Forshizzle's Posts

We are really not all that different, we are both people who really don't meet people. This is probably because of our own faults. These things need to be corrected in my opinion but we are both stubborn or maybe passive is a better word (well is it for you). I've been trying to change or at least adapt these last few years and really I have no idea how. People seem resistant and I count you among them but frankly you should have the time. You can be almost impossible to draw out and I hope you can see that I have tried/am trying. Even you have to think its a bit odd that I have to wait until your completely sleep deprived to talk about anything. Why lie and say you haven't read my letters? Why not just say you have nothing to say? I feel that this is all coming off as too aggressive but its hard. I've been trying to get to know everyone I knew in high school. I see you falling for all the girls I had crushes on in high school and you know what I think to myself? Thats incest. Its the lack of people we know and really they all are beautiful and it's almost a pity as it keep me complacent. Well then what advice do I have for you? Well its not a lot and I'm not sure how useful it will be. Get your drivers license and get out a bit and act when ever possible. I'd rather regret doing something then regret doing nothing and I always regret doing nothing. (actually this might conflict with advice I've given in the past and I think my error was there and not here). I'm surprised you had such a good time in Japan actually. I mostly find that things are mostly the same everywhere and that there is immeasurable beauty where I am. . . but then again I don't get out much ether. I like to talk big, I like to play the sage and it all works out when I'm questioned constantly, when nothing I say is taken as solid. I don't know how much more I have to say at the moment and I feel that this letter was rather weak. . . Well I'll respond to every question and every response as soon as I can.

** This is a letter I wrote to Brittany a few days ago and I am posting it here with her blessing. This is an old story told here with far too much poetry and far too little truth but I do hope somebody gets something out of my rambling style.**

"I seem to be addicted to something that doesn't really exist.
I have embarked upon withdrawal
and I am very fearful of what the withdrawal symptoms will be."

This has been the mantra since I left high school. Religion is a powerful thing and a powerful thing to be with out. Religion is a natural absence a void. Religion ushers creation into being. This is why I am the way I am here. I lack nothing. I, precisely and there is no over stating this, lack nothing. I lack this void, this view that there holes that need filling, or at least I have lost most of the things that used to remind me. Now I have the ideal that we should all be able to know each other (or at least a few of us could know each other). I seem to have lost hope in it, maybe not completely but the meat of it is gone and the bones are brittle. I falsely remember what was. I remember studying film and books and the night. I remember actually being forced a few times a day to be social, though I'm not sure I remember it fondly. And I remember talking, really talking, frequently. That frequency is no longer frequent, it is some static value and, as such, holds no value. I seem to be drawn towards what was (or what I convince my self what was). I'm too obsessive about such things and I fear how these obsessions make me look. I often fear you'll be jealous because she is in my dreams more often. Though I've known you to be stronger and more understanding then that, I still fear it to be true. It's a real shock being here now. Gross's mom said once that all I have ever done was talk and I guess thats strange but thats how I lived for years. Then after grade school I didn't get enough so I turned to books, movies and Andrew to fill the void. . . the Religion I had been all but excommunicated from. Of course this is after being gloriously depressed and starting the cultivation of my (self-reliant/anti-social) tendencies. I learned to wait in jr. high. I found that I could destroy my self with thought, that enough of it would make me ill and that I still preferred it to some people. . . they made me ill too. And after high school it all happened again. It was her again the high-priestess herself excommunicated me this time by handgun and by bloodshed was I excommunicated. Despite my will I could no longer pray in that church. I had no time to, and no willing brothers and sisters. And I can't look back for fear of losing what little of me is normal and turning completely to salt. Not to say I don't dream of it, half (and only half) unwillingly. But that is how we got to talking it was her again. It's always her that knocks me so fantastically off guard and who has convinced me to drop my guard entirely. . . Not that I've managed to implement that conviction. And all my work has done me so little good. It allows me to be wounded by those would-be brothers and sisters who I would give everything for and who seem to have no more then a passing interest in me. And so be it! 'So be it!' I chant again and again. Excommunicated and shattered what else is there to chant? Somewhere I have a brother and I have you. But I still lack that void, I need to be reminded of my Religion and those reminders are few. Sex is one and I hope that doesn't sound crass. But like all too many things there is more in it then there seems to be for other people. The future it rolled up into it and there is something tantric in it. A slightly false religion to be sure but not completely without merit. So forgive me my masculine transgressions because they are few to begin with. Most people have a hard time thinking of me as anything but sexless. Sex is nothing, precisely nothing, and conveys want almost without target for me. So forgive me if I seem depressed or distant. I am void-less and drifting and without Religion. But I am OK I have you, my love who will read my rantings and hopefully understand the sentiment among all the misleading words.

