All week I’ve been preparing to move into our new house, and I keep coming across all sorts of neat stuff I had completely forgotten about. I was just in the attic, where I found a really nice looking spiral bound notebook. “I wonder what’s in this?” I thought to myself as I opened it.
Before I show you what it contains I’d like to point out that if Jer ’97 knew that Jer ’06 was going to publish it on the internet, he’d probably not be terribly pleased. Luckily somewhere between ’97 and ’06 I learned the importance — no, necessity — of humor at your own expense.
What I found is sort of a hodgepodge of snippets of thought, some potential song lyrics (Jer ’97 wanted to be a singer/songwriter), and what very seriously appears to be Bad Goth Poetry. I never really fell into the pit of Gothitude, but I teetered on the bone-strewn precipice for a while. I wish my scanner wasn’t packed away so you could see it in its full glory, but you’ll have to settle for a transcription of the best bits.
This first bit seems to be like, ‘deep thoughts’ or something that I wanted to expand upon later:
the bones you fear support your existence,
the skull that leers contains your hopes, fears and dreams
I have a vague memory of this, and what I was trying to get across is the idea that people find skeletons and bones and whatnot to be frightening, yet without them you wouldn’t be terribly productive.
Potentially goth poem:
put your nose to the grind
you’ll be surprised that you find
a hole where you once had a nose
definitely goth poem:
drowning, sinking. floundering about.
fight to stay atop, prolong as long as you can.
you wear tired, realizing that soon you will float.
another worse one, which was probably supposed to be lyrics eventually, based on the little rhyme in the middle:
you’ve got everything on a plate
your bubble tinted shades of pink
you’ve got life by the balls, or so you think
when in actuality you’re in the ball,
a tinted lens between you and the world.
what happens when that bubble breaks?
I actually like this one, which might say a bit about me:
where can you go?
to whom can you run?
can you pursuade the whole world,
with that matte finished gun?
will they listen?
do they care?
will they follow you there?
This one is kind of a stream of consciousness thing, and judging by the degredation of my already horrible penmanship, I really got going towards the end:
mental images, not thought but told
flashing through consciousness in response
to emotion-controlling imagery, which
has been engineered to tell, to fool,
to confuse thinking with passively being told,
actively doing nothing, believing you feel
when you are simply responding to
(editor’s note: this next bit is fuckin’ awesome. emphasis is added now)
Spielbergian propagandist imagery designed to make money.
I got a chuckle out of this:
why do we fear that which we don’t understand?
what is it that causes such intolerant behavior?
am I intolerant of the intolerance of others?
why?
Then in awesomley nonplannedness, a page containing only the following:
croatoan
roanoke
In case that doesn’t mean anything to you, you could google it. The fact that my little abandoned notebook ends with this is probably one of my most favorite things ever. I’m actually wondering now if I did that on purpose. I highly doubt I was that clever, but I’d really like to think I was.
