this is a journal entry

anarchist's picture

I went to the Renaissance fair yesterday, and saw some things. I also got a handmade journal with actual paper, instead of that gross machine-made acidic stuff, so I've started writing my poems in there rather than the other old book I was using. I'll possibly go back to that one after this new one's filled up, but that may be a while. I'd post some poems here, but there are a lot of them, and they borrow a lot of phrases from each other, so it's sort of like I'm just revising, compiling, and expanding on them, and I don't know what I'll end up with.

My school year sucks so far. I only have one class with someone I know, and you know who that is. And we also sit far apart, so we don't get to talk at all. I'm just tired and bored all day with nothing to do and no friends. Everybody around me just seems boring and too normal to even be worth talking to. During lunch I just walk around school and do nothing. It feels very lonely. Even lonelier than when I just stayed at home all day.

I just keep relistening to a track I'm working on, but I can't figure out what it needs, so I haven't worked on it in days.

I just received a parcel in the mail from a very good Canadian folk punk musician. It contained a CD, some moss, a patch with a drawing on it (supposedly drawn by one of his friends), a receipt from a store written over by the musician, a very personal and depressing letter about rain, some sort of ad that's covered with too much mud to make out, a self portrait by someone else, a Magic card, and a pack of his blood. I'm not sure what to do with the blood, but it's all dried up, so it isn't messy. The package also said that it included a cigarette, but I didn't see one in there. I wouldn't have smoked it anyway. Probably.