In the interest of posting something here are two of my recent letters demonstrating how completely bi-polar I’ve become in my isolation up here. Notice that they are only hours apart. Though this is nothing new. Comments more then appreciated.

6/10/2007 Jeff Forshée
“The Dark Broadcaster.”

I never feel like walking around at night here. I always used to back home. Why am I such a failure as a person? Other people can get along to some degree. From the vary begging though I’ve only been kin to people who turn to drugs, who are just generally unknowable, who are cold, or who (in my mind) have committed acts of horrible violence. The few I’m left with are not enough though I am truly thankful. . . For both of you. . . The night sky seems to hold only sorrow for me. . . Maybe it would be different if it weren’t framed by my window. I won’t find out for awhile its hard to drag myself out side. . . No one interests me out here, they seem hollow. . . Maybe I make them hollow. They don’t seem to think like me. I’m sick of always being the only one of me in a room and I wish this didn’t cause me to think I’m better then these people. How many words do you speak a day? You know I said something to the TV today and then felt horribly depressed. . . It was the third best conversation I would have that day. If it weren’t for Brittany I wouldn’t speak at all. I might through my voice out giving a four minuet speech next week. Even the few people remind me of people I’ve already failed with. I’m not even sure I’ll leave the apartment this weekend. I miss real summers until I think about how it was never really all that much better. People always left me alone never asked me to do anything. . . But I guess that’s my fault. Everything I learned I learned too late. Catholics have it easy you know? I’ve been stumbling around for years and haven’t found anyone new to confess to. If I come down will you have time for me? Or will we push things off like always? God I miss the discovery and the night. Up here all the alternative seem worse then the loneliness I have now. I can’t even cry up here. What’s the point. My emotion has no affect on anyone up here. . . I’m just broadcasting into the darkness. . . As I was born to do. . .

Miserably yours,
The Dark Broadcaster.

6/10/2007 Jeff Forshée
“Someone is receiving.”

Dearest brother,
Someone is receiving. Even when we think we are playing to the night sky, broadcasting into the darkness, someone is receiving. What a glorious revelation, dearest brother. My frequency is much higher here. The highs and lows move quickly. Here I do not dwell, even if I am grief-stricken and joyous in turn I dwell on neither. Maybe some day I will learn to be so perfectly alone, but when I see you next we should raise a glass and hope that skill will be of little use. And raise another to our silent brothers and sisters, both known and unknown, whom we wait for and whom we hope for. Know that someone is receiving, dearest brother. All this force of hope has to go somewhere. Last night I was crushed. My morbid fantasies got the best of me. In my mind I had lost her. . . She was gone. I saw my self at her funeral, dearest brother. I asked “Do you even know who you lost?” not understanding why the world hadn’t stopped. I cried last night in a fit of psychosomatic sorrow. I felt all 150 square feet of my apartment close in on me. I didn’t know what to do I couldn’t weep and I was still unhinged by this imagined grief. At one thirty in the morning I stared at the ceiling with that pain you get in your chest when you cant quite cry and the phone rang. It was her. She couldn’t sleep. Life is the greatest parable, dearest brother. I heard her voice and for a moment night was night again. I talked to her and the sound of each other made us both feel at ease. Even alone as I am, in this plastic night, someone is receiving.

Your brother,
Who Sees Perfection In Coincidence.

Do you ever dislike the fact that your hard to know? I mean I think that in relation to all the other people we know we must be fairly close. But I don’t know that much about you and I don’t know that you know that much about me. We are both plagued by nostalgia well maybe you aren’t 'plagued' or don’t realize that you are yet. I think your really in a good position. You lack little and understand your needs. If now is a time of opulence so be it. Now is the time to move though, slowly at first, towards what ever it is that you want. I actually wish you would ramble about your self more often. I think you are one of the most egoless people I know. . . Well just thought I should write something and was spurred on by a bad day.

