiful image to Hemingway also.

The strange insulting of loud words, an insult to words themselves. I hold and regard to "vocals" a need for song, out of the voice alone. From the sound
of the beauty of the voice, demanding the effect of the song from the sound of the voice -- since a voice sounds so beautiful, some people can only
look at the waves, or think about how to make a song out of them. There is an unending vibratory effect to the nature of such a expectation, so that
our imaginations can only yield a new, respect to the enfuturated, other respect to the opposite or previous, because new effects always come out of
something that isn't so pre-expected, no matter way, so we can, "evolve the wave in our mind."

In this, I thought, "to Evolve The Wave" in our mind,
'
we have a way of evolving everything.

I stared at my mirror, post-suicide,

And I didn't know why I was still alive.

The poster on the wall looked different.

I was lying on my floor, for some reason, and got up.

I looked at the long, line of the mirror across my wall, saw myself, and thought, "I'll evolve us, in that case, if I wrote such a thing."

Telling my therapist about the book idea, he said, "amazing book idea." and, somehow illuminated by the thought, I wanted to stretch beyond this,
and say a little bit more than just write one book.

I said, I would want to write a lot of them.

He thought he wouldn't need to help me in that case.

I wrote a few ideas down that night, and when I played, "The Electric Ant" I realized it was true.

I thought, of how I wanted to have more power, or be more excited in life, I knew I could always just write the song again.

I found a way to save the guitar sounds, and samples, and original organ sounds, and effects from all of my original recordings, even though it 
might not matter so much, I'd still have them, and always as back-up, in case, I was ever too sad to not want to make music. I had them, all saved
from when I was fifteen and around this age, in 1999. Writing this, in 2020, I know that I was able to save a lot more, really, before that time.

The arrival of new things, this time, was that I thought on it all, with the high from the weed I'd smoked, I felt like I was right, so I kept on affirming
myself the lyric. I was singing in my mind, and I felt this "neuro" effect, to the vibration. I could "hear" my thoughts like music in my mind. My thoughts
were loud like music, and I'd sing in my head like I was singing in the shower.

The neuroacoustic effect of this was instantly healing, and all I wanted to do from that point on was sing.

I wrote a new anti-song, that night.

"Arrival Of The Fittest" was the name of the song.

Featuring a loud distorted digital signal mixed with a like-wave to the guitar part, I rocked a good bass sound, using my maroon bass,
and when I made the new bass sounds, I used my keyboard, just for effect, and antares re-tuned the casio. I didn't want to tell anyone how I wanted to
secretly start making rock music, still, though I had at least five new songs on file. I saved one called, "The Light Shines" and I was twenty.

I wanted to tell someone about it, so I posted on a message board, and soon I had a new sub-interest, for the potential record label, a guy online
who wanted to sell tapes, and underground hi-fi recordings of digital songs, called 'Brokecore Media.'

I gave him two distorted versions of the songs from control, and he liked them.

He took a photograph of a spray-painted CD with ten of my songs, including the Electric Ant on the CD, and truly used emphasis in the word "LOVE"
when he said he loved owning, and having a copy of my CD, the one I just decided to entitle, the letters, "k.b." or just "kB" like kilobyte.

I did this out of respect for the first hacker who turned me onto music, who was known as kb, I never really knew, but who was a girl I could tell.

She showed me the techno downloads I found, from a artist known as mR. Disco, on a hacker site, that I got about 30 low-school recordings of an old
digital producer, using retro machines, who likened himself to an understanderer of machines and the techno-world of computers, using retro music. He called 
his music "super hits" and they were rooted in emulating other people's music. One song, out of them all, was called "The Twelfth Moon" about a planet
in the future that was said to be discovered, entirely expected by the New Age community, and a lot of people in Bar harbor. "Planet X."

Expectation of negative feelings can arrive, when the reader knows I really did try to kill myself, though.

I took ten pills, of a sum-total of about "100" miligrams of one of the most lethal, if overdosed-on, synthetic drugs in the United States factories, 
that is or was both invented and made by the hospitals themselves. Lee, the kung-fu fighter was originally suicided on a pill known as aspirin, and
maybe was cloned after, like his son, and lied about forever, until I was born, to watch movies like 'The Crow' and watch the film 'The Raven'
starring an actor, later on, to really feel my karma, when I am like both of these men, and how I knew Lee didn't like drugs, and his last words,
while in the arms of a woman, his sister, who did not kill him, before he died was, "I don't like this terrible drug" (or something like that).

He probably died fast, and didn't feel much. Incidentally, that is the point of the drug. I know that Jesus Christ might've also had a powerless, albeit
lookalike "clonelike" person, who operated like him, who died young. Christ wanted to die in meditation, and he mentally killed himself, using his
own mind, before a scribe using his own thoughts. I have the power of doing this, as well. I was in a coma, for two days, because of the pain I felt once.

I know that drugs are dangerous, but I also know that my mind is powerful.

I wanted to do something more with this idea, so I really pursued the use of marijuana now, and in spite of how bad i felt about drugs, I started to smoke
pot more. The pot I smoked was really strong, and I got drunk some nights in my twenties, totally unexpectedly.

My friends I hung out with were musicians, later on.

I met most of my true friends in Bar harbor, where we incidentally also ended up smoking cigarettes, weed, or chilling with our guitars, and coffee
in the park, in the village green, or near the ocean.

I was pretty drunk for most of my twenties, actually.

It helped, really.

The truth is, some drugs can hurt you -- but the truth to a more powerful drug, or something better that is something you truly need will fix you.

Like a herbal remedy, or true magic, proper magic or a herbal recipe, the reality of a new cure, or the real way to save your life is through your own "life 
energy." Life-force itself is meant to heal the energy of its own life-force. people who cheat life cheat their own life-force if it is on a basis of energy itself,
so I like to be totally honest about the energy I use to get me high, because I am always going to make a song, sing, or write a new lyric anyway. Some 
girls in particular don't seem to realize this about me, when I've made thousands of songs, but I choose not to share them -- "because" of mean girls like her.

Some people think I want to be selfish, or hold on to my energy just for myself because it's as though miserly, or not nice, but I think it is necessary
to keep myself safe and protected when so many people lie.

I went off to college, from the first day, I knew I had no idea why I was sitting in front of everyone on the bench, where I was a few ways away from my dorm.

I sat there, and had no idea there was pizza, or anyone to talk to, when I ate two hamburgers -- totally starving, and without any regard for how lame I might've
looked in front of the entire school. I wanted to be seen, actually, an hoped to make friends. I wanted people to think about me. And, even think I'm 
"lonely-looking."

It wasn't so sociopathic, really, because I truly was lonely.

Michelle was back home in Bar harbor, and one of my hypnosis books said, "reality was a nonlocal paradigm, on linear track with the memory."

We are all living our own story, yet we all have a right to tell the story any way we like.

I "knew" yet -- not all "know" for the sake of a word, or a lyric, or just a tone.

"poetry"

When all I wrote, or write are lyrics,

It's true.

While poetry is usually all I ever really wrote at all.

Poetry Is All I Wrote.

All night long, I got high and smoked weed, thinking about it sometimes.

I walked down the road at night, with my headphones on, and wanted to do something more, it was a feeling I had, and always felt like I was looking for more power.

I wanted to find something, the more I walked, too.

I knew I had a thing I needed to get.

I smiled, a more genuine smile one night. My song Rightness had imprest me.

I listened, and I heard the sound of the bass in my mind. I thought it was so funny how good the quality of the song was.

I knew it was sort of hilarious, how none of the students at school knew how smart I was when it came to mixing.

I could mentally "picture" at least ten different audio signals or tracks, and mix them and master them all at the same time, but they all insulted me
and were racist to my face almost 100% of the day, and constantly insulted me.

I was actually followed home from school a few times, and trucks would drive past fast, with people yelling at me.

I remember a few times, when I was letting myself feel free, so to speak, walking all alone, some days, the air was so pure and clear, like the air was
blue itself, when I could mentally feel there was no one around me for about 200 yards, and listened to a song on my Mp3 player.

I always seemed to listen to the song, "Fade Into You" by Mazzy Star.

I knew where I wanted to go.

One time, as I walked back to school, I looked over at the apartment building, and called it, "Bradley Commons" to make fun of the name in my mind.

It was actually called, "Bradford Commons" and housed a lot of retired people. I was going to still live there, when I was / or would be with my Japanese
girlfriend Lumi, after I'd already dropped out of audio, after my last test in school, and walk in the opposite direction, listening to the same song.

People still don't think I know her, or am with her, to this day. We've had sex at least 300 times, and I think she's gone down on me almost 50 times
in a single summer. I love her, to this day.

She's the cutest Japanese girl I've ever seen.

Watching, "The Fists Of Fury," I always knew this was true.

She looked at me, with a glow.

A prisoner, not to me. A prisoner only to the film, and the movie alone.

You must know, as I walk away, I always know what I will say when I return to you, and I always know.



Chapter II


Though I wrote strange sometimes obsolete-sounding, obscure poetry, and . . .

I didn't really want to be at school, I talked to a lot of tbe people there, and got to know a lot of the girls, and people there.

I tried to stay asleep, I think. Things got non-linear. I wanted to just stay asleep, after I took them, in an entire handful of the white pills.

The pills took no time to take effect, because I simply felt :nothing: and went to sleep. The placebo's did nothing, yet my imagination cried
out for change.

I walked through some weird, parallel halls of some kind.

The walls, and divides of the universe opened up some how, and I looked through the portal, and centrex of the universe.

I stared through, and saw a movie theater door, and how some one inside was illegally filming the movie from a certain seat.

I imagined the opposite seat, where I scientifically imagined the indifference to this seat's location on a magnetic level, and while astrally
placing myself in the seat, I told Dave how funny I thought it was while the teenager was trying to steal the movie, "The Dukes of Hazzard" of 
all movies, about the two guys who drive around in the car, and commit shenanigans because of a local and corrupt agency, and stuff.

I laughed, a lot, actually, because Dave was really angry at me, and said, "C'mon, Brendan . . . why couldn't you just take the camera
away from them yourself..?"

It was funny, because a similar thing happened once, also.

I looked into the picture, and saw in the audience a figure who looked just like me, dressed in a totally layered appearance of ear-rings, only from the two hands of someone behind me,
as I sat at the age of seventeen in the photo, somewhere in the audience, in 1927, watching the Bwana Devils, while I personally knew,
they were watching a film about the progressive creation of my work of art, the CD I made at the time, and not the movie entitled otherwise.

A miracle was taking place, in actuality, and several NSA agents, and a angel or two were also in the audience.

It was a parallel universe, entirely, I was transported to, in-between realities, and I had to stay somewhere, for a period of time,
while my imagination dealt with the anger from my subconscious mind to try and die, from essentially lied-about pills in the first place.

I woke up the next day, with the hypnotic regression fading, and post-regression effect undo from the last, releasing me from the hypnotic
spell, and I wrote a new poem.

The lyric was the poem, "Diaphanous" itself, and it was beautiful.

The song, "Bound for the Floor" and "#1" played all day, each, in a unique spell, never repeating, at around 5 P.M. that day.

I got a phone-call from Michelle, and she drove over to my house, releasing from her grip a single copy of the horror movie script, the thin 
white pages handed over to me, as a singular individual known as "Joe" sat in the car across from me, her then-boyfriend, who I didn't mind
at all was fucking her at the time. She smiled, and handed me the script, and we talked for a short period of time in the driveway.

I went back inside, and glanced at the clock, and wrote a few more lines to the latest poem I was writing.

It was a good day to smoke a joint, so I did a good number around the movement of the clock-hands, six nye six, around the time in which I
usually burn a purple stick of musk, and laugh to a funny comedy, reciting a new rhyme at the same time as I flash on why, and how it is
so "funny" to me at the time, relating the effect to another, and usually finding a new book to read around this time. In a post-div, 
I spelled out the number three, and it was around the time the next day, I saw a good reason to get 'even more personal' with my body
at this time, when no one else was in the house. I stared into the eyes, and she seemed to truly be with me at the time, only it felt
so strange -- she was in total control, and I felt so effected, yet only she seemed to know what was going on. I was twenty one.

I had a Japanese learning book, for the language of Japanese. I felt kind of estranged by how I bought it, though. Sometimes, like a thing
needs to be mended together. Like the strings of my guitar, or the black string I use to both hem and darken my shirts unconsciously. I woth
reaped what I sewed, unto a nonreligious style, and I also shopped at "hot topic" without even knowing it was a potential witch-shop. I 
purchased a lot of black things, also totally unconsciously, sometimes even thinking I had a new thing I "had" to buy of similar
style to the next one, of which I needed so much. Someone had to know this, so I kept on moving from one t-shirt to the next, when I was
shopping, just to bless the object, even if I didn't buy the t-shirts.

I wanted to look at as many things as possible, as I could sometimes get a chance to see the things sold at the mall, and stores like it.

In the future, I knew of the power of what one sole, in the persona, of what like a christlike being I could always know, and I personally
knew was not an idea I wanted to personally hold onto, so I said the same thing over and over, whenever I needed to, and knew who I was,
each time I blessed an object, and kept going to the next.

I wanted a "Thrill Kill Kult" shirt one day, and didn't buy one, so I got a Korn shirt instead. It seemed like a good bargain, for how
tragic my soul already was.

I had to go back home, and while I was in Ellsworth, out in the city about 15 miles from my house, I had to go to Wal-Mart and I got to the point in the ride, where we were in Trenton. I was looking out the right side of the window of the car, and my mom was to the left of me.

She looked at me, and I thought about how it was still the brightest time of the afternoon.

The actual existence of what I thought of as “The Day” was a totally poetic moment sometimes just to imagine. A described, entire degree of variable possibilities in my mind always seemed to show up in a ten-moment interperiodicity of possible ideas in these ten ideas I thought of each time, like ten different ideas I would know.

They were in tune with me.

The experience of writing lyrics in the car was usually a black, thin, or basic notebook, even if it sounded lame. I wrote pretty poetic words, and always tried to make it matter, so none of my travel-time, or space apart from my studio was ever wasted.


I remembered, how I "wanted to write a song about trees" but didn't know why.

I told my mom, 'I know there is a poet out there with a name like Blake, right..?"

She didn't know, but when she smiled, the idea of saying how I knew that when he died, he sang on his deathbed.

The idea of how this individual was "secret" to history, is interesting, based on his relation to Christianity due to interest alone.

"Judge for yourself," she said, as advice.

I wanted to know, even what we were talking about, in the moment, since the after-high of the long-lasting half-life of the valium I secretly quit taking, which I had bought off Starlite Pharmacy, I still didn't know how much weed I had smoked either. I was twenty at the time, so I thought of my life as a perfect "sync-moment" with everything, because I like to think in rhythmic terms . .

