2004-12-08 - 9:22 a.m.

Current Tune: Via Chicago, Wilco.

I have this allergy to early mornings that forces my nose to produce kleenex load after kleenex load of snot for about 45 minutes every morning. I wake up, head for the shower, and about halfway through getting ready it starts. I can go through a box of kleenex in like 3 days.

I read an article yesterday about Elliott Smith. He was so distraught with his record label, and wanted out so badly, that he told the label he'd kill himself if they didn't let him break his contract. It wasn't til a label rep stopped by Smith's apartment and found the floor littered with crack pipes, heroin needles, and a noose actually hanging in the middle of the living room that they decided to let the guy out of his contract.

Is that all it takes to get your way these days? I'd be more than happy to dabble in a little drug use and decorate my room with a noose.

I'm gonna disappear for a while. Take a little roadtrip back to my roots and see if I can dig up any answers to all the questions a young man accumulates in this period of his life. I'm gonna visit some old friends, bunk with my brother, and most importantly lose myself in the wilderness that is my grandmother's property. I'm gonna let the rediculously sharp mountain air clean out my dirty lungs. Let the cold, crisp oxygen that floats off the top of mountains, sweep through my mouth, circulate my lungs, peel the blackness out of it until I vomit onto the snow-covered ground.

I'm gonna pry my eyes wide open and try to take in the entire paranoramic view of country and sky. I'm gonna strain my ears to hear every dog bark, every train passing, every slow screen door slam.

Cut every graden tomato perfectly. Fold every blanket carefully. Sip every whiskey slowly.

I want to see Christmas ligths punching through black. I want to be around the people who don't have to peel the layers off of me, they just shed naturally.

I love Christmas. It's not religious to me, it's not commercial to me, it's not overdone, underdone, or campy.

I guess I'm a simple man. A rooftop traced in white lights, a tree in the window, and a wreath. A warm hand to hold onto, soft dark eyes to stare into. Walking from house to house in overcoats, watching each other's noses and ears turn bright red. Christmas red. Forcing your way down the block, careening from ice patch to ice patch, promising "one more house, and then we'll go..."

Start thinking about your resolutions. Place them in the Guestbook.

"My mind is filled with radio cure."

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