It has been awhile. . . For a lot of things it has been awhile. I’ve been reading over my old letters I have probably close to two hundred pages of them all told. But maybe only 3 or so letters to you. Odd I think. We used to be close didn’t we? Maybe that’s just nostalgia talking. I do remember watching blue but you have to realize I had maybe two years of that with gross over and over. Maybe that will explain how close we are. So why are we so far apart? I think its mostly physical distance and as much as you don’t want to hear it a driver’s license dose solve some of those issues. But I think your doing better then you think. If you still think that other people are maturing faster then you know that the grass is always greener. I mean you have a real job and a permanent place to live. That’s more then most people have myself included. But I don’t think you would agree. Your in a good position though if your good with your money you can go to 'real collage' if you want (though if your making good money I’m not sure I see the point( then again I've never been the advocate of education)). Well work your way up the corporate ladder and then you’ll have the money to buy time to work on what ever you want. Well I don’t know what else to say. . . I’ll be around if you need of me. I have infinite patience if only finite wisdom.

Yours in truth,
Jeff Forshée

**After a few extremely optimistic letters to Gross we had a snow fall up here and spring was pushed back. People who would actually read this probably know who is in my dream though maybe not well enough. As a point of interest I’ve almost finished compiling all our correspondence (there are still a few hand written notes and two major hand written pieces missing) if anyone wants a copy let me know.**

Let us be realistic its still February. My false spring explodes into tinny white flakes. Things are slow and lonely, sometimes I still see my self as that fool on the hill. When you become a wise fool like me atop your own mountain you will learn that you only want to come back down. . . Where the people are. But you have been there before we may even have climbed a few of those mountains together. I thought of a false parable to admonish you slightly for not writing but I’ll let it die. I’ve lost the want of little bouts of anger its hard being this level headed. Its Sunday and already I’m waiting for the weekend. Are you coming back for break. In my mind I wont see you for a year or so. Sadly not that much different then what its been in the more present past. I dream recently:

A childhood friend and I prepare for a long journey. We sit on the step near the front door. She is a frozen soft drink. She whispers “Do you want to know me?” from somewhere in her plastic body. I say that there will be time for all that later.

I awake knowing as much as when I fell asleep. I feel hollow after dreams like that as I stumble for my notebook in a painful half strong resolve to record my own hollowness. At least I am actively sleeping. Perhaps that’s all I ever do. I am truly obsessive and tether myself to the past. Only the women haunt my dreams though. You know in a desperate moment I wanted to drink deep from her? I hesitated. I faltered. How do you tell someone you want to drink deep from there being? How do you say “Yes, I want to know you” and have them understand? How do you get them to ask “Do you want to know me?”? It only seems to happen in my dreams. . .

Eternally Thirsty,

Your Brother

**(A note of no importance to no one in particular)**
In the last few years I have almost tried completely to remove myself from my school. And its interesting I’ve found it impossible to be completely unknown even if its just as ‘that guy’. I’ve convinced myself that I’ve learned something in the last few years and it’s lead me to believe that there is more to people then they let on. This however seems to distance me further from what I think they are. All this has just furthered my want to study people and really I’m not sure what good that does. Most people don’t seem to think that being a subject is a superlative. And maybe I’m just mucking up the language to think otherwise. But it seems the deeper and deeper you suppose people to be the less and less of them there seem to be. The resistance to any kind of closeness seems stronger then logic would dictate. And I have always been a slave to logic.
I find myself thinking I’ve hit the bottom, that there is no more to discover here. It’s fairly painful to invest so strongly in something that you discover is not Truth. I am rebounding, trying to figure out at what point I went astray, but my view is muddled. I try to recreate what I found the first time with little luck. I try to be as honest as possible but I don’t think people know quite how to react to it and I never know how much force to apply.
So why all the letters? They calm me to an extent and they show me where I’ve been and how little I’ve changed. I’ve trained myself to talk endlessly at a brick wall and wait patently for an answer. I’d like to actually do something here but I’m really out of ideas as to what that would be. There are a lot of people that I’d like to be closer to but its in my nature to wait for them. But then how many of us are here waiting. .

*Another letter to gross. Nothing even that interesting but thought I’d post something. If anyone wants a letter from me just ask and I’d be happy to write one.