The "drugshop" was a place I knew people only minimally. And, I also never really communicated with people that much when I found the "synthetic drug site" which is how the real drugs are purchased online. Herbal mixtures like "Sacred Journey" and "Spice:" are findable online, to the unnatural criminal interests of alien mind control influenced people of the internet, who abuse the sublime also.
I wanted to state, once, to at least one of the administrators of shops online selling this stuff, that I thought, it was a "corrupt industry" when I quit buying them at one point.

The synthetic feeling of the drugs was offensive to me, and I thought whoever sold them was probably a poor chemist. Luckily, my brain or mind was extremely powerful, and I almost seemed to achieve more through it, still, and made myself stronger in spite of the challenge against my body. Chemicals, also, when I took such things as DXM or weird pills when I was younger, never really seemed to threaten my creativity or abstract mind, at least.

That day, I still had my blue notebook.

I looked at it, and the poem, or rhyme, "Diaphanous" somehow stated otherwise to my resident theory of drugs.

Over time, I became nicer about drugs and things like that.

I started to see, through eyes that were so to speak of pavement, a resident force of concept that wanted no "too much" style of gravity, upon the ideal of such weight put on the object of judgment itself. I looked at, and somehow absorbed the language of, "The Winter of Our Discontent" one Winter, and I felt this way, that day in Ellsworth, as I drove with my mom.

The book was, just bought at Goodwill, sitting in-between us on the cupholder.

I watched, as the cars drove by.

"Do you think we'll go to Ellsworth tomorrow..?"

She thought about this, or appeared to.

I was going to college, soon.

Sure, she seemed, to be thinking of her response prehandedly. She said, "Yes."

I knew that we would go, instinctively already.

She was already carrying herself, and me in the direction of my new friends, or who-ever I would beet in Husson in bangor.

I looked at her, and she knew this, it seemed.

A thin layer of tears was covering her left eye that I could not see.

The poetic way I thought of this, tonight, makes me feel as though it was due to a reason far beyond my innocence, back then.

I knew she was terrible, sometimes, but at this point in my life my mom wasn't all that bad and all that mean to me.

I loved her, for the most part, and I thought college would be nice.


* * * * *


We went to Goodwill again the next day, and I was looking for certain things on this day. I saw a few books, and purchased a few things I thought I might need for my dorm room.

We bought some lights, and I suggested we could put up bright LED lights in my dorm room if I wanted to have a party one night.

The college I was going to was the "state" college, so to speak, because Husson was essentially controlled or run out of the state of Maine itself, it was essentially a non-federal college also, so that it truly operated out of the laws, and government, and bureaucracy of the state of Maine, more than the government of the United States. The lawyers, and criminology degrees who were solely achieved there, such as several cops, and people in Maine who became detectives also went to this school, but I was only going for Audio.

I met no one like this while I was there.

The first day I went to college, when we finally arrived at the Husson parking lot, and in the "One College Circle" (they called it) of the college campus, I was *to my perceptions, looking really good on this day except for my haircut.

We arrived, with my interests faint, because I knew I didn't look good enough to talk to girls, but that's how it always seemed to be.

I looked out from the car-window, and my mom drove in slowly to the school entrance.

I walked out of the car, after we were there, and I met the college director and a few of the people who were in charge of the dorm I was going to stay in.

Bell Hall was the name of the dorm, and I needed to know what was wrong with the situation with my dorm room "key" at first, because they actually didn't have one, because they didn't actually expect me to show up.

It took almost six hours, until I had a key to my dorm room.

We ate chinese food, and my father even complained while we were going around Bangor, until the wait was over for my key, and he said, "Jeez. It's almost racist how they treat Brendan. He should just have his dorm key when he shows up." We sat there, and ate Chinese food. I looked at my dad, amazed and concerned.

We went back to the school, and I spiked my hair in the mirror, as soon as I walked in, just like I used to in high-school classes.

I walked out, and looked like The Fonz in a moment, a second later getting a smile across the dorm hall from a thin blonde girl I'd never seen before.

I smiled back, and walked up to my dorm room door, and the bed was already being given a sheet, that was gray. My dad looked at the TV, and then me, and then back at the TV, and then back at me.

I smiled, and said, "So this is the room, right..?" "Or, um." And he said, "What do you mean, we're already in the room..?" For some reason he seemed angry.

I was sure it was the room, but just wanted the dialogue stated out loud, for my own mental-sake anyway, like a spoken diary for the universe.

He didn't even respond, and just stared off in silence.

This made me angry. That night I watched the movie, "Dennis The Menace" all by myself, just to remind myself how it was back at home, and didn't get high.
The feeling I had at school was empty, always needing to be filled.

I looked out, from my bed, the morning after, the sky was white.

I looked up, from out of my window.

I'd stayed at friends houses and camped out my whole life, so I knew how it was to go outside as soon as I woke up in a foreign place.

I got out of bed, and walked outside, like out from a spaceship on the moon.

I looked up, at the white sky that morning.


* * * * *


Something was wrong at home. My mom said my sister was sick or depressed, so I said I would come home.

She saw that I was okay, or whatever that meaned, and Erin felt better soon.

I looked at her, and asked if she felt like her cold was going away fast.

We all usually watched TV together.

It wasn't so much of an empty feeling to watch TV for me.

I loved to sit with my family and watch TV usually. Being off at college, felt like this energy was not there.

My dad sat back at home. My mom walked across the living room floor, strutting in a more one hundred forty weight body. She looked up at the top of the refridgerator, and picked something off the top of the fridge.

My old computer, I used to make music on back at home, was dilute of energy with only the blackness of the akasha itself, and the build-up of energy swelled.

Over time, my songs I made were deleted, and gone for almost ten years.

My CD I worked on in high school (Control M) or "CTRL + M" was somehow also mentally forgotten, and I eventually got so drunk, and self-obliviated at college, I didn't even care, with the new rock songs I was  then making with my acoustic guitar and drum-set, and bottle of beer.

It was only the first day of school.

I wanted to get to class later in the day, but I had no control over this.

They had me go to class as early as 8:30 A.M. in the morning, totally against my needs. I sat there, in the "future orientation" meeting, also, for my "future" to be imagined, and planned out by the teachers, administrators, and various "super-intendents" of the system I knew, but didn't truly know so well.

My mother sat at home, and watched Oprah, at this very moment, on a pre-recorded episode she had on the "DVR" on her Spectrum TV.

I looked up at the 'stage' of people, all older than most of us, who were then forty, fifty, and sixty year old people addressing me and the other students.
We learned about how our future would be, according to them, focused on money, even though a lot of us were not really necessarily going to school to start a business or even pursue a job involved in so much money, to the chagrin of both myself and a lot of students, we found out in that moment, early in the morning Husson was actually a business-oriented school, and was not truly designed too much, or so much to support artists, or very independent people.


* * * * *


"I've got an idea."

My mom looked over, at me, one weekend, while I was home from school.


What, I didn't know what to write.

I grabbed my blue notebook, and somehow the words flowed electric within me.

"I've got a blue wave technique," I joked, and she saw me reach for the book. She heard me loudly, and I read the lyrics in my mind after they were written.


* * * * * 

The show "24" was on TV.

I looked at Kiefer Sutherlands face, and he seemed wild, and perplexed. He looked away from the camera, quickly, as though attempting to hide from himself. He looked at the clock, and soon the episode veered to a new-style ending I didn't expect this time. I usually don't watch the show, but my dad used to watch it, and he liked it a lot.

"It is a rainy day, you were right." We woke up around the same time, the next weekend. I had to go back to school to figure out the rest of my classes this time. Each weekend, I went back and stayed the week in my dorm room in Bell Hall with a new expectation.

I wanted a bag of weed, or a way to "feel good."

I didn't know how to tell anyone, but I didn't feel good enough to do much that time in my life.

I didn't really think I wanted a friend of the romantic kind, and I was too sad to write a song. One night, I was talking to Brokecore, the pseudo-label I talked to online, and recorded a mock recording of a idea for a song I was directly giving to him. The name of the band was "kB" and stood for "k__ brendan." They acted like it was cool. I actually got a prank phone call around this time, somehow expecting the death-threat I was given from a total stranger at my college campus, who sounded like a high-pitched, mysteriously petite female with lesbianic tendencies, that is a satanist, and who does pills more than smokes weed. She might've even smoked with me once, when I was looking out the front of Larry's car, while we passed two joints back and forth. Her friend, the other one on the phone, sucked hard on his joint when he took a hit, to mask the sound of his hits, so he wouldn't be noticed any time later in life smoking with me.

They looked at me face, and seemed to regret their every move following the moment that call took place. I also somehow knew it was them, and didn't care at all, as I smoked beside them. I would love to die. I had loved the idea of being 'dead' or finding a way to die since I was young. They looked like they might even want to do it if I asked them to, like professional hitmen. The girl in the other seat, down a few feet from me, felt the tap on her shoulder, when I grinned deeply into her right eye, pretending to be a boy, and I said to her, in the scariest voice I could render, "Yeah. Klonopin is good."

"I like klonopin."

The girl looked terrified.


* * * * *


I walked to school the next day, with my headphones on, at night, to a night-class. It was around 6 P.M. at night, and my pale, white face, like that very average face you see on a tall, dark, and plainclothes style man, wearing only the most naturals tyle, in a decor of black pants, a shiny t-shirt of some kind, and my wool coat that was also black.

I walked to the front building, of Peabody, and entered the school's original, or essential building for holding classes.

I passed the vending machines, and moved my hands fast in the air, criss-crossing them for a moment, as though doing kung-fu moves, and kept walking all the way to the classroom, until I was right at the door, I put my hands down, straightened my face, and walked in, to the entire classroom of students, who were about twenty, and saw me walk in as the last one in the class to get there.

I had a strange, peculiar look on my face, like I was always "new" to the place I was walking in to, and slid to the side of the entrance, beside the door. I knew some of the students in the class might need to be taught real lessons, some day, because the class looked really stupid, so I personally started to demonstrate a few natural chi-based forms of etiquette in how I set down my notebook casually to the desk nearest the door.

I slid perfectly into the seat. Looked down, with a strange look on my face, I picked up a discarded pen on the floor, and immediately, as I held up the pen, I said, "What is this . . . is this anyone's..? It's a very important device. Does anyone know whose this is..?"

They looked confused.

It was orientation, and the first day of classes was to be in a sort of simple, English-oriented history class. I had a dark-gray haired woman in the class to teach me these things, and the first subject of our "orientation draft" or "story" to write for the first subject of the class was the subjectivity of "scapegoats" and the "need for attention" as the other subject.

We wanted to prove our writing, a lot of people in class, but I knew the real reason was to expose the brainwashing in America as soon as I put the pen to the paper. I wrote about how there really is no such thing as a scapegoat, and in a way we are always the center of attention, because of God, everywhere we go. Also, anywhere we go, there might be someone like me around, who is the "Fonz" of the room, and since I'm always the coolest, I might be the "other version of a scapegoat" -- which, is like the "cool scapegoat" -- and, I really don't mind being personally targeted for my own coolness, sometimes. I wrote it very fast, and filled up the page, and the teacher was immediately offended, without reading it. I "classed" the paper with the rest of my papers from the day, and organizd them into a perfect pile of papers, and then set them down on the edge of my desk. I could't help but get up for a second, and stretch my back. For some reason, a loud echo emanated from the back of the room; a dark-haired girl felt insecure, and for some reason my just getting up too quickly alerted her to tell me, somehow, on a sub-level that I was needed, and "not to leave" even though I was only sitting back down in my seat already.

I looked at her, confused for a while, but she wasn't even looking at me. She was looking down at her paper, and had a discerning look on her face. I thought it might be a thought that had traveled across the room to me somehow, and sat.

The way the class felt, that day, I knew I was mentally "trying not to" search for scapegoats all day long.

I wanted to be an engineer some day, or a good audio "practitioner."

To work in the field of audio. I wanted to write as many songs as possible, to get started. I carried my notebook. Everywhere I went, I thought of the "first line" or the "first lyric." They all just turned into thoughts. Eventually, I realized I truly didn't want the valium. I started to think about smoking weed. My roommate, Larry, had already gone for a few blunts, and I went a few times, but they never got me that high ..

I went back to my dorm-room, and we talked. It was like a serious conversation. Bowie knew what I meant. He knew I 'Needed' to get high. We got some very special bud that night.


* * * * *


I was sitting in the back.

The lyrics, "Sippin' on gin and juice" were echoing through the back-seat, and I wanted to write a lyric, because I knew it was an important night to see what was on my mind, later when i might read the lyric.

I read the notebook I had with me already right in the car, but Larry said, "Dude, don't be writing s**t while you smoke with us."

"Yeah, it's the experience, bro."


"oh."

I felt confused, but put the lyric book down.

We drove, a few ways from the first blunt, and the California Kush (like a beautiful sacred orange), we smoked a lot of. Bowie knew the girl in class liked me, but I didn't know what this school experience was all about. The two other football players looked like they wanted to stare in front of themselves, all the time, like soldiers transporting me to battle.

When we got the pizza place, I had one of the funniest experiences of my whole life.

We got back to the dorm, and I kept mentally imagining the way I was -- so high, for the first time on weed, in a weird pizza-place in bangor, Maine. I really wanted to be back at home making a song. I revelated, how entirely ridiculous the entire American system is. When I already had made a lot of good songs, and I felt confident enough to already call myself a musician or professional enough engineer, I was now smoking pot with random football players, in a much different, and to me far less spiritual or education situation -- and I just couldn't stop laughing, for the very reason of "how stupid America's system really is."

I just couldn't stop laughing.

When we got back to the dorm, they had to "get me into my dorm room as quickly as possible" because Larry, and BooGoo were afraid that some of the R.A.'s and other people in the dorm might see me laughing.

The next time we smoked, I remember running through the snow at top speed to get from the SUV that we were smoking in, to get back to my dorm room as soon as possible, because I was so high, I responded with love to the being like a dog "spurred" out of the car, to run into the house, because I 'actually thought it was funny' -and for some reason, actually behaved the same way, because I am (and've always been / felt like) such a whore to you Americans, I could not resist the image being presented to you all, finally, for you all to see, as I even tripped in the snow, and got up then ran the rest of the way inside, like nothing had happened, to play a "text-based role playing game" on my computer. For some reason, I was breathing heavy, I think I had gotten some snow in my throat, because it was completely numb due to the alchemy of the snow, and bluntsmoke being mixed. My voice, for whatever reason, sounded much cooler after that night, probably.

