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one of these days [26 Feb 2002|09:15pm] A month later, and things are generally alright. some things ive learned: people are fickle. people are angry. people are greedy. you are what you fuck. you are what you hate. no one is ever truely satisfied. One of these days, im going to take a deep breath, collect my gear, some money, some food. strap on some boots and a weapon. I'll stand at the edge of my driveway and pick a way to walk. and im going to leave. one of these days. 2 comments|post comment

waste [26 Jan 2002|11:15pm] This has not been a quality day in the least. 4 comments|post comment

and all that could have been [22 Jan 2002|03:14pm] .still. its too good. its just too good. If this is what the future of NIN sounds like, the future is going to be a very good place. I know there will be those who don't like it, those who will refuse to let go of the old hard style. I feel that he's been heading in this direction for some time now, and I'm glad to see it mature. christ, its just so good. 6 comments|post comment

an unexpected turn of events [16 Jan 2002|11:15pm] Life has been quite good in recent times. Who would have guessed? 6 comments|post comment

last words of 2001 [01 Jan 2002|01:05am] "Well, I guess thats that." good riddance to one of the most fucked years of my life. at least i started this year on a good note. i'm not very superstitious, but i've always believed that it is better to start on an upward draft than an undertow. Anyway, happy goddamn new year. i hope nothing gets bombed. 5 comments|post comment

[30 Dec 2001|02:15am] well, fuck. 3 comments|post comment

A true story [23 Dec 2001|06:21pm] [ music | Autechre - outpt. ] Saturday i made the mistake of going to BiG K-Mart. Kids... never, Ever, go to the Big Fucking K-Mart at the intersection of Orlando Avenue and Lee Road. And here is why. I pull into the potholed parking lot. finding a space isnt easy. When i do, its next to some airbrushed, and yes, bubble-windowed van (i kid you not). stepping out of my automobile proves a challenge as there are copious amounts of toxic fluids filling the potholes beneath my door. As i'm not interested in loosing my feet, i shift over to the passenger side door and get out there. Upon entering the building, my olfactory glands are assaulted from all directions by a veritable scent stew eminating from the cosmetics section and the "BIG K-Mart FastLane (TM) LunchSpot Featuring LITTLE CAESAR'S (R) (C) Pizzaria. I plug my nose and head for the "Dental Care/Health" isle. I claw my way past the christmas section and the savages fighting over the last of the "2-for-2" Tide with Bleach gallon jugs. Find the toothpaste i came for. head for the express checkout. It was inside those 10 meager yards between the toothpaste isle and the checkout lane that i was nearly sent mad. The first attack on my sanity was in the form of a giant hanging poster above the cosmetics section. IT featured some smut of a female with disgustingly glossy lips, perfect hair, fake-length eyelashes, and enough make-up to drown Stalin. As if the smell of the section werent enough, the poster reads: "SPOIL YOURSELF WITH SIMPLE PLEASURES." I nearly went berzerk. It was all i could do not to loose it. I turned around and headed as quickly as possible toword the express lane. The second attack on my sanity was one of those "Fuck Her Tits!" magazines. It featured some other smut girl, complete with revolting cleavage. over her head, it read, "THE SEVEN GREATEST SEX TIPS WE'VE EVER PUBLISHED!" I reeled in terror and whipped around to face the other direction. on the other side of the lane, Sanity Assault number three stared me down like a rabid origami arrdvark. Another magazine. Another smut. Another headline: "SEVEN DAYS TO BETTER SEX!" I was stunned. it had me in its terrible grasp. the horrid publication had some sort of perverted gravity to it, and i couldnt take my eyes away from the title. A veritible black hole of smut. it was omnipotent and terrifying. When i had finally wrenched my eyes away from the cover of the magazine, i realized that i hadnt moved forward in the line at all. the damn register pilot was having some sort of good samaritan talk with the customers. On top of that, he was staring at me longingly. I feared his sexual preferance. I have no problem with homosexuals, but he was... creepy, and i wasnt in a good mood, as the gentleman's smut rags had allready sent me mad. Ten minutes and four-thousand lost brain cells later, i finally came face to face with the register pilot and his scanning device. he looked at my toothpaste selection, and said, "You know, that stuff really works. my mom loves it." i looked down at the toothpaste. it read, WHITER, BRIGHTER TEETH BY THE END OF THIS TUBE OR YOUR MONEY BACK!. Thats when it hit me harder than ever. We are a race of self-indulgent, appearance-infatuated fiends. I had known it before, but the smut of the BIG K-MART was only a wake-up call. It was a learning expirience, albiet a terrible one. Needless to say, once the register pilot had finished, I ran from that place. I ran as fast as my lanky legs would carry me. 11 comments|post comment