We are equal distances from all things. I only say one thing but I will retool and calculate so that it will come out closer to what I mean. Glory and poetry seem to seep into my being. Slowly petrifying anger and fear. I am calm. I’m ready to start a pop band. We will speak to the public in there language about things that don’t need saying. This is not debasement its just a beat you can dance to. I want to be that guy in the local bar who you think sounds alright. I want to be lots of things. I’m more then fine with where I am. I have direction even if I have no speed. I’m far more curious about how others are moving. I write to waste my time and to mark the peaks and valleys of my oscillations. My mind is working all the time and out side the realm of ‘normal’ thought. I am brilliant in this if nothing else. I dream of electric shoes that will keep a beat for me and brilliant noise summoned by a flick of my wrist and a long chain of steal boxes. I dream so that my failure seems farther off. I can’t play love, or friendship, or sadness, or frozen milk on any number of strings.

It’s been an interesting first few weeks back here. I brought no pedals, only the clean Casio, and the normal dozens of acoustic instruments. I’ve been working on the technical aspects of my playing trying to memorize the fret boards of several different instruments. I’ve been exercising my hands constantly. I think I’m improving little be little but its left me with a lust for noise and a tangle of cables running into everything. And my damn comp keeps crashing so I suppose here is as good a spot to end as any.

Ever wanted to buy a PS3 from me? Now you can!!! Click Here!

nested parentheses and other idiosyncrasies

Just one quick letter and then I’ll start. It’s been two weeks and I still haven’t started. . . Its been longer three maybe is more accurate. This place feels better this year the trains don’t weep like I remember they did. I am settling into my own but the change needs to come faster than its coming. I always have a hard time studying I just can’t start. Tomorrow I’ll start. Tonight I have work to do. I’m going to be broke sooner then later but I can see what I want in this place and I am left inspired to no subtle degree. I live on my own I bake my own bread and cook my own food I wake up to a woman I love at least a few nights a week. If not for the damned university I am a farm house and a walnut grove short of . . .(We need a word for this and for some reason Heaven seems to come up short like you said its impossible) ‘The Walnut Farm’ and I’ll readily defend that it is here on earth. Its not so far from where we are now. I am thinking of doing an English paper on The Great Tower and the Debasement of Language. I don’t know if this is a good idea. It’s far to much for what he’s asking but I don’t know what else to do it on. It has to be personal And what’s more personal then how two people interact? Heh. The radio show is actually going to happen. Far less effort then I would have thought. Friday 4-6 AM. I need a name for the show if you have any ideas. Seems like I can see gleaming of something in the distance but the hurtles don’t seem to be any shorter or fewer then they were. How are you? And I mean how goes it? Seems the closer we are the more we (at least I) worry. Everything else is, for the most part, static. I’ve written a few songs in the short time I’ve been here and am finishing up a few more: Weekends(written in all of ten min about Fargo and drinking), Atlas revisited( you heard this one ‘all the good Christians’ (I can’t not say Chris-Tions hope fully its idiomatic(that’s the right word right?)))*Ah nested parentheses*(at least they are idiomatic) Lullaby No. 1 (for an unborn daughter) Lullaby No. 2 (electric) (this one might need your help its. . . Maybe ‘brooding’ is the word like your on the edge of tears). I tried to write a song about the tower didn’t take. But there’s Art in there somewhere I’ll find it sooner or later. Where are you going to grad school (or working when your done)? Too early to think about these things maybe. But I’m in a planning mood. I imagine a porch some where and all things falling in place. . . Magic until science explains it.

May the vast open horizons great you as pleasantly (I like that),
Your Brother.


-------------------

"The ice is near, the solitude tremendous -- but how calmly all things
lie in the light! How freely one breathes! How much one feels beneath
oneself!"

"He believes neither in "misfortune" nor in "guilt" : he comes to terms
with himself with others; he knows how to forget -- he is strong enough;
hence everything must turn out for his best."

"It also seems to me that the rudest word, the rudest letter are still
more benign, more decent than silence. All who remain silent are
dyspeptic. Rudeness is by far the most humane for of contradiction and,
in the midst of effemincacy, one of our foremost virtues."

