spaghetti war crimes

Crying babes birthed from the mother’s flesh rejoice in glorious ecstasy at their own ignorance of the human condition. Light, in all of its fragments and rays, penetrate through each holy begotten iris and illuminate the geometrical intricacies that cover a barren desert of soon to be upside down images, things past and forgotten. A yelp of joy - no, pain; is it sorrow? - resounds off the hollow walls of the operating room.  Flesh on flesh. The spilling of blood. The groans of birthing pangs rise forth.  This is not a different theme but a second movement in the same symphony. Worlds collide and gather for mass, as mitosis takes effect.  I am he and he is she and we are all doomed to the same fate.  The fate of dirt. Even that bundle of flesh, bones, arteries, and all, that creature who has just graced the Surface must endure the same end as me and you.  So what? the apprentice asks her teacher. So, what is it all for? Look out before you, then look inside of ...

Long day for a minimum day. Subbed for Jana today. Her class is always tricky. They take a lot of patience and energy. Fucking talkative bunch. After work I hung with Hayden and that was fun. We went to Roosevelt Coffee, and it was good. Chatted and did bits and laughed; like always. That really cute barista was there. I think she recognized me despite the drastic haircut cause when we made eye contact, her eyes lit up a bit. I want to try and ask for her number or something but don’t wanna blow up the spot.  She’s real beautiful. I bet she smells great. Like fresh laundry and juniper and persimmons. Light and airy but flowery as well. I want to hear her talk more. I’ve only heard her say a few words. I want to hear her curse and be angry and shout and whisper and laugh and mutter and exclaim and laugh. Really laugh. 

Andy and I have been surfing a lot more lately. At least more this year compared to last. We surfed Doheny last Friday and had a blast. The wave was super weird; I didn’t remember it being like that, but then again, the last time–and first time–I surfed there was ages ago with Dylan and Emma. It was a very slow wave and continued to move towards shore without breaking until it crashed up on the lip of rocks about five feet from the receding edge of the water. Once while we were out, a couple set waves came in, not too big but still, they were set waves, and I paddled frantically to get over them. I did this once or twice and then for some reason, probably because of the tide and how slowly the waves were breaking that day, an idea popped into my mind: “we’ll get there eventually.” I can talk about it more later but all the thinking I’ve been doing on mortality kind of sprung up from my subconscious in this moment I feel like. Yes, I wasn’t talking metaphorically in that exact momen...

Sunday, June 22nd 2025 – 3:58pm I’m not a brilliant person. I’m not intelligent, not even that smart. I’m just not proud enough to convince others that I’m some paragon. I’m not brave or honorable or anything of that manner. I’m just weak enough to admit this. I’m a child in the body of a small man, and I say that with no tongue in cheek or resentment to any soul living or passed on because I am not proud. I am me. My ego has died; I have a small bit left over, but day in and day out, I continually work to extinguish whatever sad dribble of it that exists. I am not anything. I am naive, naieve? I’m not even sure how to spell it. I wish for nothing but to enjoy my days in peace.  

sometimes you feel so low and you don’t know why you feel like the world is apathetic to your existence  and if you were gone tomorrow, nothing would change of course, you’d be right but, you’d also be wrong the stock market would still open and close at its usual times the tides would still come in and out the sun would rise and fall, and when the sun departed, the stars and moon would come out to take its place these things would remain the same, but your mother would not your father would not your brothers and sister would be changed your best friend would look upon their reflection in the mirror with blackened hues the light will still shine in your room, but it will be a different light different because it will never touch your skin again the world would be similar but not the same

I fucking hate chess. I don’t know why I suck at it so much. Like, it’s a simple concept: capture their pieces without letting them steal your pieces. So simple but I suck so fucking much. So much! Anyways. Yesterday I went to dinner with one of the girls staying in my hostel room. Her name, I think, was Tsinhe. She’s from China. I first said hi to her two days ago and we spoke very briefly. Then yesterday when I got back from skating, I showed her some of the clothes I bought and got to know her a bit more. I made a little show of pretending to try on the clothing items. It awarded me with a few laughs. I wanted to go to this Chinese place for dinner cause they had rice and miso soup, and I thought that’d be best for my upset stomach. I felt bad asking the Chinese girl to a Chinese restaurant, but I was curious about her. Turns out as we were walking there, the restaurant named Bento Copenhagen is not Chinese but in fact Japanese. Yep. Nice Brennan. When we got there, we realized we ...

Unrequited (adj.): not returned or reciprocated Love (n.): a profoundly tender, passionate affection, often mingled with sexual desire, for another person Many years ago, I gave a girl I loved a book for her birthday; and since I loved her, I couldn’t just give her any ordinary book. Well, the book was ordinary enough, but I felt that I must imbue it with some special quality. Since I didn’t know any spells or incantations at the time, I settled on something a bit less fantastic. I started on the first page of the book and circled a word, then I continued farther down the page and circled another. Turning the first page, my eyes skimmed the second as I searched for more words to circle. Word by word, I began piecing together a poem for this girl I loved, hidden in plain sight. I got to around the 20th page before I was content with my conglomeration of appropriated words and phrases. I gave her the book and waited for days, then weeks, then months for a text or call or facetime. I don’...

I miss being surrounded by creative people. I find myself many times a day, here at home, being deeply driven to create: Draw, write, photograph, zine, record, whatever outlet it is, but I have no one to collaborate with. Maybe the word collaborate isn’t even the correct word. I have no one to be with creatively. In Uni, I was constantly around people that were creating. Literature and writing majors; graphic design and art majors; Even some of the history majors had a creative bone in their body. At school I was never lacking inspiration from creatives around me, but now that I find myself graduated and back at home in the city I grew up in, I find there to be something missing.  Back in the apartment at Loma, I could be reading a book or watching a skate video, and the barometric reading of my creativity would undoubtedly rise. Slowly. A front disaster… up two units. A beautifully constructed parallel sentence… up three units. A cinematic B-roll shot… up another unit.  Then...