The way I laughed seemed to improve also. 

It was almost as though I was not able to laugh so much, yet didn't even need to anyway. The idea of "laughter" was somehow destroyed, or quietly decimated for a few days, because of how much had already gone on in the past few days, it just felt like a total waste of energy.

I liked the black notebook, lately.

The shine of the binding (the wire on the edge) was curled off, to help me sharpen my pencil, sometimes, and I realized since I was in college now, I wouldn't need this rustic technique. Still, I had a strange obsession to the metal.

College felt less poorly-funded than high school, and I also had free internet, now.

I logged into the school network each morning, and I even had to type in the college password, something like "One College Circle 123."

We all used the same network, and I used soulseeker to get music. (Soulseek.exe).

The chatroom was obviously the best way to connect with "anyone" and we all knew how to communicate properly, in this day and age, to not get in trouble with our music or use of the internet, me and the general group of people around then.

I think it was because of how marijuana, and the good drugs, as well as some new forms of subtle, yet far better media were now arriving to the world, movies such as the game-versions of movies, or movie-versions of games started to influence people to think about the "Matrix" or hologram of reality more, and so we started to respect each other's feelings more online. Since we all looked at the world like it was a matrix, we knew it would be better also to integrate better idea later on. We knew the "matrix" of the world itself, was influenciable by our love, and the music we listened to. So, a lot of people in the year oh-six were kind of like programmers, and didn't want to do anything except change the world, either for ourselves, or other people.

A lot of humanitarian work was going on at this time, and I myself was truly giving out music of my own for free, at the time, though not that much. I didn't write a single lyric, yet. My black notebook was tape-bound, and had a few ideas, but there was not a single page yet.

I got up, and went to class, this time leaving the black notebook in its place, right where it was, and walked out the door.

The dorm room was locked, and I left my key inside also.


* * * * *


I walked back to the dorm stoned.

For some reason, I had this inner/outer narration-track following me the entire way from Bell Hall to Hart, and back to Bell Hall.

I smoked a blunt with Larry and BooGoo, and neither one of them, or me, knew why the night was so empty.

There was almost no one around.

The entire night was also black, and felt so empty. It was the third, or fourth time we'd chosen to "routine-smoke" a few joints, blunt, or as larry called them, "Bowls" -- so we chose to just walk through the campus, and just smoke on the edge of the road.

We just wanted to go back to our dorm rooms, or they did . . .

I really didn't mind, though.

I wanted to just keep walking, or smoke forever . . . reality felt like it "required oblivion" at this point in time.

I wanted to keep going all the time.

They usually went back, to their dorm, to play video games, or get drunk, or see whatever was going on at Hart.

I went back to my room, and felt kind of lonely, but we'd part, and I remember how it seemed like I myself was more of the flake, than they were -- and I still didn't even really know what a sociopath was, or anything like that.

I wanted to tell them, I think that "you're cool" or something, to "almost try to get to know them" -- when I knew, somewhere in my memory, BooGoo called me a Pothead, because I "assumed he'd be in school the next year" when I knew, he was too mean to ever regard me as a friend. I always felt like it was kind of necessary to be extra mean to them.

I noticed, the next day they didn't want to smoke with me.

Over time, I felt like Larry was spending more time outside of the dorm room, so I started to make music more, in my room itself.

I bought a simple multicolored spinning RGB light, and set it up with a strobe light, and made a few new industrial rock songs that same night, he also bought some pills from me.

I gave him about 4 or 5 V's (valium) for about $50. They were legit.

Larry said, "I just nod out." Because of how he mixed the V's with weed, and if he was high in the computer lab, I couldn't help imagining the radionic drone of the machines around him made him fall asleep fast, even though even at the time, "I myself" didn't even know what the word, "Radionic" means.

Larry was interesting, the way he would confess things ..

At the dining hall, one time, he confessed to getting the cops called on him from getting in a fist fight.

Him and his mom must've squared off in the kitchen, and after Larry threw a few punches at his mom, she had him sent to jail (and then college), hence the reason why he was talking to me, in that moment.

Karma, it always felt, was beyond names, as the Buddha always used to say, "We are all -- always one under the same tree, no matter what the tree."

His words, echoing from the Tao, I always felt inclinated to repeat and respond when I got more evolved, over time, more and more interested in the light and existential karma of other souls. I liked the movie, "Seven Samurai" more after that day ..

I knew we had more to do in school, even though the classes were originally pretty lame -- I felt like we were only being "taught" like in high school, when I knew that college was more meant to be based on our own choices. We had the reason to choose our own future, or decide what we wanted to do. College isn't or wasn't about being pushed around or "told" what to do with your own life -- it's an opportunity to choose how your future will be.

You have a choice, to turn your life in the direction you want it to be going to -- and when you have that choice, it is your own karma in your own two hands.

Larry was an okay friend, yet over time he became mean to everyone, and eventually dropped out of school. Referred to as, "That motherfucker" in car-rides, later with BooGoo and Scottie, we used to think about it less and less, until he disappeared from our imaginations completely. Larry was a bully, for the most part, and he didn't stand a chance. He even used to make fun of me, sometimes, on burn-rides, and I never stood up to him once, for whatever reason. He was actually about six foot three, and weighed at least 250 pounds.

I asked Larry, one day, what his girlfriend was like.

He told he what kind of music he liked, first, though.

Then, after he said he likes "Country Music": that his favorite artist was The Real McCoy, and also something to do with either Dire Straits, or the latest country pop band on the radio, the name I presently forget. She was a blonde-haired girl, who he should've stayed with, instead've gone to college. From what I remember, I don't think he stayed with her, and the entire idea of being separated from her, early on in school, made him anxious.

Over time, Larry forgot about his girlfriend, though, and became a thug.

He wanted more pills, one night, but I didn't really have any left.

I had something like valium, called "Librium" and it was a "more medical version of valium" so I sold him all of it. I only had it, from when I bought it off of Starlite, originally, from the blue pills I originally tried to off myself with.

I knew they'd be put to use, somehow, one day.

Larry got real high off them.

He was announcing, one night, how "It is Halloween. And I need to get f**ked up." In the middle-seat of the car, Larry and Scottie (for whatever reason) crushed my back, in-between themselves, and only because of a simple "Pothead" statement. They crushed it so bad, by pushing their bodies into me, it actually seemed planned.

The way I felt the next day was "angry mentally because of my body."

Eventually, girls started to get to the point of sadomasochistic-erotic attraction towards me. Sometimes, a random football player would eye-fuck me, or touch my leg at a party. The girl named "Darcy" who was going out with Billie, started to entire herself onto me, when we went for burn rides together, and with Heather also, one night, leaning all over me, I guess Darcy decided to stay in my dorm room one night like this, while I was passed out, "and" . . .

The way I felt post-misery, when I finally felt better, for a "pure form of ignorance" that healed me, in some way, and also my back, I really liked. Her name was Darcy, and I don't know who she is. The factuality that not enough people in America know of the true life-essence, and healing power of sex, and positive forms of spontaneous forms of sex, is still humoring me, every time I find a new "friend."

The world is ignorant, sometimes, of beauty also, so I still care about proving the equation real some day. To people who don't know how to "feel good" as well as "look good" : I laugh at you.

The arrival of my next roommate, when I was actually in the exact same room, once Larry finally got kicked out of school was amazingly different than Larry.

Matt, or "Biff" was a normal, "more" normal-heighted individual, who I dearly respect to-day.

He "truly showed me" how to smoke weed.

The way we connected was obvious at first, though unexpected; on an authentic level of respect for each-others physical power, or natural prowess in good looks and male body persona's, so to speak, but we were just both sports players who never got a chance to play, in actuality, so we knew it would be a good opportunity to know one another, finally, people like the "point guard" in basketball, or the outfielder in baseball.

I met him, truly, on a night where he asked me, with an already ablaze look in his eyes, "You burn..?" as I told him with an excited nod I wanted to have a hit or two off the joint he was smoking that night, and he allowed me to go with him in his truck, to hang out with various people he knew.

There isn't much to say, when I got to college every time I returned back on campus, usually. 'Cept for buy another bag of weed, I would sometimes collide with G (Gordon) and spend some time with Les. A very "crowlike" stare on his face, Les always used to show up at Gordon's dorm room at the most inopportune of moments. He was always there at the wrong moments. Like rapid-fire, he'd ask me questions sometimes, while I was sitting in the dorm-room with G.
G used to roll up the plastic bags in front of us, count his money, and do all the dealer stuff right with us in the room.

I walked with him a lot.

And he used to help me get a 'dubsack' (2 grams) almost every other day, sometimes.

I always had weed.

It's true, when I sold pills, I actually had three or four bottles of them, I had gathered up, in my own securely-tightened cap-lids, and pill-bottles, with plastic lining, and "perfect preservation of the pills."

I had valium, codeine, sometimes things like hydrocodone, or something like a rare drug such as librium or maybe even muscle relaxers, and shit like that.

I gave Larry a lot of them, first, and sometimes for free.

He loved the valium I gave him that was the "two's" I called them (white 2mg pills) although I had the stronger ones, and when he finally found out I had the ten milligram pills, he was looking at me like I was his own personal hero.

I really didn't care.

I used to go to punk shows, and got pills from my girlfriend's mom, and also got them online sometimes from a place known as Starlite Pharmacy, that sold pills and "things" out of India.

A lot of their pills were / are generic, but I really loved the effect of a lot of them, and even though some of them only made me numb, at least I felt good off the codeine a few times.

I actually tried some "ritalin" around the same time as this, and then adderall. I just popped them. I stayed up, with shaky / numb knees, and didn't want to sleep, also blunt-high, and stared at my computer-screen, not caring about class the next day.

I went to history class, and a writing class totally high once, like this. I could tell the teachers were more receptive to me.

Later, I started to get quietly revered by my own English teacher, misses "Kozinsky" (or something like that), and she said I am an "amazing writer." She had a problem with two or three things about how I wrote. I wasn't using parentheses perfectly, and like other teachers said about my writing, I sometimes would make a run-on sentence, and not know when to stop a sentence, they said.

I walked out of Peabody, from English class, and went straight out of the main building, to my room in the first floor of Bell, usually, with nothing more than a folder in my hands.

I didn't like to carry much.

I walked with a blue winter coat, no matter how bad I looked. I wanted to wear it because it was the one I had that was blue. It was oversized, and didn't look good on me at all. I'm pretty sure the coat I was wearing was one of the first things to set some people off, and make them judge my image.
The "redneck crowd" was always here in Maine, and like any Stephen King book, or the same super-stitious feelings we might have in a post-Salem witch-town like where I'm from; I knew I had to lay low, seeing as how I truly believed in the magic of such religious, or spiritual power.

Recording a new CD for Brokecore, while playing "The Kingdom of Loathing" text-based role-playing game all night, I showed up to various other classes, sometimes drunk, and one time when I had gotten back late at night (a night class) my history teacher could tell I was drunk.

It was funny, because I felt truly sad over it.

She was like, "maybe when you go back to your dorm room, you should go straight to bed and get some sleep." in the middle of class.

I looked up from my desk, I think after I had snored a little bit, and said, "YEAH!" in a loud voice, and then quieter, "that would be a good idea."

I was one of the last people to leave the class, because I was so tired, and I brought at least two extra books with me that day I didn't even need to bring.

I walked back to the dorm, and Larry was on the bed, with some big black Nigerian or Egyptian dude with a name like "A" -- Anthony, or something, and BooGoo. They were figuring out a blunt. I said I wanted to smoke with them, but they said not this time. Leaving with a few pills, I sat at my computer, and figured it wasn't such a big deal. I had learned how to roll a spliff and smoke on my own, around the corner of the entrance, or mentally patterning a route in the woods, I knew a way to get high was always available to a crazy person like me.

I rested in my absurdly-comfortable "wooden chair" (a dorm room chair) that somehow was built to lean back (like a recliner) and even passed out a little bit in this a few times, too.

I really felt bad for not doing the best I could in class, sometimes.

Misses Korbitz (I actually divined what her real name is / was), was aware of how great my writing could be, so, she arrived at a special assignment, one day, after judging one of my reports on a "place I'd like to travel to" (Alaska).

She tried to tell people in a general way, but it seemed like a few of the redneck types in my class didn't like the story idea, and they assumed the idea had arrived from me ..

It was to write a "visual and vivid description, or very detailed way of describing something." And, in this idea of an article, I immediately thought of all the trips, and experiences on drugs, as well as the images I had seen while dreaming, and imagined, all at a single moment in my mind. At first, I saw the image of the marble-stone figure, living in the city-tiles of some lost part of New York, where there might have been a museum once.

I saw this in a dream once, and then I went to describe an actual alien abduction, I was willing to share with her, just to spite the other students, in a absurdly weird way. My creativity sort of blossomed after this, because I might've actually been an experiencer early on of an actual alien abduction, from the Zeta alien-group known as "Greys" when I was about 7 or 9, in a time in my life when I was too social and / or active, to even tell anyone about the dream at the time, so I never knew what age I was when it  happened.

The harmonic convergence of my thoughts and mind with other realities around this time was extremely powerful, and I smoked a blunt with Larry in his car once, for the last time, while I could tell it was a strange farewell party of some kind.

It seemed that Larry was getting kicked out of school, for various reasons.

He also wasn't playing football, and skipped practice at least 6 times in a row once.

It didn't look good also that he was getting much more "stoned" and high than a lot of his other teammates and classmates thought he would.

Gordon became my friend shortly after he left, and when Biff otherwise known as "Matt" arrived to be my new dorm-room roommate, he was entering into the room where I already was. Needing to fill the space, I was already at college for a semester, and then Biff arrived.

Me and Gordon were smoking weed a lot together before me and Biff even became friends, so it seemed like he was also entering into my own personal circle of power, early on, with the mere interpolation of his energy to me and G, forming a fast friendship between them, and soon the three of  us became a trio, smoking weed and partying in all sorts and forms of ways, to "educate our minds" and eventually watch specific movies, try to do specific drugs, and try to get high and smoke weed late at night, in the woods, on burn-rides, and even in our dorm room once, in which we got in trouble.

Yuri was Gordon's roommate, with an actual girlfriend -- a nice girl named "Heather." She was like a city-girl, and Yuri had a cool nature to him. He talked in a kind of sloppy, uncaring way, but he knew perfect English. He hated how Gordon would sell weed out of their dorm-room.

He was on the bed underneath Gordon, and yet mysteriously never seemed to think twice about how rude it was to have sex with Heather, directly underneath Gordon's bunk-bed.