"Oh, I found it, my brothers! Here, in the higest spheres the fount of
pleasure wells up for me! And here is a life of which the rabble does
not drink."

Brother, the sweetness in your verse swells me. You have already seen
with the greatest of solitude and I rejoice that you are able to look
with a gay heart. Don't remeber one or the other but forget both as it
is often hard for us to do. If Heaven is as easily found in the coldest
of days and the darkest of skies as it is in the Sun at self, only then
could I call that porch Heaven. Brother, I have binding myself and then
unravelling myself, I have been making circles but only escaping into
greater ones. I reach clarity everytime that I have completely missed
it. I have despised words and then I make love to them. But I think I
have come to terms with my own happiness, it is the same as my own
defeat, but still I look forward to a day of rest. I wish to drink from
the water that runs from the highest mountains and the from lowliest
caverns, and even I find my stream I don't know if I will find a place
to drink from it - I am sick of creating worlds, thoughts and grammars,
I simply want to dance with the ones that will always be there.

Work hard brother, we are but clay - we can only be molded until we are
too hard to feel.
Andrew.



Every Brick Independent or Answer the Damn Questions

Our letters don’t seem to follow each other I’m going to have a hell of a time trying to put them in order(and I will try). I find it odd that you never answer my questions. I know you must read every line several times. We both must. Your Nietzsche (I assume) has me still worried. His thinking seems flawed to me but I am no expert. It has been my experience that it is not the cave that creates the new ideas but the act of rushing down from the mountain in itself that calls the Muses. Well I must remember to be more artless. Do not forget the people, the real ones I mean. And maybe I mean everyone by that. I will have my first radio show on Friday at 4AM. My attempts to try and reach out have crammed me into a tiny room at 4 in morning with no one else around or even awake. I am enjoying this in the fullest. In the end I think people need to find me. The resistance the other way is almost too much to over come. I think the Catholics have ruined heaven for you. What’s the point of having a word for something no one can have or visit? It is only on cold dark days that your Heaven exists, dear Brother. On warm days we have God’s green earth and no Heaven can compare to that, to what is. . . Hmmm but we argue semantics and definitions. We should start a film or some other grate work. I feel that at least this is coming closer to poetry. I’m tempted to try my hand.

“Every brick Independent” The Mason said.

“How do you mean?” The Brick responds.

“Close proximity is a fault. Mortar makes the wall.”

“But ‘close’ is relative is it not?”

“Symmetry,” He said to the Brick “We both shaped and set that president long ago” as another layer compounds the other.

“So I’m bound to they that I can never touch” The brick said realizing his situation for the first time.

“You sound sad for someone surrounded by bothers” the Mason quipped, grinning and content.

“I guess it is my lot to accept but tell me” the Brick said “what’s the wall for anyway?”

“Every brick Independent” The mason said.


Heh. . . Well what do you think? Crappy little story but it shows my faults quite well. I like the idea but my skills are dull oh well.

Waiting for answers to my damned questions,
. . .



----------------------

I wish I had a sentence to describe how a sentence will never quite
express what I want to say . . . I guess this sentence is the best I can
do.

To answer your questions: I am doing, I do not want to say to much,
because I know that if I write the feeling down that feeling takes on an
appearance to be much more concreted and real that it actually is. But
as the ash falls from my cigarette, I am tired, the only rest I get is
to read Nietzsche, but even doing that is becoming difficult. I am tired
of listing in my mind and on paper all the things that need to be
ACCOMPLISHED, the list perpetuates itself and it wants only more.

I know why you don't get Nietzsche, you read pieces, excerpts, quotes,
or maybe even full books. You need to drive w/ Nietzsche around the Lake
as we do. You need to drive around the Lake with everything that I send
you. It makes no sense, it has no purpose but it is something beyond all
of our descriptions.

My point on Heaven . . . we can use the term Heaven, but why use a term
that has been beaten, molested and torn apart to express
(_____________). Why dont' we call it the porch, that is all I need to
to be anyways.

I like your poem - but I don't have much to say, I have lied to you too
much already today.

I don't know what I will do or where I will be after I graduate Jeff,
but I hope I will never be here again. And if I must stay here, in this
physical spot, I hope that I will have a porch here.

"May the vast open Horizons greet you pleasantly" (I like that too)
-From an inscription on my wall