Who runs Bartertown? [22 Dec 2001|03:44pm] strangest dream ive ever had last night. Dave Todd and I where standing on a raft going down this massive river with very little current that flowed through a huge redwood forest. the trees where like skyscrapers and they formed a biological cavern all around us that only small shafts of dusty yellow light could penetrate. we traveled a few miles downstream in silence until we reached a large clearing in the trees where the brackish stream intersected with what appeared to be a giant flooded portion of a superhighway. the water over the superhighway was clear enough to see the leafy and patterned bottom, but it was a rusty yellow at the same time. many people dressed in "Mad Max" style clothes congregated around this point because there was a huge and apparently abandoned water filtration plant there. it was still running, filtering the rusty water into semi-clean water and dumping it on the other side of a large wall or dam. the wall seperated the rusty water from the clear water, but it was built onto the floor of the highway. Dave and I docked the raft at the plant (there was no way to get there without swimming from the shore), got off the raft, and started to climb the battered scaffold stairs (looked like a fire escape) of the filter plant. when we reached the top, it was alot higher up than it initially seemed from the shore. a long metallic bridge streched between one half of the plant and the other. the wind was strong over the bridge, and it wasnt very tough bridge, but we didnt seem to care at the time. about halfway across, I saw something moving in the water below. i said, "jesus! toad, get a look at those Sludge Gar down there. biggest ones i've ever seen!" there were three or four of the eels. they looked like giant serpentine coy with crocodile heads.He said, "woah! those things are enormous. I'm going to get a closer look." so he dives right off the side down into the rusty water. i was thinking, what the hell, hes got to be nuts to jump into that toxic shit with those things. they'll tear him apart. at that point the bridge collapses and i fall with it three stories into the tan, rusty water below. dave is off tackling the gar with an anchor he'd found on the bottom, swinging it around like it didnt weigh a pound. i began to climb up the twisted wreckage of the filtration barge's bridge, screaming at toad to get out of the water. i told him i was about to use the magnum. at that point, i pulled out the high-powered handcannon that Harrison Ford's charicter from Blade Runner used. im holding onto the remians of the bridge with my legs and left arm and aiming the gun with my right arm. as toad is swimming away from the gar, i take aim and blow one of them in half. it dies like a submarine would underwater, where the hull collapses inward and parts of the sub shoot away from the implosion as the engine explodes. but it wasnt a sub, it was a giant eel. so that was pretty traumatizing. toad joins me up there on the wreckage, and i notice some guys are jacking our raft. i blow one of them away and his pal runs for it. all the vagrants around the filter barge start to flee, yelling something like "Damn, they damaged the plant! now the guys from Nothing Records are going to come down here and kick our asses!" the bums dissapear into the forest. thats when i looked up and saw it on the corroded side of the plant. It was a huge, faded poster of Trent Reznor, staring down at us, twelve times larger than god. the only sense i could make of it, is that in this post-apocalyptic world, Reznor had become some kind of demi-god or cult leader, using the Nothing Records label as his stamp on what was left of society. And sure enough, right as the bums dissapeared into the forests, two battered speedboats came soaring down the flooded highway. They were each named after a different NIN album. i noticed "Fragile" and "Pretty Hate Machine" spraypainted with stencils on the sides of the boats. then, i found myself on an unflooded road. everything around it was dusty and dead, but none of the trees had fallen down. i realize now that the road was a combination of the dirtbike race scene from "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" and Horatio, an actual road in maitland. dave was nowhere to be found, i was alone and wearing dusty cargo gear. i put down my goggles as four dune buggies sped past me. coughing up dirt, i start walking away, when i realize that my father had been in one of them. he quickly circled back around and came back to pick me up. he was driving a black El Camino with some kind of turbo engine. i get in the back of the vehicle and man the mounted machinegun. the next part of the dream is all a blur, but i remember something about a drag race in which i used the pintle-mounted machinegun and my handcannon to blow the other trucks off the road. we came across a caged-in junkyard after the gunfight. he dropped me off, and i was going in there to look for a bike of some sort. the whole junkyard was filled with two-wheeled devices of every sort, but mostly scrapped bicycles. wandering through the valleys of bikes, i was attacked by that SAME OLD MAN from the dream i had with joe and the 'dangerous lemon pie!'. he threatened me with a straightrazor. i simply grabbed two motorcycles and smashed his head with them like that scene from the jet li movie, "The One". i yelled at the corpse, "yer DEAD, SHITHEEL!" then i found the bicycle i was looking for in the guys huge metal hat, and woke up feeling very, very strange. 5 comments|post comment

marx=logic=thought=trouble=parke [18 Dec 2001|11:25pm] too much logic makes parke a bad boy. 1 comment|post comment