We sold a gram of coke once, in G's room, on Halloween, I remember the white chunk of crack or cocaine that was on the scale, and how good it felt to think of that lame move some guys make, to think their "bodies" outweigh their minds, because of how cool they think they are. The guy's buying it were just there to use Gordon's scale, and he called it "yey."

The way I found Rumi was later, but the reality I was experiencing then was like a nerve-riot of insane feelings all the time, and I really wanted to be alone more than people knew.

I had to tell a few stories off the top of my head just to fit in at certain parties, dorm beer parties, playing cards, or whatever, because I usually wasn't one to chime in or try to speak in large groups. I found a way to use the "first word" or "first letter" I spoke or thought of, as the loudest, and then once the first tone was uttered, I would quiet down and say the rest of what I needed to say.

Speaking loud became a skill for me, over time, and I smoked more heavily, soon. Realizing how the blunts helped my throat, and improved the way I felt somehow when I recorded vocals, I started to play my guitar every now and then, once or twice even in my dorm room I plugged in my electric guitar, and I was starting to think about writing lyrics like I used to. The notebooks I had from high-school still had the words from my original songs in them, and I imagined the new tracks at first. My recording device was kept with me in my dorm room, and I had sent a few songs out already to Brokecore, with one called "Mama's Boy" that someone else liked, in a chatroom. I was learning how in the game I played online, K.O.L. (Kingdom of Loathing) people 'loved' the rare items, and really wanted to play for the sake of experiencing reality, or getting something out of life that was virtual, yet still nice. So, I started to, working from home, hack the website with a sincere need to "help people" because I assumed, and knowing how it was each Christmas, that when the "free rare items" were given out to every single account in the game, if I "manually bruce-force hacked" severala ccounts, typing in assumed passwords usually based on name, I could intuitively hack as many accounts as I wanted to, so long as I hacked them legally.

I eventually got into at least 12 at first, and then about twenty more.

The "Crimbo Stockings" and rare items within, such as the "TPS" (Tiny Plastic Sword) were sellable for almost $20 each on eBay, and I made about $500 at first.

Later, in this evolution, I was adding to my bank account with almost $2,000 from virtual items sold from the game, and all of the left-over (abandoned accounts) I hacked.

I started buying weed with the money, and my friends never asked where it was coming from.

My dad and mom gave me a $20 bill sometimes, just to keep me going, because they knew I was able to 'make it last.'

For some reason, naive people are always kind of aware of some crimes, of some kind, and yet so long as they know you are being honest, they don't really care.

Mysteriously, the game had a alcohol-obsessed diary of items, also, like "Rum Seltzer" and "Late Night Daiqari" (if that is the spelling), and other items like this, oriented with drugs and alcohol, and some-thing about that co-inspired me to break the law, outside of the game, at first, so who is to say all of my crimes didn't start with the bad programmers of this stupid game, anyway..? In factuality, I knew how bad programmers operated, and I always enjoyed taking advantage of them.

I loved smoking weed on Halloween.

We would fill a car, and listen to the radio (local college radio), and eventually the only song we wanted was the Gin and Juice one.

Heather and Darcy rode with us, at least 3 or 4 times in a row, once.

Sometimes, other people, like with Scottie, and his girlfriend, there would be totally random people to ride with us, and our burn-rides were becoming a "thing" we sort of "had" to do.

Late, riding with BooGoo and Scottie one night, on the same Halloween, after smoking with Gordon, I changed seats, because I was uncomfortable, and the seed in the joint started to burn. It was almost bad, but the smell didn't hurt me because I intuitively moved seats. BooGoo said, "Yeah that motherf--ker." When he was talking about Larry, and it sounded like they had gotten sleighted by him in some way.

Larry was too loud, and make fun of all of us too much, so it really was a mystery about how fast he got his ass kicked out of college. Heather leaned up against me a lot, and I made a point not to look at Darcy, because her boyfriend Billie had already sold me a bag of weed or two, and I loved having the alternative supply, and didn't want to ruin it.

I thought I had to be respectful, so I usually tried to keep my "thoughts low" and my voice in a singing mode, when people asked me how I "remained so cool all the time."

This is true, that I have had a problem with being too quiet, in the past.

The time I drank alcohol with Larry, in spite of how tragic his leaving college was, was truly a funny night when I drank some of his peppermint schnapps from his friend, because he was joking with the bottle in his hand, but I actually drank the rest of the bottle anyway, defying the bet to a degree, and walked down the hall so drunk, I thought I had drank something else.

The feeling was "cold and powerful."

I said, "F--k reality." multiple times in the car, with a certain look on my face, and the truth was I actually screamed the phrase at the top of my lungs, and I think the car across from us in the gas-station could hear me, so I laughed and screamed it again, when Larry said to keep it down.

This was a good lesson in "keeping cool" also, because typically when you're at college, and trying to learn how to develop a craft, find a major, or create a new career out of yourself, normally you should not in a moment when already you could get in trouble for rolling a blunt in the parking lot, shout, "F reality" in a car, when everyone outside can hear you.

(A similar thing happened in a elevator once).

I think eventually, some of the R.A.'s (like dorm cops) were getting to the point of wanting to turn their heads when I walked by them, but I truly looked so good (in my mind) in college, because I "wore contacts" and "my best clothes" all the time, no one knew I was as desirous as Hunter S. Thompson to leave school for California, or start selling acid while tripping on my own supply because of how badly I really wanted to throw my life away, and get as high as humanly possible at this time in my life. I really didn't give a f--k about school at all.

I stood in the mirror, trying to get my "eyes right" for minutes on end, sometimes, in a short few moments I was visually refreshed, and walked outside the bathroom, the "very waterry" version of contacts resting gently on my irises, and I took to imagine how I wanted to go about the day. Peering clear through my eyes, I admitted I wanted 'more than an eighth' that time, when I bought three grams from G one night, and one night got a half-ounce. (16 grams).

I put it in my drawer, and started smoking relentlessly, and didn't give a damn at all about anything for almost a week straight.

People got to know me pretty good at this point in time ..

I brought my ukulele to school once, along with my "digi" (digital electric guitar). It was a good time, to plug in the casio for one night, but the keyboard always seemed to let me down.

I reeled for a good lyric, at night when I really wanted to record a song, but I never knew what to sing.
Staring at the microphone, I felt so aggravated.
I looked outside my dorm room one night, and felt this Emptiness.

I looked outside, and the night was cold.

I smoked the tip of a joint, once the loneliness "reached a point" -- though I rarely do this so fleetingly, and yet somehow the depression was gone quickly.

I felt so happy, actually. The joint was only the "tip" of the joint, and was said to be the "California Kush" I wanted to have so much, since the first time I tried it.

BooGoo rolled a joint right in front of me, and then another, and sold them both to me for $5, and no one knew.

I went back, one night, when he was too sketched to smoke, and somehow it felt like he was protecting me in a way. He had an appearance kind of like mine, in the eyes where we both sort of looked foreign to the world in the day-time. I liked to think he was half-Mexican, half-Chinese.

I always knew I adored "Samurai Culture" but I never told anyone about what I thought about my true heritage or culture. I thought of myself as American.

The joint-smoke, literally "felt orange." I got so high, it only took one hit.

I lied down in my bed, and played the song, "The Electric Ant."

The vocals kicked in, with the distorted organ, and I fell into a 'state.'

My song played, one I made from high-school, and I felt the "electric high" of the high-frequencies wash over me. The Electric Power of the song made me feel strong, and eventually when I got to the point of a real powerful moment in my ecstasy, I thought of getting higher, when the codeine I took (about ten pills that were of a low dosage), didn't do too much, when I lied back down, I still chose to meditate and think on the subject of love.

I wanted to keep getting higher, so the thought of love itself seemed to inspire a rise-higher effect.

The next morning, I knew my "neighbor" all of a sudden.

Matt introduced me to Faik, a really weird, dark-skinned Middle-Eastern guy who had a pretty Egyptian-looking appearance, but he claimed to be Turkish. I don't know "why" this was so offensive to him, but like it always was with strange people, I mentally tried to respect his religion, the names, and the cool reality of how things can be when we know who we truly are, and neither one of us, or none of us really want to offend anyone. He prayed in front of me, one night, on a mat on his floor, at the "exact same time as everyone else" in the part of the world where he's from.

Faik worried about me a lot, and he over time feared I would get in trouble for my potsmoking.

I watched the movie, 'Cool Hand Luke' one night, and Biff was surprised at this. He knew a thing or two about movies, but he never thought there was someone my age who "hadn't seem Dazed and Confused."

I watched "The Rules of Attraction" after, and this didn't help, actually, because it's like a horror-movie about college, and yet, somehow, Biff managed to catch the one humorous scene of the movie, with the crazy guy at the party with his parents, and the depth to this scene was later proven to me (why) I had no reason other than my own to say why it was so funny.

Virtually imaginable, the idea of "multiple people all at the same party" it was kind of funny, also, how Biff caught the only action-scene of the whole movie, too, when the main character and the other dude run away from the evil cokeheads, and manage to steal a bag while driving away, as sparks fly from beneath the tires.

He looked at me funny, actually, the first time he saw he watching a movie, and I was lying on my dorm-bed, with "Scream 2" playing, and immediately could tell I had some "strange need to watch movies."

The truth is, at some points in my evolution at school, I felt like the coolest guy on campus.

I didn't know how to explain or tell this to anyone, because I somehow mentally knew that my future was going to be powerful, there was something awesome about embracing "oblivion" at this time, in such a way as to potentially destroy my future entirely at all given times, I was ready to.

I walked down the pavement of the avenue of Husson ave, sometimes, just to buy a lighter at Rite-Aid. It took about twenty to thirty minutes. No one understood my fearlessness.

Sean showed up, eventually. A "friend of Gordon's" who looked like an actor. He had the same face, and almost the exact same voice was Jeremy Piven from the movie PCU.

He got angry real fast, sometimes, and seemed to hate being at school. One time, out in a cold car, smoking a joint, I randomly said to him, "You ever think about being an actor, Sean..?"

He looked paranoid instantly, and said. "No." "Why would I want to be in movies..?" Somehow, it seemed like he was angry at himself for smoking weed, in actuality. He treated "himself" like a criminal, when I kind of thought weed was good, and he should have more hope. He seemed angry at me in particular more than a few times. Gordon started hanging out with him more. And, I would spend time in the dorm room with Biff more, and we became more of a unit as far as smoking together, because we figured this was "more efficient." We needed to sneak off to get high in the woods more than a few times, "just to keep our beer-buzzes" balanced, because Biff had a good min-fridge to keep beer's in, and he always had a beer or two in it. I eventually bought a six-pack every now and then, and well-past my 21st birthday, we started drinking it like it was water, and the alcohol itself never really seemed to bother us. It just added to our high.

I walked back to the campus one day, walking along the circle. I'd just bought some groceries at Hannaford, and one person staring at me from out there window yelled, "Freak!"

I looked up, and instantly imagined telekinetically pushing them out the window. (I don't know why I did this), but somehow, they actually wavered a bit, and almost appeared to stick their leg out too far, all of a sudden, and it looked like the person almost fell. He said it mentally this time, and I read his thoughts from a distance, somehow, and heard the echo of the words, "Freak..!" screamed angrily from the pineal of his misery-nerve, and just kind of thought to myself, "wow I'm not even high right now." And kept walking.
It turned out Sean had an alcohol problem, for some reason. A lot of people couldn't tell, but I was able to notice early on.

Faik himself smoked too many cigarettes. He had an actual "hooka" in his room, he'd sit in a circle with foreign kids, Asian girls and other students who were like him, and from what I remember he'd sit at his computer with a cigarette burning between his fingers, and acted like an office-worker, blitzed out of his mind on nicotine all day, yet he claimed he "would not get high or do drugs" because it is against his religion or "nature" (so he said). I tried to get him to smoke weed with my several times, but he always said "no" to the idea.

The real power we have as artists always seemed to be rooted in the mind. I was kind of numb when I was young. The way I felt, I had dark, pale under-eyes, and walked slow. I didn't want to talk, so I generally expected to be quiet. I liked to wear headphones constantly, and I wore them so much I actually felt like I was literally deaf sometimes.

I really thought I liked myself, sometimes, when I was young, in moments I truly didn't. The strange style of delusional thinking I had might've started early on, with the context of what I thought up and wrote under the influential effect of valium, or alcohol.

I never mixed drugs, and I was mentally aware of how dangerous certain "influences" on me were, or how influential bad drugs could be, so I never smoked pot until I was nineteen also. I even got drunk at nineteen for the first time, and I felt really good about this.

The time I reached the age of 23, I was pretty much a "pro" at smoking pot.

I kept my pot-smoking to myself, for almost two years, and no one even knew I had smoked under the stars in my front-yard, on the stone step, right in front of my own house.

I looked up at the stars frequently.

I think, when I knew I had "mentally awareized" the conscious "factuality" -- for an entire year, I was engaged with the night-sky, almost every single night, all 300-or-so days of the year, with my eyes glued to the stars in the night-sky, and I looked at them as though it was a religion.

Finally, one night, I saw what I was hoping to see.

A strange star, one night, was flickering, at first. The star appeared to move erratically, and then zig-zags appeared in the movements of the fireflylike movements of the distant light. I remember being so high, the movements of the star itself seemed to make me feel higher in a way.

I watched it move.

Sitting on my step, in the front of the edge of the rock, I started to notice my body was going numb, but allowed it to. I felt good about this. The bottom of my ass felt good, all of a sudden, and I really soaked up the energy of the power of the unknown -- not knowing why, because things alien don't usually affect me with much interest, and though I truly didn't believe in such a thing, the feeling I got from the zig-zagging light was of the unknown archetype, and I felt like it was pretty much what anyone might imagine. The individual light moving also appeared to respond to me, and in remote movements, the idea of this "reacting star" to my consciousness, was like a point of contact -- the very idea of the contact reached between me, and space, was somehow united by the moving star, only an unknown effect to the reality of this star, I only had the answer in a book of poems, written by Edgar Allan Poe, and his poem, also, made me feel a lucid sense of the unknown. I really knew nothing about his writing, but when I looked inside of the book, that night, I felt a strange feeling of awareness, and I turned directly to the poem in that moment, also.

"An Evening Star" showed up, and I read the poem, in my computer-chair, the swiveling grey chair, in my bedroom, in the corner where my computer was; the same place where I recorded music. And the poem felt like it was "impressed" -- instantly-read, and I didn't even have to scroll my eyes, or actually read it, to read the poem. "I wrote this," were the words I thought of, in that moment .. Though it made no sense, I got a grandiose feeling, from this also, and it was as though my feelings themselves, and all of my senses, were all in this one moment "entirely lit up" to a higher degree, and felt enlightened.

