18 December 1996

(Brown Journal Excerpt 3 - Middletown, CT)

Rain was like a strange sheet of cold moisture yesterday. It wasn’t really even drops. It was so light. But, I was heavy. I was weighed down by my bags, but also by stress. I knew I would miss my bus. As I walked/jogged/ran through the mist, I started to hurt. Cars passed by, their headlights laughed at me, their engines yelling at me to hurry. But the rain told me to slow down.

I couldn’t make it. I wanted to cry, but the sky was already crying for me. I was angry at everyone I saw. Why didn’t they help me? Where do they have to go that is so important? I had to get home!

As I approached the train station… Train station? I mean bus station. When I got about a block away, the bus passed me by. I yelled at it. I yelled at the rain. I yelled at the green light dangling in the air in a metal skull, winking at me and telling the bus to pass.

I sat in the station after putting all my bags on the floor. People were boarding busses outside. Does buses have two “S”s? No, it’s buses. So, I walk up to this glass window, and there is a young woman inside on the phone. All I have is this metal circle with lines through it so she can hear me.

“Excuse me?”

“Blah blah blah,” she is babbling on the phone.

She tells me I missed my bus, but there’s another at 7:25. Thank God.

“Can I keep my bags in the office with you?”

(Then, after asking the boss): “No, because of security reasons.”

My bags grinned at me. My back was angry, so was I. I sat down, burying my face in my corduroys. Minutes passed. A strange man entered the room. He was talking to himself, I think. Some other sketchy motherfucker had asked me for a quarter- to buy a ticket. A quarter to buy a ticket. What did he take me for? I gave it to him. He went to the bathroom with it. The man was staring at me.

“Is that a guitar?”
“Yep.”

The last thing I wanted to do was talk to that man. He was older, stupid-looking, nice though. I was just mad.

“I… I used to play guitar. I was pretty good. See, my mom was paying for my lessons. I took lessons for two years, I learned the basics.”

I noticed a strange hole in his neck. It was like someone pushed something thin- like a pencil- and the skin had partially closed up like quicksand.

“I am interested in classical guitar,” he said.

“Oh yeah?”

The woman from inside came out of the door and began speaking to me.

“I live two blocks down, and my husband is there. You can bring your stuff there.”

“Can I see your guitar?” he said.

“Really? That would be great!” I said.

“I had a Gibson, but I haven’t played it in a couple of years-“

“Here’s my number,” she continued. “Do you know where the First Wok Restaurant is?”

“No,” I said.

“What kind of guitar is that?” he continued.

“Two blocks down that way,” she pointed.

I opened the case to show him my guitar. He touched the pick-up switch, and clicked it back and forth.

“You at school?” he asked.

“Yeah, Wesleyan.” I felt as if I was going to pass out. My head was heavy and was collapsing my neck.

“Oh, I welcomed new Wesleyan students to Middletown. You guys are great for our city.” He said something like that. It made me feel awkward. I am not a commodity to Middletown; I barely even go there.

“Do you need help with your bags?”

“No.”

I picked up my stuff. He asked a few more times and I said no. He said “you just want to succeed, that’s good.” Okay... He got the door for me.

I had a strange feeling about going to that woman’s house, but went anyway. A big black man was waiting with the door open. He said hello, but not much else. I followed him up a stairwell. It looked pretty shitty. I walked into his small apartment. There was a big bed to my left, a television in front of me, a Lazy Boy chair in which he sat, drinking a 40, a nice Christmas tree, a table with a couple chairs, and a tiny kitchen. I stood stupidly.

“Sit down, man.”

I took off my coat and hat. I sat at the table. There were Newports on the table. I don’t know why, but I asked for one. I asked for a light. I smoked about half of it before I said anything.

“Are you hungry?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“Do you want me to get you something at Burger King or something?”

“There’s a Chinese place downstairs if you want Chinese.”

“Okay.”

I got up, and he gave me the key to his apartment, saying “you’ll have to get back in.” I walked outside into the rain. I felt like I was part of the city. I got into this tiny Chinese place, and there was a television on. It was hidden behind the counter, so it was strange- it was just sound. There was a little boy watching it. He just stood there. I ordered, then sat down and started playing the nose whistle.
*

“That was good,” he said with a mouthful of food.

Maurice had finished his meal. Mine was disgusting. It was all onions. I had to get out of there- he just sat there watching Ricki Lake, silently. I looked at the tree. There were a lot of red ribbons, and two small stockings. One said “Hannah,” the other "Maurice." I turned. On the fridge was a couple computer print-outs. “Hannah and Maurice forever” said one. “Bang head here” said another.

It was time to go.

04 October 1996

(Brown Journal Excerpt 2 - "Coming Down")

I’m coming down off of a bizarre galaxy ride in this one room, with tapestry stars and smoke, and strange smiling faces who look familiar, yet as foreign as a stranger in a dream. But, that’s what this is.

I think it’s this tape. It helped me through last winter, and guided me through the spring into the summer. It said goodbye to my friends when I left for this place, so far away from everything I know. Except, I am still me, and this music hasn’t changed.