[15 Dec 2001|02:11am] tonight was a very good night. 5 comments|post comment

my life up to this point, summed up in one sentance. [12 Dec 2001|11:00pm] [ mood | im a mess ] total and absolute complication before the age of 18. christ. i try so hard not to step on everyone's toes. and i end up stepping on the landmines. so blow me up. knock off my legs. shower me with white-hot shrapnel. you'll only get my blood all over yourself. 2 comments|post comment

yey [11 Dec 2001|11:25pm] autechre is good music 1 comment|post comment

over| [11 Dec 2001|10:41pm] battered and broken he lies, a twisted ruin of his own construction. his eyes sting from the light, his hands bleed from the stone, his lungs burn from the wind. and in his final instant all things turned against him. there was a momentary glimpse of happiness. and then silence. the loudest sound he had ever heard. post comment

finished| [11 Dec 2001|10:26pm] deeper and deeper into the wastes of his mind he spun. webs of deceit run him through like cold shards of broken glass. and in the end he lay alone, battered and bleeding. theres nothing left for him there. tired and broken, there is no use in anything. what is done is done. And in his voice they heard defeat. post comment

i'm posting this again [09 Dec 2001|01:18am] This journal is how i make sense out of the thoughts in my mind. i have to write down how i feel to understand myself. As such, this entire journal may be one hell of a piece of pessimistic angst, but i think the reader should know: No, this html does not accurately depict myself, or any other person; and no, im not depressed/bipolar. (or however psycologists may describe such writings.) And, any psycologists reading this can go to hell. You people turn bullshit into a career. 3 comments|post comment

[03 Dec 2001|08:50pm] such is the price we humans pay for self awareness. carelessness is the tax of a thinking mind. our ancestors made a pact with the devil to gain conciousness. now, theres no going back. 1 comment|post comment

no [02 Dec 2001|03:23am] i just re-read my first journal entry: november 25, 2000, at 1:19 in the morning. i talked about having a date with marey that nignt.. i shouldnt have read that. its hard to believe that was a year ago. i remember it all too well. much too well. there isnt a day that goes by that i dont think about it for about ten random minutes. sometimes i wish i had'nt fucked that up. then i think to myself: you didnt fuck it up, parke. marey, if you read this, i want my bass amp back. I need to get on with my goddamn life. 2 comments|post comment

[02 Dec 2001|02:01am] if you would just cast off your doubt then your lips would answer for you. oh my darling, when you smile, its like a song. and i can hear it now. If i could kill you, i would walk up to you and hold out my hand to shake yours. and when you take my hand, i would tighten my grip untill you begin to look uneasy. i would break your arm at the elbow. i would watch you cower. i would tear your chest open with my hands. i would jam fingers between your ribs. as you stagger in pain, i would grab you by the face and lift you up. i'd smash the back of your head into the pavement, and throw your body through a plate-glass window. there is something beautiful about running blood. i would watch yours mingle with the glass. you dont have a name. you arent even real. [edit] you isnt a person. its not even a group of people. i was having a bad night and i felt like writing this. 1 comment|post comment

[02 Dec 2001|12:19am] One would call it a nice night. full moon, typically, and the wind is blowing at just the right speed. the sound of it blowing around me and through my hair is pleasant. I stand alone for a moment and think. what the hell is happening to me? everything is falling, and as i look deeper and deeper into the reasons behind it, i find nothing but myself. i look at myself from the outside. Okay, theres some guy. really tall, long black hair. slender, red leather jacket, black pants. boots. alot of metal. everything about him is drawn out. his hands. long, hard, sinuous. angular to the point of looking almost mechanical. scarred. not many people may notice it, but we all hold the power to change anything. we are all burdened by the responsibility. not many people take advantage of it. humans often complain about thier lack of ability. i hear people saying that they cant change anything. in reality, they just want attention. they want someone to feel sorry for them. they dont want to know that they hold power. If the said person can hold a gun to thier head or a blade to thier wrist, then the said person holds power. they can change everything. i begin to walk. slow at first, then faster. going through the events of the night in my mind, i realize that its all a fabrication. i'd been standing there the whole time, staring at my hand. i slow down again. staring at my hand again, nothing is real. i fuck everything up and everyone over. now tell me. tell me what there is to be glad about. if i cant exist happily in the confines of this city, this state, this country for that matter, and i dont have the resources to escape, then what is there to do? i cant stop staring at my hands. my metal, claw-like hands. 6 comments|post comment

Oat & Honey? What the hell? [28 Nov 2001|01:21am] The sage words of a certain J. Boogich: "Good is better than bad but bad is good to know." I don't like stepping on others in the name of I. warn me before I do so. The World. post comment

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