I got higher that night, because I had more weed. I thought on the idea, and the idea of how "amazed" I felt, to have saved my joint from the previous night -- though I never wanted to save it. I always smoked all I had, or had for myself, and left no evidence or mental thought to the weed I smoked. I also thought of music more than drugs, so it was impossible for anyone to know I was smoking. To be up all night, I pretty much had a radar on all other people, anyway, because I sort of lived like a detective of "reality" in these days, since I was so good at using the internet.

I remember so well, for instance, the night things went from "1999" to "the internet age" in a single night, just by how I could see how excited my mom and dad were on New Years Eve, the night everyone thought the world might end.

We were drinking champagne, and I had an extra glass, that I didn't even want, that I was inspired to drink by the girls that night, my sister and mom, in particular. We all were pacing, and for some reason the feeling of impending doom really was feelable that night. I could tell "something" might happen in the year 2000, or some time like that, and I didn't know what -- but I was being honest when I told my parents, I think, that "their fear is normal" and "it is potentially a crash that could happen" because I understood the internet so much. The hacker communities online were trying to make amends usually with people, and engineers were left out of the equation of internet wars, for the most part, while I know banks, and high-powered corporations, the stock market, and a lot of exchange taking place online might be truly questioned if anything bad happened that night on new years.

Interestingly, my mother's birthday is on New Years "day" (right on January first). Her name is actually "Janice" but we call her "Jan" and she and I seemed to be secretly aware, that although scary, the true fear was mostly with Americans since our country (we just knew ..) broke so many laws, it was obvious that the reason why Americans were fearful of the world ending the most is because we all knew in such a situation a lot of our personal crimes would come to light.

We also knew, me and her, that a lot of my dad's family, and my own sister's, "don't understand Cape Cod or Massachusetts" like me and my mom do, for whatever reason. I swear, they act totally differently than me when I got to the beach, and I always am ready to swim or sun-bathe, or drink a cool glass of water, when everyone is always just there to "play" or have a good time. I intend to meditate or feel good, or be near the ocean to increase my power. Such as with the internet, the oceanic relationship to the atmos, energy, and the sphere of everything, is the same "ocean" we know, in the form of signals and waves. I respect each of these oceans.

The electric feeling from the champagne made it hard to smoke weed, so I chose not to have a single hit that night. I went to bed only high off the alcohol, and the world was fine tomorrow.

My mom looked amazed, for some reason, at "how cool I was last night." (Or something). I didn't really know what she means.

I know, this year, I intend to "get drunk" after Christmas.

. . . it's just that, I haven't read a good article from Hunter S. Thompson, and there's a book or two by him I've always wanted to read -- the campaign trail, and the other one about the Hell's Angels.

I was pretty in need of getting over my psychic experiences as of late, and the haunted feeling from so many "internet fools" (a term I use) felt negative because of how "stalkers" were lately turning out to be a real reality with me, even though I hardly wanted to admit it ..

Girls, or anyone at all, had a way of exciting my paranoia-nerve, sometimes, even when I never really had one, due to a strange sublime effect with words alone sometimes, because I knew so much about metaphysical effect of some words, they could (like encantations) say certain things, some times, to get a risened effect out of me. This happened a lot, sometimes.

Days at college felt longer lately.

I didn't want to talk about it, but something about the effect of the way that guy in the window (or girl for all I know) yelled the word, "FREAK!" so hatefully, was really starting to echo in my head.

I didn't want to think about it, though I really knew I was not trying to be anything except for different than most people, on purpose.

My desire to be unique, or personal self-indifferentiation was increasing.

I was going to "write a book" some day, or something . . .

I "knew" my future was more important than this stuff they forced on me in America.

I just kind of knew, that some day, I might have much more to do with my life and time, if I only devoted myself more to my own personal use of the internet, my own engineering, and tried to make my own songs, so that all of my love can be pure. So, when I get older, I will have learned, and proven enough, with the source-power, and personal revenue of my own infinite supply of creative gifts, and creative resources, to make it as far as the moon some day.

"To the moon" is something I heard a friend say, once, when I was hanging out in the apartment I imagined I would get, but this was a different form of echo. A person I had not met yet, seemed to be looking at my in the eyes, in my mind, with a infinite stare. He was a friend, from the future, I think, and he knew who I was, but I didn't know. The way he looked at me was like a look of hate that was fading. The friends I had later in life were truly aware of my power, it seemed, but I never wanted to talk about the general subject of power itself in those days.

Tobi was my friend, it turned out, who said this, astral reflection that reversed, and forwarded in my mind, like a life-tape, or a file on a disk, of some kind, with an actual memory, like a data-file, that is a "life on disk" itself -- a screen visible, and everything good or bad, seeable by the images, and scenes of this inner screen. I imagined he was nice, and I hoped he was. I knew there was a reason for this projection, so I smoked a lot more weed to not think about it, and kept my mind on a super-conscious track of perception. I wanted to stay in the present, so I avoided looking at myself as though I was "trying to evolve" or "get somewhere" . . . at this point in time, I only wanted to get high, and meet people.

The girl I was in love with, was already at school.

I knew I would find her some day.

Since I was young, I always imagined there would be this special girl I meet. She would be willing to sit with me, needless of words, able to be silent and still communicate with me in a way, similar to how I felt about sound and the feeling of silence. I thought she might be like a sister-like style of energy, who would be the girl I just "know" and have as a friend, forever, in a way. Like a mental counterpart, she would not really need to speak, because she already knows I love her. There would be no need for words at all, also, because she might know I was always ready to pull out one of my notebooks, and start writing a new lyric, or poem, that she could read (or listen to) anyway.

I wanted to protect her, but she knew this was unnecessary. We both know, or we both already knew the world is generally safe, and there really is no need for psychic fear, or personal fear of ourselves, or each other of any kind.

She has this dark hair, and I always imagined she had dark hair.

In my mental image, I saw her at the cafeteria table with me where I wrote all of my first lyrics I ever wrote. Somehow, I felt like the image started here. I was lonely, but not 'so' lonely. I really knew I'd find her some day.

The hope was that I'd meet her "soon" and have a way to really live with her, or be as close to her as possible, because I knew, based on the way she was quiet like me, we were meant to be together.

I remember when I was young, about thirteen. I never wanted to "talk shit" about people. I knew, how important the 'respect we have for one another' is the same as the respect we have for ourselves . . . my friend Gabe (Gabriel), like a bad angel, used to do this to me. Discuss me, and use my image as a crutch for the other scapegoats, and for whatever reason, liken me to a symbol for his abuse. Years of this went by, till eventually it seemed I was a likely or possible subject for the abuse of others. I did not know "why" his brother liked me so much, for instance, or certain other abusers, but I had learned that because of the mis-use of image, or the mysterious mis-use of power in the hands of another's, to harm another's image "with your own" -- it is like a mis-use of power, or soul itself, the very mis-use of identity in a way, I felt illogical, and a diabolical form of defamation to God, were we of any likeness, to the pantheism any witch might have, were this a more mystical society. I noticed his hatred made me never want to be like him. For this, I found a way (over time) to, though mentioning the image of you, or him, or her, or anyone, I'd find a way to either correct the misery, or refer / allude in such a way that adds-to, or heals, brings up, or makes better the image, or in any sense, simply does not destroy the image of the other person -- so I tried to, over the years, never use the image of a person I knew whether positive or negative in a bad way. Since the age of this young time, I "vowed to not talk shit about any-one."

In spite of this rule, I broke my personal law many times in my evolution after so many years . . .
I remember when I originally broke this personal law, I had talked about my sister, or maybe my girl-friend Michelle, it felt like. However, the truth is I had spoken ill of almost every person I knew in a single night, in actuality. 

I had walked away from home.

My dad wanted me to work for him, or someone he knew.

It was a year before I went off to college ..

He asked if I wanted to "mow lawns."

At the time, I was working on my new CD, CTRL + M.

I finished the CD, and I felt really good about it.

He told me, after walking in the kitchen door, "Brendan. You need to do more than just sit at a computer. You've been doing this for two weeks." Acting as though the world desperately needed another 'worker' and I had a 'responsibility' to the world, and the natural function of things, so I needed to get away from my computer, and get into his truck (in his mind,) and get to work as soon as I could. 

I hated the idea, of just dropping everything to work for "someone" -- a random person, when I had finished my masterpiece, already, and my pre-meditations on this (CTRL + M) already had informed me, while I listened to the angels voices, that also, when I played Machinehead on my CD player, knowing the song was my future. I was going to play "The Electric Ant." And the Church CD, that played, as the waves washed across my bed, I knew the powerfullest form of meditation. And I fell asleep, in a state of lightness, waking in the same state of lightness. My body was powerful, each time made more powerful -- the music, somehow "tuning me" in a way, I felt like the actual tuning and resonant power of The Church's music, made me feel so good, I was at home with the waves.

I saw images in my mind, flowing beautiful images, streaming inside of me.

And I saw the everythingness of my own future.

I know I had messed up. That night, when I threw "the phone" at my sister's chest, it slammed against her lightly, and quickly made her look bad in front of Michelle, at her house late that night -- she showing up to make sure I'd go back home, since my family was concerned about me, because I ran off to be alone, and ended up at Michelle's house.

She was confused, and seemed like she was sad.

Michelle even cried a little bit, it looked like, when the phone was flying through the air.

I didn't apologize, and I tried to get high with May that night, while Michelle watched us.

We said "various things" -- and, since May's dad had attempted to "hit" her (in a sense), that day, I had already decided to mentally drop some of my inhibitions that night. I felt pretty attracted to May, also, and I knew (kind of) I wanted to do more with my sexuality in the future. A girl walked over to M__'s house, when I was sitting on the step, and even though her house is demolished now, I still have this violet-bright memory of a girl walking across the road to invite me to smoke weed with her.

She was beautiful, but mysterious.

She had mascara run down her face, and I felt like I might "know" her -- yet only in the most totally mysterious of ways.

For all I know, she is my neighbor now. I loved her, also, and it seemed I was in love with three different girls that night, all at once.

The hologram was powerful, and I knew my sister was just trying to interfere.

I had to tell her off.

I slept at Michelle's house that night (or I remember I did), because I really don't care about grounding my mind in that damned house I grew up in ..

They treat me like I'm adopted, when I have clear and obvious memories of being a young child in this house, where I am, though I appear "silent and sort of like an Asian appears and acts" I am discarded as different in my family, though of the same genes, only because I appear slightly more foreign than the rest of my family members.

I heard the word "Chink" once, when I was in physics class, and even though Zach didn't take much offense from this word, I know how I felt, and how other people reacted, when they looked at me, especially the somewhat Mexican dude, Dan, who immediately treated me different over the years, each time we collided. He was an arrogant dude, and for one reason or another I eventually didn't like Dan, and he didn't like me. I'm mentioning this, because the name "Dan" (nowadays) is a very abused name, and is one of the most commonly abused names of sociopaths, who lie about themselves.

(I noticed this about certain names over the years) ..

I finally got a landscaping job, and mowed lawns, and raked leaves in the end, in spite of my great desire to judge, prophecy, and philosophize a great new understanding of reality. I also smoked weed on the job, and did without sex for many years until I met Rumi, and I was a serious loser on the job, compared to everyone else. It was a pretty awful experience, sometimes, being caught in the dry leaves in my face while the leaf-blowers were going, or having to work in the post-Fall weather, with the evolution of "dying leaves" a part of my work, where, somehow, I found myself re-integrated into the Fall feeling, where since I was born in november (on the 5th), and I was already in my twenties, since being born in the eighties (1985), I was re-familiarizing myself with the season itself, and gradually I felt like the "Fall weather" and the feeling of coldness, or a strange anti-gravity feeling were starting to make me feel more inspired to write lyrics, and think beyond my own mind.

I noticed her, one day, finally. When she was walking, I saw this cute asian girl, who looked like she had "perfect lips."

Her face was cute, or sweet-looking. She had a darkness to her style, like she dressed in black a lot, like I do. I felt like she was important, for some reason, and I felt this powerful vibe about her, that she was from a star-like world, truly, like a girl from space or something. I imagined it would be like this. When I started to think of her, I fell in love, instantly. Because, I saw her in my mind, in so many different images, and versions of her, her face, and her smile, like a memory I already had ..

When I first talked to her, she was a girl I thought of, named "Lulu." I imagined this was her name, and it was actually Rumi, so I was pretty much wrong about what her name was, but she looked so pretty the way it sounded, in association with her, like a mysterious girl -- space-girl, the mystery girl I had always imagined I'd get to know some day.

I hated the way the world is, sometimes, I just wanted to meet someone.

She spoke to me, first like I didn't even expect it. In fact, I was already a little suicidal by this time in my life, and I'd probably have done a lot of worse things that day if I didn't talk to her, so when she started saying things to me, for some reason I just started laughing, and then reeled direct words to her as though trying to "tell" her something the entire time, for some reason, like I was pro-paranoid, in a strange way, "I knew . . ." a strange thing about myself, or "her" and "everything" and she could get the James bond vibe from me. Soon, she knew what I was talking about, and everyone at the table was starting to look at me differently. She quickly taught me a few Japanese words real fast, and I uttered these to the amazement of the people around me, who stated I "looked like . . ." he had said these things before, and that "Japanese seemed like it was a familiar language to me." And, I said, "well, I think it probably is, but I myself can't really quite say why right now." "It feels like a very natural language to me." I remember myself saying.

Rumi smiled, and she was very happy to meet me.

I went back to my dorm, with a new air about me.

I changed her name and thought of her as Lumi eventually.

Lumi liked me, and I wanted to know her -- as much as I could, as soon, also.

She liked the way I talked, and how I seemed shy, but tried not to be.

I would say the wrong thing sometimes, and she laughed, covering her mouth.

I meant to do certain things, also, and would sometimes completely forget, and do something else, while she knew what thought was still lingering, watching me as I reach for things, and words, far beyond, or far away from the original thought, because I am so distracted by her beauty, and my prevailing need to try and kiss her, or make my way closer to "her heart" because, she appeared as though in a way, able to truly see the reason for my hands, the movement of my entire body, and how much fury, in requisite to the love I felt, and what I would do to help myself "get what I deserve," since I know she was beautiful. I truly wanted to spend time with her. And she made me feel like I could drive a hole right through the wall, just to peer through the Infinite, and a way being seen through to know "just what beauty she has inside of her" I will instantly be intra-powerful, as well as hyper-empowered enough to lift, or throw any idea, thought, to, or from myself, with gravity like no one else.

I wanted these, in the image of the woman, with what hands, or fists of fury I could lift against the reality about me. Somehow the individual going out with Rumi was Faik, at the time.