Why am I on a different level? Sometimes, it makes things so difficult for me. Other times, everything is so easy. Am I a strange soul? Do I belong somewhere else? I am not the only one, don’t get me wrong. But, my energy doesn’t mix with certain types of energy; it doesn’t mix with certain people’s vibes. It clashes to the point where I laugh (most of the time), or where I absolutely have to leave (not so much). But, for real, what is it?

I’ve had this conversation before, too. Since I had it with David, I didn’t feel too bad. See, he and I think a lot alike. It’s sort of scary. What does that mean? What does it mean to be alike? Is it that we are of the same energy? Is it that our souls have reached the same plateau, or that they are on parallel levels on the staircase of ascension? Does it get any higher? I think it can, but I am not sure. That’s me talking, not rationality. That’s me, who is a real me, not a fraudulent kid. But it’s also arrogant me, which scares a lot of the me’s into a state of questioning.

Am I really seeing things the way they are, or am I lying to myself, underestimating the world’s incredible (and- oh forget it!) ability to be relative. Oh- inside the parentheses above is a discarded thought. Forget it.

I don’t know. I think I am in a different realm. I don’t want to say higher, lower, sideways, upside-down, diagonal, or any shit- it’s just a different one. Some other kids are on It with me (some I’ve met here, in fact). But, is it too soon to know? With some friends, I always knew. Like, with Allen, with David, with Anna, with Jimmy, with all of those kids. I just know, and I’m not wrong. But fuck- that’s what I have to stop doing! I have to stop knowing! It’s hurtful. Cause, when you know anything, something will always contradict it, and then change it. Any time you know something… Or, rather… Wait. As soon as you know something (almost half- no- 100% of the time) you will either 1) question yourself saying “hold on, do I know this?” and no, you don’t, motherfucker; 2) find out you are wrong, cause when you know it, it’ll change before your eyes. Nothing is constant. Not even your heart is constant. It can speed up, slow down, or even stop. That’s what’s funny: nothing is consistent. That’s why I should accept everything, knowing I know nothing (sorry- thinking I know nothing). It’s not real bad to think, is it? It’s not. It doesn’t mean you believe, or know. Whatever, I have to sleep now. Tonight was just so weird. What a bunch of weird kids! I’m normal? I don’t know. If I’m normal, they are weird. If they are normal, I am crazy. That’s the only way I can put it in terms that you can understand, I guess. Who are you, anyway?

30 August 1996

(Brown Journal Excerpt 1 - "I'm Way Too High")

Let’s think of a word, or maybe concentrate on a thought in order to begin. There is no ignition to turn, we [or me] are not an engine like the one found in the sky blue jeep, an engine that helped us to get to the houses of the ones we love. Back home. What a foreign place- so beautiful and distant from the present white flannel blanket underneath as I scribble my brain’s explosions of thought onto a peach-lined page of empty space. Where am I going? An important question…

The minute I set foot on this campus I knew it was right. In fact, I remember making the sunshine with my mother when we visited this school. My intuition is paying off. My third eye is wide open, and I trust it’s visual messages to me. Beyond visual: the third eye is actually a window to visceral imagery that aids us in truly feeling the right things at the right moments. It’s nothing like an orgasm. I’m talking about feeling waves of reason which ultimately guide you to your goal.

Jesus Christ- this is spooky! I am afraid to expound on the thoughts in my head because I am using an abstract vocabulary of nonsensical metaphors and words of odd shape and size. All the letters form such a skeletal structure of potentially constructive ideas, it’s just that its (or rather, their) reader adds layers of skin, skin of their own biased soul.

I thought I wouldn’t try this at this particular point in time- a funny one (I can hear even the crickets laughing in a chorus composed of the night, the sky, the wet grass, and even the animals in my room)- but I will. Let me try and give a few ideas to you, and I hope you’lll (whoops, one “L” too many) soak them up.

I love it here. How else could that be described? I don’t believe that phrase could be clarified any more eloquently and precisely. And I just spelled “precisely” wrong on top of it. Maybe there are two “L”s or something. Anyway, this vibe I am experiencing, it’s all positive energy. So much intelli-
gence (and even people who can’t fit a simple word on a line) abound. Its abundancy leads to higher levels of experience- more beneficial for our journey.

Okay, let me describe it. Is it worth it? No, not really. I am too high right now to go into detail; however, I find it hilarious that my hand is still squeezing out random words like ink from a fruit of communication: the juice of blood running through my brain, and beginning these illogical thoughts. Man, I’ll tell you. I gotta stop this. I’m wasting paper, and my experiment is over, kid. Will I read this ever? Yeah. As humiliating as it will make me feel, I must remember this entry and the way I feel (I closed my eyes for that last word when I wrote it, sorry!).

I love it here! Fuck, (sorry for the Swahili), but it’s time to stop. Sorry to be redundant.

Goodnight you crazy motherfucker with cranberry eyes.