He seemed to only be hardly trying to make her feel better, when she fell under the spell of some kind of cold while at school, and even though he tried to console and help her, it turned out to be me who was the one kinder than anyone else, to be actually telling her what I thought to be the true thing that was going on with her body and immune system. I said she was 'stressed' and this was (to me) because of the weather, and her resonance with the people, and school, and life in bangor. She didn't really know why she was so stressed, and I also had to tell her that her mind and body are going to maybe make themselves stressed, since the "school environment" can be very hard on your mind, and thus hard on your body also, in due response. The relationship of a mind-body connection is very important to acknowledge, to have full, and best health possible, I told her.

Over time, her cold stayed, and she had to leave for Japan, to get the best medicine, and help.

She was in the dining hall, the last day I saw her, and I had only one last look at her face, before she went.

It made me sad, because I didn't even get a chance to tell her I liked her, that I thought she was pretty, or anything ..

She even only shaked my hand in an attempt-at-a-hug, when I sort of felt like I was an "idiot" for not trying to care more, I laughed nervously, and she left with this cool upright posture walking away from me, appearing more like a model that day, and more than I thought, myself feeling condescending in a strange way, while I sat at the table with a kid named Brandon, a more Maine-style dude, who was much more like me than I thought, I later found. He was impressed by me knowing Rumi, I think.
f
I asked her for her e-mail, as she left, and she had a e-mail like "rumi@yahoo.co.jp" or something like this, and I found a way to e-mail her when she was back in Japan, at just the right time for her to respond.

I wrote a letter, saying how insecure I felt, and how idiotic I was to not tell her how I felt before she left. I said I thought she was very special, and I wanted to get to know her. I didn't know "why" I said this, but I went so far as to let her know I'd love to record a song, or do something nice, or creative for her. That her "energy" was very nice for me, and when I thought so much about her -- a lifting of ideas, and a levated effect was added to my thoughts, like a circle surrounding them, adding (like ammo to a gun) the firepower to the true magic of my thoughts -- a reality-enhancing effect of the magic of her soul itself intertwined with mine, and I felt so special to think on the idea.

I wanted to write the letters to her, like they would somehow be like a memoir for my love itself, like a historical document of love transmitted, in an electronic way, that will forever remind God, or the "system of existence" that, I care also, for everything, and the world, and God, and "the system" because there is a girl like her here, with me, in this place.

I sent my first letter, from my original e-mail address "Sake Power @ G-Mail Dot Com" and the e-mail was so empowered, also, since I had it already for ten years, I typed the e-mail slow, with a surety I knew I would get across to her all the love I truly felt, I wanted to write with "certainty" find a way to see if I could maybe be able to 'affirm' and more 'ensure' her thoughts and ideas, to a more "certain" state in her own mind, so she truly knew she would heal good from the cold she had, and get back to America as soon as possible.

I maybe also knew she had a good business degree, and I really wanted the best for her, because I had a good sense of Confucianism, and the proper respect for laws, our elders, and the future of schooling, because I could tell she was smart, and her college schooling was probably a big deal to her, and I didn't want her to give up on herself, either.

The way I felt at this time was pretty altruistic.

I looked at the future, like I knew it would exist.

Some paranoid, far-away feeling sometimes congested my lens of judgment, and I couldn't see as honestly as I should, when I had one, or two foreign elements in the transvertor, so to speak, from one place to another. In a proper transference, I might say, if I truly understood the science some day, that in order to "really" get from one place to another, a good need for a good understanding of "routing" would be prevailing, for me to really know where I need to be.

I looked at the future as though it was something I would personally create, also. Because I thought that was sensible, and normal.

The independent need was non-corporate, and felt like a general need to make music and have fun.

The strange, insulting way some people walked past me in school was funny to me.

I liked how some girls were mean, I can't lie.

I thought it was funny.

They weren't nearly as good looking as most girls, sometimes, and yet they acted so proud of themselves.

One time or another, sometimes they would point out a mistake I'd made in school, or make me look bad when walking past me.

I looked over, one time, from my headphones, and said something like, "The barnacle-wafers are on fire today." And it confused a entire clique of girls for about a week, because I never really cared about saying logical things to insensible bitches at school.

I liked to make things up, sometimes, just to get a rise out of myself. My mind would become higher, more electric when I lied on purpose, just to effect at all. The invented, semi-fictional bent to some music also amused me, so I started playing bob Marley more, and listening to more dub and reggae, with chillout lounge music somehow also from out of nowhere my personal playlist sometimes.

A girl once looked at me from the end of the hall disgusted with the weed-coughing sounds I'd made in the bathroom, and I just acted like I was on a radio advertisement for phlegm, and sort of pointed at the bathroom door, and went, "Yeah..! Isn't it great..!" And just turned around, and walked back to my dorm room.

I used to swear a lot in school, and I used to sometimes teach my friends special tricks about the effect of certain things ..

There was no reason to judge certain people, things, or movies, sometimes, but I always seemed to have an abrupt way of developing a opinion about some things.

For one thing, I never ran into another kid who would have watched, both "The Lawnmower Man" and "The Lawnmower Man 2" by the age of 12.

I have taken risks, sometimes, that resulted in a .45 in my hand, but I wasn't in a gang necessarily or anything. I just found a gun, by dowsing for metal in the woods, once, when I thought of magnets a lot when I was young. My friend Gabe was with me, and didn't quite know "how" I looked right in the right place to find it, a metal piece that looked just like such a gun.

We held it in the woods, staring at it, while I had it in my right hand, and he looked insane.

I said, "holy shit. It's a real gun."

The memory still scares me.

The first real time I ever had to admit I felt "anxiety" was around this day.

I don't know why, but the feeling of a relationship to aliens might have sprung around this time.

They might've abducted me, for all I know, the way I had such a powerful magnetic nature to me.

I could find things that were better than other things, made of metal.

I used to find all sorts of cool toys, and build things, fake guns, and toys I invented when I was young.

It got to the point of destruction, eventually, where the G. I. Joe's wanted to actually light each other on fire, and fight, in the end, so I had to stop pretending so vividly the manifest imaginational realm of my own personal interests in such a attractive place of fire and death, because that type of life is isn't really the way things are for someone when they're young.

I actually had creative phases, when I was young, when I would work on different types of creative products, until I rested on music when I got older.

Music caused me to not want to fight at all, but actually geared me more toward parties and love, so that was the reality I seemed to be moving toward.


* * * * *


Thoughts like what movie to watch interested me less and less, as I moved further along in school.

I didn't write a lyric, another week went by, and no words were written in the notebook.

I wanted to write a song, one night, but I didn't.

In fact, I even think I made a journal entry that said that same thing, and it was totally uninspiring, and didn't help at all.

The next day, I wanted to play guitar outside.

I walked out of my dorm a little bit, and carried the Hohner a few feet beyond the door and stopped.

The sun hit me, and the idea felt ridiculous.

I went back inside, and stared at the TV.

The guitar was still playable, so I strummed a few chords, while still staring at the TV. It was relaxing.

I lied on my dorm room bed, and strummed a few more chords, and a few words came to me.

Biff then entered the room, and asked if I had any weed. Or, I might have asked him.

We had that cold winterry feeling about us, and I needed some attention, so I told him I could spare the BC Bud I had left.

A nug was left in the drawer, that also Larry was eye'ing when he came by with his friends to try some salvia with me and Gordon in the room, also.

Passing the nug around the room, I looked at the crystal-covered nug, and we packed it into one joint, even though I didn't want to.

They put the entire nug, broken up, on the table, and seemed to know the real need to smoke the entire thing.

We went outside, with a pretty good joint rolled, and went for a burn ride.

I felt extremely good this time, and  yet the feeling was more than I expected.

Gordon sat in the passenger seat, and I was riding in the back right side, trying to remember why my thoughts felt "so narrated" at the time.

Somehow a future wave, echoing back at me, told me how I'd have to walk, and get from one part of the parking lot to another, because I drank a beer in the truck with Matt, and we also wanted to have more, so I was already starting to stumble.

I never thought I'd ever find love, at this time.

I felt hopeless, but liked it.

I walked from one corner of the parking lot, exactly to the other corner, and managed to buy the other bag of weed from the dealer we met in the night.

I got the other bag back to the dorm, and we broke it in two, so Gordon could keep the other half --

We quickly bought a bag real quick, to keep ourselves going, since we started sharing our collective high at this point in time, it only seemed right to start sharing weed, too.

I played a game of UB (space hock), scoring a few goals, while I was back home.

The guy I hated the most -- "Zoop" kept saying stupid things. I attempted to get at his I.P. for a moment, but I truly was officially not good at anything like that now.

I wanted to retain my skill with "such things" but I really was eventually a idiot when it came to my desire to be far-hateful, with the use of a mere keyboard or calculator.

Again and again, zoop insulted me into the dirt, and then swam circles around my spaceship, for several games that night.

I looked vexed, at the computer screen.

In class tomorrow, I had a test I had to take for post-biology, and "modern public speaking."

Zoop acted like he had his whole future figured out.

I watched him score the last goal of a mini, that night, and got drunk and stoned outside.


* * * * *


One night, zoop and I were in the chatroom, and he brought up the idea he had about a new theory of relativity.
I posted a song by the Secret Machines, and he said it sounded terrible.

We wanted to play a game, that night, but no one would join at the five player point.

We just needed one more player, but the sixth wouldn't join that night.

Somehow, games were not filling up as much, since that night.

I listened to the song, "Alone, Jealous and Stoned" later that night, and I cried while I drank the last bit of my red-bull vodka.

The joint was the last one I had, and I thought of how I didn't know Rumi yet.

I thought I already did, but I didn't at all.

I knew I really still didn't -- even though I felt like I kept on trying, over and over.

She was nice.

I really wanted to meet her, and talk to her alone already.

We never had a chance to talk alone yet.


* * * * *


"Hey, Matt."

Biff looked over at me.

Will you, "Will you do that Godsmack, I mean. Oh, what is it called."

He did the funny impression of the singer from the band, but it was really just a modern reflection on how Ozzy Osbourne sounds when he's drunk and annoyed.

We listened to ourselves laughing, and whenever Matt paused, and slapped his knee, going, "Sharon..!" we knew it was the funniest thing in the world.

He seemed to know exactly what was wrong.

We both looked at the DVD player, that night, and totally ruled out watching a movie that evening, and just toked a few hits off a J and went to bed silently laughing.


* * * * *


I couldn't stop writing that night.

I finally got through my final report for The History of Rock and Roll, for Doug Hoyt, the ice cream guy, who also worked at a movie theater, who had two bands, was a producer in New York, and also a teacher, and who had like a Mormon degree in scientology, who had a freemason wife, and lived in Bangor, and taught me Audio, but I might be wrong about all that.

He looked like he was a sycophant, and he liked to adopt the problems of other people, just to be cool.

His band, "Spilled Milk" sounded lame, and I always wanted to tell him I thought I could kick his ass.

Doug would teach what he would to me, and helped everyone else in the audio class, while I always wanted to just record the songs my own way.

He looked angry at me all the time.

I walked to class, one day, with my headphones on, and super-high.

I couldn't stop checking my watch, for some reason.

I walked, angrily, with my army coat on, and entered the Husson avenue parking lot, and walked right past the cars in the inter-section, proudly intervening.

I moved further into the college circle, and one step at a time, I put my headphones back on.

I was walking assuredly, with my thoughts "purer" and better, with the true power, mission, value, and intent to keep on moving through each step purposeful and the next even moreso, each one after the yet next one being stepped.

I wanted more, so I kept on walking.

I knew I needed "information" this time ..

I heard the song, "Rock Star" by Everclear the previous night, and something about it, electrified my senses.

I walked up to the first building, visually -- only seeing the windows in the brick mass from a distance and removed my black headphones again, and steadily fixed my eyes on the building.

I walked magnetically directly to the building, and connected, pavement to the cement walls, or the concrete bricks, whatever it was made of was clearly the same energy.

I felt it was like a newform style of granite, and I moved directly toward the dorm.

It was my dorm, and I got the $ I needed out of the drawer, and then walked back, and bought a bottle of milk, and a bag of chips from the school's food area.

I was walking through Peabody, then I went straight to Hart, and got in with a few codes to enter in, with the slide of my I.D.

I walked up the stairs, and called BooGoo.

He let me in his dorm room.

"Yo." I said.

"Hey, B." "What's up, today..?"

"I need to know what's up, today, how you doing..?"

"Okay. Okay."

"You got anything cool that's new..?"

"Yeah, I got some real green ways to be, now, I have to say."

He looked impressed with himself.

Removing a big green quarter of weed that looked like the dankest, stickiest weed he had ever seen, I was given probably only the 20th bag of weed I'd ever bought in my entire life.

I went home, and thought of Rumi, as I had the first joint rolled as I watched the very first episode of "Deadwood" a modern western TV show, and removed myself from the couch, to seat myself on the bench outside, in the near-location to a similar area where I thought of strawberries, thoughtfully, for some reason, and felt happy to think that it would be a nice idea to let the sun in the sky get me high in a dual-wave effect, combined with the high from the weed I liked. This "dank green" I called it, got me so high, I felt as though the green of the bud itself was the dark way it was, only in a dark, forrest-like way that was based on the way I felt like the word 'Forest' was spelled differently in my mind, for some reason.

I felt very confused these days, and didn't think I had much of a way to do anything about it.

I didn't write any lyrics that week either.


* * * * *


The idea I had at the time, for a new CD, if I had a new CD I would make, since I was already mentally "through" with Control -- (CTRL + M) the CD echoed a lot in my head, and I felt the effect of rightness, but something about 'The Electric Ant' really vexed me.

That song really had no place on the CD, I realized.

It had this powerful hatred to the vibration of the static in the song.

Somehow, it flowed in a vibronic power I could not describe.

I needed to invent new words, just to describe it.

The song was not "futuristic." It was the future itself.

Somehow, encoded, into the song itself, "The Electric Ant" was always a impossible song.

I felt like it had no way to actually exist, since I made it when I was only seventeen.

I even shared the song with my father, at a time in my life when there was still a chance to impress my father.

He even reacted. After, saying, "Wow." That it was well-constructed.

The Electric Ant was a song about the Phillip K. Dick story, following a person who develops a new self-awareness after injuring his hand, and waking up in a hospital, somehow "renewed" after later in the story "breaking in to the code of his own DNA, and body, by hacking his own technology of his own body," The way the story is described, I later, wanted to proclaim was like me, when I revelled in the new freedom I had when I wrote, and said the things I wanted to, after I mentally re-wired the implant in the back of my head, ever since revelating how negative I felt the energy of these "beyond" us, such a demon as that of a demon idea like "Beyondus" itself, in a negative fortress of the unknown I approached with a newstyle feel of hatred of my own, I already hacked the implant in the future, and was a degree, freed already by the virtue of the effects from the future, through various side-effects, already.

There was a way I knew I had to sleep.

I always felt ecstatic, at least one or two nights a year. 

Ever since the roaring static at the end, and vibrant, electro-scream, at the end of the song, whatever a "electro-scream" really is, I felt good about the power I felt, since the electronic crescendo of the beauty in equipoise with the erratic style of disbelief in my own soul, as I co-current with the idea of a falsity in nature, yet somehow re-combine faith, my own sadness, misery, remorse, and re-emerge, into all of these theories, with the resurrection of my afterlife awareness, past-life recall, and in only a few years, I would know everything.

I listened to the song in my dorm-room bed, one night.

Matt wasn't home that night, in the dorm, so to speak ..

I listened to the song, staring up at the ceiling. The static droned. The strobe-lights were on, and I had them turned to the highest rate.

The entire room was pitch black.

I felt the darkness was somehow bright.

This was a new feeling.

I knew no feeling like this.

The entire "darkness of the energy of the room" -- in what I felt I could call "brightness itself" was a revelation.

I saw what I didn't see.

All of the light was exposed, opened to me.

I saw brighter white, in the lighter white of the very edges of things, in the darkness that glowed blacker, and I knew the words I was thinking I had thought before. Also, I saw my face in my own mind in my bed, directly choosing, letter for letter, tone, for tone, each word I wanted to think, starting with the first letter, and the name Thomas Aquinas, for some reason, echoed through me honestly, echoing on and on.

"Your world," was something she wrote.

In no need to refer to the words themselves, I felt also echoing through me. One of the things she had studied already, in a previous college was philosophy, and Rumi knew that idea I also  believed in, in the idea of holography.

We knew the cell, the dorm room we lived in.

What like a cell, is a unique area, or cell that is a room we live in.

In the world, our dorm, or space is the cube or spaceship -- the moving space, or stillspace we live in, that is the room or environ we are in. I spell this out lovingly or poetically, yet describe the same way as a universe, the same way each time.

A galaxy is formed the same way as an atom, and I knew this all along.

The S-shape, the super-string, or the shape-formation, or the cell's creation, born from the words through the strings of thoughts and conscious energy, as well as superconscious, and subconscious energy in inter-plane rates, spaces, and inter-relations of different frequency relationships create and keep going the life we already know, moving inherently from and through life, and life repeating to life everlasting, through a hopefully added-to, and more aware reality, we can keep adding on to, and adjusting through time, to improve, keep moving, and re-locating, for the sake of wherever life needs to be. To live, we need each other to know this. Life is active, and the time is based on us. We all decide the time-rate for our own choosing. Mind, body, spirit, and soul, or the emotions, whichever we use, to generate these feelings or psychology -- our spirituality or religion is one of the same created from the same idea, that is to most of us just buddhism to a lot of people. I agree that spirituality and religion also come naturally to a lot of people. So I thought about it a lot, that night, and I had a lot more ideas about the future I had hopes for, in a lot of the images I saw in my mind that night.

The few I wrote down, so to speak, were only in my mind.

She had studied Philsophy in Japan, already, proving that she knew a thing or two about beliefs, and modern psychology.

I really didn't read so many books on the subject, yet.

I was totally ignorant, for the most part, on how to improve myself for a girl, or really what to do to get a girl to "really" like me, enough to be attracted enough to call me, so much, really, or go to the point of meeting me, and visiting me, until I met her.

She was more appropriated to me, through looks, and I felt kindred to her style of black, also.

The real-style blues, I wanted, was alternative.

I knew I wanted something real, natural, and effecting. I knew the presentness of music, sometimes, was reliant on effects alone. The truth of a good wave was the shape. I noticed the shape, and curve, and formation of the waves I studied early on, looking at the static especially and noticing the spike, and beauty to the tri-wave of a magical image to the snare, sometimes, especially when placed in the tracks I looked at, so many times, maybe a thousand tri-waves in front of me, I didn't know why I just "had" to call merely "triangle" waves.

I wrote a few lyrics, that day, but they were very mysterious and abstract, so I shuffled them off to the other side of my other notebooks for a second, then I turned back to the page, and looked again. There was only two lines, and I thought I'd written more.

The story itself, of how I got to finally talk to Rumi alone was always the song I wrote, somehow.

She ended up listening to the song "I Like You" in the dark with me. Listening to the whisperry track, I looked at her face, as he wore the same headphones I made the song in.

She looked off, across the room, I think I formed a fist with one of my hands, in the shadow.

And her cute face, was a style of Japanese I knew was the speciallest.

She looked beautiful, so I knew she had to at least know that.

A girl as beautiful as her, should at least know how beautiful.

I tried to let her know, as much as I could.

I hoped for my energy to effect her, and myself also.

From a distance, I wanted the feeling to flow.

She was nervous, but I knew it was just because she didn't quite know English perfectly. Three years older than me, but so natural and sweet by comparison to how crude, and how I knew some things I shouldn't, we kissed in a very slow, romantic movement, and we had no way of stopping, because it was the best thing we could do, since we kind of both knew we couldn't have sex that night.

We kissed for at least ten seconds, I think.

I really loved the how lights were ..

The steel reserve, I drank in the fridge, that night, I had one, also, for my friend Tyler the night before. He had two, actually, and Rumi sat with me, and stared off in the darkness, beside me.

In front of both of us, also, the next night, or night before, I hardly remember, Hideki, the other neighbor I had in college was some guy also from Japan, who had a drink with me and Rumi, but I didn't know how I felt about letting him borrow the movie, "Seven."

She was fine with this being the night we really got to know each other, the same time around my birthday, around my 21st birthday, when it was about Halloween, and November fifth, where her birthday was also the 15th.

Being both scorpio's, we had a lot of good times early on in our relationship, and we clung to each other pretty naturally, told by people that we looked cute.

I sent letters to Rumi in a positive, upbeat tone of confidence when I wrote to her.

She liked this, and immediately responded to my energy.

The first thing I wrote, started with the words, "Hi!" "It's Brendan, from Husson."

She replied fast, and I remember the way I ended my letter, trying to be humorous, I wrote, in response to the last words she said to me, as though continuing from where we left off, that, "yes, I ate all of my vegetables." When she asked, that day, or one of the first times we met, to make sure I was healthy enough for schooling. She was happy with hearing this, and replied, in her response, "I am glad you ate your vegetable..!"

Over time, I taught Rumi English lessons through e-mail, even before we truly met, and spent time together for the first time ..

She was nice, and seemed interested in learning new words from me through e-mail, so I wrote very descriptive, obvious, and "directly linear" style letters to her, on purpose, trying to see if i could evoke certain responses from her ..

She respondedw ith entire paragraphs, and sometimes more than one.

We sent up to 30 letters in total, in exact. Actually, there were exactly thirty letters in our first e-mail exchange.

She replied, "I know." A lot, and seemed to agree with a lot that I had to say.

We had a lot in common.

Oue future goals were well-aligned, and we seemed to really want the same things from life.

I looked forward to each e-mail I was projected to respond to. Finding no importunate moment to respond, I could write to her any time of day. Since she was in Japan, I knew the time-difference didn't really matter all that much, and we were already mysteriously similar in our astrology. I knew the uniqueness of our relationship was important, so for some reason I really decided to try really hard to be with Rumi.

Rumi and I woke up, the first morning after we had sex.

She was on the right side of my bed, and had a white bra on.

She looked so cute, with her dark Japanese eyes shut while she slept. Her face was curled into the pillow, and I couldn't see her mouth.

All I saw were her eyes.

When she got up, she got up slowly, and didn't seem to want to leave the bed.

Some mornings, she didn't.

She stayed in my bed all morning, and I'd get up first.

I went to the bathroom, once, and smoked a little weed outside the dorm once.

I went back, and we connected a little bit.

She said she thought it was sexy.

"I still can't believe you like that movie."

Rumi said, looking at the cover. Seven Samurai, or the copy I had, was "The TV Movie Version" (or, so I called it). Featuring the seven samurai, elected to protect a small village from invasion from threatening pillagers from outside the camp -- they were headed by Kikuchiyo, who looked a lot like me. The bald samurai feels like a man who presently exists today, and looks the same.

People from Asia are more kindred with their own faces, than Americans might think. We may "all look the same" who are "all the same" merely because of Buddhism, and how sameness and the equalness of the human soul is really what defines us.

I went from this movie, to about every Jet Li movie I could find when I was young, including The Fist Of Legend.

I wanted to look into more of this, but for some reason I eventually saw it as a form of over-obsessed "fighting culture" they focused on the most, and I now sought the drama, and real life. I also had less and less a way to explain my need for "Asian culture" in my life.

My girlfriend, or so over time Rumi became my girlfriend, was actively involved in evolving her own soul, and futurity, also.

We liked to watch a movie at night, I guess. But really, every night was different. We liked the way the world "could be" and we knew the potential was out there, for every culture to see things based on the "two" realities, a nice girl, and a nice guy, who agree -- as the main feature in a balanced plane of perception. She said, "that music you make is like Your World" -- about my music, when she wrote to me.

The poetic effect of her letters was very powerful.

She wrote in a poetic form, actually.

I remember how mysteriously like actual handwriting her typing effected me.

The way her letters appeared, like the perfect Verdana font, size 10 or 9 or 11 you would see in the early internet days.

Maybe she inspired it ..

I always loved that style, to use perfect small handwriting.

She had written that way for the entire series of letters we exchanged, and still.

I responded, once, with the words, "I can't wait to see you when you get back from Japan."

It sounded natural, the way I said it.

I listened to a cool winamp shoutcast station this morning.

When I was waking up, I actually drank a bunch of orange juice. In the morning, I drank some 'Mellow Yellow' orange juice, and it made me feel really mellow. I also drank some water, and that's probably why. I shaved the same day, while the chillout music played. The joint I smoked outside for a only a few minutes didn't seem to bother me or make me too paranoid. I got back inside, and actually drank a beer or two. I felt totally safe, and fine doing it.

Rumi got back to the college soon, and I looked her in the eyes like she was familiar to me. She smiled, while I smiled, balling my fists, she looked at me in the eyes, and said, "So .." and I let her in.

She was standing outside the dorm. With her back against the wall, I wanted to say something about her being there so early, or "on time" but she didn't have any explanation except for that, "Time is respected." And that, where she is from, or what she, is "familiar with" (she chose to use this word ..) I thought she made sense, and I knew what she means.

We talked for a minute, and then we both actually realized the only thing we wanted was each other.

We both admitted we were lonely.

She said she was so sad about how mean Faik was to her. He was mean about her face, and she said it was "so nice" how I was to "be nice" to her. She told me that she was glad she had me, and in her life.

I smiled, and told her it was okay. I would be helping her, no matter what, because it's the way I am.. I told her, I know a lot of other people aren't that nice. But I am, actually, instead of a lot of other people. I knew I was different, and did more than other other people usually did with their effort to protect, or satisfy the safety of just another 'student' at school .. or, so it seemed.

I really wanted to make sure she was safe, and also happy.

I knew she had to go to school.

I just kind of knew it was important.

She had to know I was telling the truth.

Thought she was acting excited, and talking with a big grin about how nice she thought I was, I got up out of my seat on the high dorm room bed, that was so elevated in the back-part of the room, and walked over to the wooden desk at the other end of the black sheets, where a lamp illuminated the wooden area, that was with the Fostex device on top of it.

I showed her where the song was on the drive, and she looked at the title. It said the words, "I like you.wav" as the title, but I acted like it was just a sublime thing. I gave her the headphones, and she listened to the song, after I hit the play button, with the headphones on. She held the headphones with her hands the whole time, like she was gripping them to her head. I watched as she listened to the song, and yet her face was in the dark, so I couldn't really see her face or expression. The smile I thought she had was on her face, and she just said the same word.

"So .."

"So .."

And I kissed her, because I knew what she was meaning to say.

I was holding her hand, and put my arm around her back, and pressed her close to my body, and also pressed mine against hers. My chest against hers, and felt her life-force directly against me. I felt her body, all over, actually. I placed my hands lower, and kissed her a little bit longer. She might've felt surprised at how experienced, and ready I was.

We almost went straight for the bed, that night, but it was just a simple thing to try and have sex, when I knew that it was already too soon, also, so we were just happy to have each-other that night, admitting what we said to each other.

She looked happy, at the next time I saw her, with the look in her eyes, I was ready to tell her I was now working on new "lyrics."

I wrote a new song, or two. And they felt "good."

I told her, they were "written." "Full pages," I said.

She was only "naturally surprised." Because, she knew I was able to write them.

* * * * * * *

I already knew. The next day, that she was wearing her "white and black clothes" that I asked her to wear.

She looked sexier than anyone that day.

We went out to dinner. With me, and my dad in the back-seat. My mom talked cutely to Rumi, as she sat in the car's back seat, only "attempting" to commune with her in the same "English" we all knew, in Maine, in the state of so many hat-wearing hicks, and local alcoholics, while somehow the pretty Japanese girl in the back-seat, like a foreign artifact of mysterious ancient royalty, itself, was listening to me, maybe subconsciously, hearing me and him talking about random subjects in the front-seats, but all we really heard that entire car-ride was her Japanese sounding voice ..

She sounded so sweet.

Her honest, upper-register tones, I called them.

Sounded so beautiful to hear.

I was trying to be really quiet, and couldn't help but only pretend to talk to me dad, toward the end of the car-ride. He acted like I was "musing" or something. He even said her very name, the name "Ruminating" in a hateful, confused way. When I told him, I was just "thinking." He seemed unaware of his vodunic tactic, of the hatred so obviously-directed. I tried to be nice, but it was a hard thing to let go of the entire time we were eating, Chinese food ..

It was fine, over time.

I just wished he'd tried a little harder to let me use the headphones of my own that day.

It was just the same. I felt like it didn't matter, so much, because I knew a totally different person was wearing headphones recently, in a much better situation -- when I know I should've already felt protected from the mean guy in the left seat the whole time.

Randy S. stared up, over the road, beyond the driving wheel.

He looked with a glare, and didn't seem to have much to add to the subject of "Rumi."

I was going to spend time with her, a lot, though.

It was mysterious, how he drove past the hospital.

We drove past the big orange brick buildings, and that very day I first met Rumi with my parents involved, it was also strange how he seemed to drive past the Dorothea Dix mental hospital, "on accident."
"You know, Rumi."

I anarchistically just stated in the back-seat.

"America is kind of a cult prison country, and it's a bit of a police state. You'll just have to put up with my dad. He's a serious asshole."

She listened and carefully responded, within all truth, with the words, "Okay Brendan. I will remember your father is a asshole."

We kept driving, and he slapped the car driving wheel.

He said, "Brendan..!" "What did you do that..! For..!" I said, what..? First in my mind, and then the words, "say what..?" He said "She's Japanese..! She doesn't know what that means..!"

"Ok .."

Naively, and also her, we gullibly smiled within the car.

He faked his way all the way to the Chinese food place already knew the location of, since it was located in the Bangor Mall itself, back then.

We walked in, and ordered the Chinese food, that was in a crimson-red glow of the modern-day Chinese food place, and the fool was ignored for most of the meal, while mostly just me, and Rumi, and my mom talked, with big smiles on our faces.

This is true.

* * * *

"I want to move in to the dorm more."

"I don't want to stay home, or go home for so many weeks at a time, or even weekends."

"I want to just stay at the dorm now." I told her, my mom that day. She understood. It was an early day in September. The next semester. ..
These strange recurrence of letters, also seem natural.

I looked at my watch, and thought of the book "Dante's Inferno" (for some reason), and I looked inside of my mind as I closed my eyes.

I took a powerful hit of Salvia, and the "trip report" (what my subconscious mind) told me that day, and this is also true, I erased the memory of my father and us at the restaurant, and only remembered that in regards to my feelings that day, I simply had taken too much.

The memory was black, instead, and I felt great the next day.

I also took some mushrooms, after, and the misery was gone altogether, soon.

I felt good, smoking weed with some of my friends after, too.

We all talked about whatever wanted that night.

Matt, Rumi, and me were in the dorm room one night ..

I didn't even know it.

It was one of the nights before she and I even met in the first place ..

Sadu, the African guy down the hall, as well as Gordon, and maybe another dude were invited in. I was passed out on my dorm room bed. Matt said, really drunk, though I only caught it in my subconscious mind.

"I got drunk and high with that guy..!"

He laughed.

"I know, dude you know." "You know what i mean..?!" "We tripped on mushrooms together. That's Bruce Lee." Rumi smiled, but she just said something, and started to turn the music up loud. She wanted to wake me up, but I didn't get up. I was passed out, and kept lying motionless, drunk on the mattress. "Dude, wake up, Lee..!" They all joked around about it, but I was too drunk to get up. They all laughed. Rumi was dancing, and they all partied that night like it was a preemptive celebration of some kind, like celebrating something that hadn't happened yet.

Rumi said, "I was with Matt. Biff. And Gordone..!" "No," I said. "His name is Gor-Dun.." And she said, "OH.!" And I said "I was asleep..?" And she said, "No..!" "You were DRUNK..!" I laughed, and said, "no. Just say I was asleep. It sounds better. Sounds healthier." "Oh." She laughed.

"Okay." She said. Looking a little bedazzled at me, all of a sudden, "I understand," she said, and "winked" really cutely at me. I was amazed at how cute it was. I didn't expect her to wink at me ..

I was cute, in response, also, it sounded like.

She really loved me a lot, I think. And I just met her. I really thought so, though.

She seemed like she was supposed to meet me ..

I really liked her, too.

We spent the day together, at first.

We watched a movie on the grass, when one was "broadcasted" on the field, only a few minutes of it. It was fun, even for just a little while.

Then we went back to my dorm room, and sat on a bench outside of Bell Hall and talked.

I told her, "It's okay to do this."

I got up, and sat on top of the table itself.

"What..!" "No." She said, "I said. Yes. It isn't that bad." She said, "Okay."

She sat on the top of the table with me.

We talked, while on the table and secretly, I knew we were slightly freer, and more able to say the words we really wanted to.

I didn't want to tell her, though. I just wanted to fake cool the whole time so she would be as direct with me as possible ..

I smiled a lot.

We told each other, in a mutual agreement we liked how it was to be together all day.

She started to visit me, and come over more. We talked a lot more, and over time the entire time at college seemed to be blended together.

I don't even really remember all that many memories of me and her, except that we were together for a real long time at school.

We spent time together, a lot.

In the darkness of my dorm room, I remember a lot of memories ..

She was so sexy.

She had this "style of black" I just never saw on other girls.

We had a cool connection in the dining hall. I think we connected well in front of others.

She was really quiet sometimes.

She and I even had a few dinners, where I think neither one of us talked. We might have smiled, I guess, but there were maybe a few (to be honest) awkward times when we ate in the dining hall when I even mentally, while also stoned, literally couldn't come up with a thing to say.

She just stared at me, and seemed like she wanted to ask, if I was confused. She said, "Are you okay..?" I laughed, finally, and just said. "I'm sorry." I laughed. I said, "It's still a . ." I wanted to say 'a lot of Japanese I need to learn' or the other way around about English, but it was true I really wasn't having a good day that day. I decided to lie, and just said I was 'really high.'

She acted like it was cool, but she could tell I wasn't getting the best vibes at school. She admitted that I seemed kind of sad, so I told her maybe we should just do the same exact thing, and eat "at the exact same time tomorrow" and make sure we are able to connect, and re-do the entire experience, saying we would re-memorialize the moment, of one of our first dinner dates together, because I felt like it was a bad memory to remember.

She admitted this seemed interesting, and didn't seem so sad.

We ate at the same time the next night, and talked more.

I was less high, and less angry. I cogently thought about what words, and what thoughts and phrases I should use, this time, to really get a response, and know what she really would respond to, and understand what I would mean. We got to a point over time where she admitted she would be open to learning new words and more English through me. I taught her a lot that day, actually, and she learned a few entire phrases, and found herself saying, "You seem like you could be a writer..!" She said. I said, "Oh .." And acted modest about my mental ability with words, but it was kind of true I was okay at writing when I was young. She spent time with me more at the dining hall, and more and more, it actually was almost one or two weeks, her English, to me, was "perfect."

She and I were able to talk almost perfectly, back and forth, in almost exactly two weeks. We ate dinner together each and every night, for every day, for two weeks and the lyrics I would write at the dining hall, also while high, I had to admit were sometimes abstract, and looking at the pages, she laughed and said how it was cool I wrote in tiny perfect handwriting. I also noticed she had handwriting like mine.

The way I grounded myself was with my lyrics, when I was in a certain place I felt uncomfortable. She listened to my songs, more and more. I spoke a lot faster to her, over time, also she she had no problem with this.

It seemed like, the entire idea of our relationship was a perfect concept, if we were somehow "meant to meet each-other in America" from two different places, so that we could somehow merge our cultures, through a united understanding of language all by itself.

This was a powerful idea, and I kept the thought to myself.

Then and there, I felt like I could maybe be with her forever. She excited me, and I really wanted to just tell her how beautiful her eyes were to me, how excited I was to see her smile, and to have her energy around me, close to my body, and feel the heat of her touch, the noticeable curves of her smile, and how pretty she looked in the winter-time.

I think I told her, once, maybe subconsciously.

She was so sweet in the winter, it was true.

* * * * * * *

I got up, one morning, and wrote a lyric down.

It was early in the morning. About 5 A.M. But it felt like 6 P.M. in a way. The rain-clouds outside were dark, and I was the only one outside. I went outside of my dorm, and looked up, and around the area. The fields, and campus seemed very dark, and empty .. the lone ominous feeling was like a pre-expected moment, in a weird way. I felt like it was new, in a expected way.

I went back inside, and reflected on the lyric.

It was a re-write, of an earlier lyric, something called, "Diaphanous" that I barely remembered.

It wasn't all that good, but it kept me thinking about it.

I went back in side, and it was a good day to just think.

Rumi came over a little later that day, and I thought about how it was going to be in the future.

"I want to go far with my life." I told her.

She was lying on the other side of my bed.

I looked at her, with my notepad in my hand. "I wrote this lyric." I showed her the paragraph, and she looked it over. "Looks nice..!" and she seemed happy. She didn't read it, though. She seemed to register the greatness of the lyric, though ..

Sometimes, I'd get angry at her, even though we were just starting out ..
I miss how this used to be not so bad, compared to how it "can" be between us.

Now, in future imaginings, I am already so sure she may never stop loving me, but I get so angry at her sometimes, and I just want to run away.

Somehow, though .. she is more like the other kind of girl.

Still, she is more like the girl you would be "running to." As opposed to the rest. As if on a rainy day, still .. you'd find yourself the one trying to get to her, and working as hard as you can to make sure she's okay, and that you're with her.

If the world isn't right. ..

If the world isn't right, you'd want to make it right before you connect with her.

It's that important of a relationship ..

I thought of my history teacher, once, randomly, I remember.

I told her, while looking out the window on my bed. "I think he was like Hercules."

I looked at the inner image-photo of him in my mind. He was telling me about Marc Antony. I knew how to spell the name. I didn't know why.

"He looks like Sean Connery."

She smiled.


* * * * *

Walking through the snow, me and Rumi were traversing the campus grounds one day.

Everything was covered in snow.

The entire campus was. I looked around, and thought. "This is a sort of nice area." Over time, I thought of living off-campus, with a apartment of our own.
We looked up a few places, and very soon, me and Rumi got our own apartment to live in, on Husson avenue.

We got a good place to stay near the school, and lived there for an entire year together. We bought groceries together, and eventually got very settled in, and knowing each-other well . . . I over time had drunken nights. She woke me up in the "big chair" in the living room, once. I convinced her to drink with me once. It was  this licorice-flavored stuff called "Midori" but she didn't even like it, so I drank it myself, and just passed out. When she woke me up, I kept repeating, "What's happening..?"

She was a pretty sweetly-dressed girl.

She never really was all that big or mean, so to speak. She wore cute clothes. I liked the way she was, that dark smell. She had a polyester scent. Like a cat, with clean fur, with her always-knew clothes, and good-smelling style .. it was kind of absurd, how much better than other smells she herself had.

I looked at her, sitting against the couch one morning, starting to laugh in a giggle, while I was off to the side. She was grinning at the TV. The Berenstein bears was on TV, and she laughed. "Brendan. Have you seen this show..?" I said, "Yes." "I used to watch that show, I mean .. I used to read the books." "The name is weird."

"I said, yes."

"It's spelled like a German name..?"

I said, "Yes."

"With an E, and not an A."

"Yes," I said. "This is a very natural way to spell this..?" I confirmed.

We went outside.

Burying our feet in the grass, next summer. I remember watching the Berenstein bears with her that morning, and I felt so offended when I watched the movies I saw that summer, for some reason. The commercials were so loud, and the industry was competing with me so much, just from school. I over time revelated, "maybe I should just go independent" a few times.

She agreed, "this might be for the best," the way I felt my own way, and didn't really want to do anything in the world, except for my own art, and passion.

"The world is real. Really in need of a better, more natural approach to music and engineering."

Rumi agreed. She could tell I  had a good idea about proper engineering.

Over time, I worked on songs, just to get a "sound."

(It was about the process) ..

And, this really impressed her.

She seemed to notice how hard I was working on music.

School was less and less exciting, while I did more engineering at home, back at the apartment, with Rumi to my side, and that lame school over there. I cared for them less and less. Finally, one night, the commercials on TV were really loud.

It was channel 7.

ABC News blared a bad commercial about "new shaving gel."

(I turned off the TV, and really annoyed, said nothing, while I walked quietly over to the studio, almost to prove a point, and simply recorded one of the best guitar tracks I'd ever recorded in my entire life a moment later).


* * * * *


(It was called Da Lewp.wav)

"Brendan. Your ukulele playing is Good." Rumi said.

"You should take your music really far .." She said. She smiled, as I played a song just for her that night. ..

I specially-tuned the strings.

They were gently tuned to F. A slight minor tuning, that was a more dissonant semi-A tone. It sounded light, yet beautiful on the Uke. I noticed this (to me) really felt more like "love" than a lot of other tones ..

"Rumi."

She listened to me, in half-monotone, she called it. (Her neuroacoustic state) .. she called it, her Inner Mind. I said, 'I hear an idea coming on.' She listened for what I'd say, "what if I went to the moon. Like literally, like. An astronaut .. somehow. What if I went a different direction with my engineering some day."

"And .. it wasn't all about music."

She looked forward, into space.

Pondering, it almost seemed like she'd respond.

"Yes. That is actually possible."

I said, "You really think so ..?"

She affirmed me, "Brendan. The way you use a computer."

"I think you should Try to go to the moon."

I looked up, and smiled.

It was the day after I'd tripped on mushrooms in front of her.

Although I'd messed up pretty bad the previous day, by thinking I needed "shrooms" to stay happy in my own apartment, when I had a "Japanese girl" as my girlfriend, and I wanted my own bottle of wine in the fridge, while able to smoke weed freely while I went to college, only a few short steps down the road to reach the separate dorms, and private 'buildings for learning.' I still had to quench my thirst for addiction later on.
She seemed serious, and more en mode with the idea of  telling me, that, "going to the moon is much better, and probably healthier than the drugs you do."

I looked up, and thought about it.

She looked at me, and said, "If you didn't take a single break."

"From here .. after all of this. All of that we have experienced .."

"You would be able to. With this excitement. This power."

She had heard my song, Da Lewp.wav, now an .mp3, I turned into a CD, and saved on file. She heard the power of the song ..

There was something about the "way" it sounded.

She listened to it, again, and re-affirmed me. It was some of the best "sounding music" she had ever heard.

I listened to it, and again I felt the same urge, or / inspiration, to .. just .. maybe get to the moon somehow some day.

I felt every motive increasing in power. I felt renewed. In my writhing sense, I wanted more. In my very "wits" I felt increased of power. I felt more interested in the words I wrote. I started to write some down, and soon I was inspired to keep it up, to the point of a higher line. I wanted to say it out loud. I thought about it a little more, and I realized, Yes. It is possible to go to the moon, probably. For a human being, with modern-day technology that is equipped in such a way, the same way a satellite gets shot into space -- that stays in orbit. If a satellite can be directed into space .. with all these wi-fi cables, lines, and connections, and networks .. how powerful all of this can be. The mega-technology in its strange, yet perplexingly hi-tech white appearance all the time. The way technology appeared to be more interesting over the years, and how exciting, even if the idea of "getting to the moon" didn't strike me as exotic anymore than just exciting, the still far-away feeling, though only so possible, I thought of as real. The idea felt as though a real possibility, or so I realized .. it was a fun idea to have, to test the idea, and at least strive for this goal. I wanted to know.

The truth. To know more, I wanted to get somewhere first.
I knew where the idea was absurd, of course.

I was just a college student at the time.