Below are the 11 most recent journal entries recorded in sweetwoodruff's LiveJournal:

Sunday, December 4th, 2005
11:18 pm	What the fuck Man, sometimes I sit down to write on this motherfucker and I realize it involves putting my life in perspective. So I get up and walk away, go smoke pot and play some banjo. In three and a half weeks I'm moving away from the only city I've ever really known, the persistant cause of lifelong anger, regret, and some amazing times and people. At the same time, my fiancee is going to New Zealand on Friday, and I'll be gone when she gets back. I'm getting married. What the fuck. We're going to spend our engagement apart, our first year of marriage will involve me studying in Boston, her in Richmond, and her touring in a dance company (possibly to Scotland, of all places). My mother and brother, the only two constants throughout my life, are moving to New Mexico, two thousand miles away from where I'll be. I never realized how fucking local I've become. But I'm happy. I'm excited and fucking terrified. I've never attempted shit because that way I can't fail, and now I'm shooting for it all. I've got plans for the next ten years, where I never used to plan anything more than six hours in advance. I borrowed fifteen thousand dollars for the next five months, so I can learn some music theory and be around people who do something other than drugs and work bullshit jobs. A good friend of mine got arrested last week with an ounce and a half of weed. Two weeks ago I was sitting on Broad Street at one in the morning rolling a blut with him, two ounces in the back seat. Two cops pulled up, lights flashing. One in front, one in back. We stashed the shit, jumped out of the car, locked the doors, and walked away. They couldn't do shit. Last night I was with him, three days after he gets locked up, he has shit in his bag. I get pulled for some expired tags. The only reason I was sober is because finally, for once in my life, I have a reason to not go to jail. But he doesn't. So we get off, I drop him off at his $200 a night hotel room that he's buying with his drug money. Too bad the rest of that is going straight to legal fees. Two weeks ago all he kept talking about is moving up to Boston with me, doing some music shit, getting out of Richmond. The fucking DEA raided the house I was living in a couple months ago, last Tuesday. Ongoing criminal investigation. Thirteen agents with three guns apiece, rummaging through everything in the house. They referred to my old roomate and best friend, and his girlfriend, as "drug lords." He doesn't even sell drugs, he's just never sober. Cracked out and alcoholic. I love him like a fucking brother and it took him ten minutes to catch his breath after walking up the three flights of stairs to my house. Last week Ian punched him in the fucking face for no reason other than the fact that he can't control himself and he's a pathetic psychopathic abusive piece of shit. Hasn't seen his son in eight months because the kid's mom ran off with him, and he can't stay sober long enough to do shit about it. Fuck, computer's running out of batteries. Long story short, I feel like I've been given repeated signs that say RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN GET THE FUCK OUT, and it scares the shit out of me. Here comes life... three weeks away (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Tuesday, October 11th, 2005
9:16 am	What I need... So google your first name and needs, and the results will tell you what you're missing... here's mine: 1.Christopher needs healing in his body 2.Christopher needs a life 3.Christopher needs to put his thinking cap on 4.Christopher was sentenced to life in prison for a crime he did not commit. He needs help 5.Christopher needs a family 6.Christopher's parents are rare in their acceptance of his needs what the fuck... I hate Google games. One time I googled my name, Chris Kresge, and you know what popped up? Some other motherfucker named Chris Kresge that lives in Colorado and has a book published and is in a band. Motherfucker stole my name and then accomplished all of my goals. (Comment on this)
Saturday, October 1st, 2005
4:56 pm	Updating catharsis.... Damn it's been a minute since I've been on here... I've got a whole lot of shit to say... it's going to be a huge crap explosion... it's coming... be prepared (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Monday, November 29th, 2004
5:21 pm	Counting chickens before they hatch Damn right I am. I'm going back to fucking undergrad in August for music at Berklee Boston. Yeah, I can't pay for it, yeah, I haven't applied yet, yeah, I might not get in. Fuck all that. I'm going to be in school until I'm 35 I think, and broke as shit with a million degrees, but I'll write some stories and play the fuck out of some instruments. (And for all of my posturing I'm nervous as fuck about not getting in, getting there and sucking ass, not getting any financial aid, etc., blah blah blah. Even failing at something real would be better than getting some bullshit job for my "career" though, so until next August I'm going to be freaking out). (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Sunday, November 7th, 2004
6:57 am	Release of facts, but then again, there's no such thing. NAME A FACT! you can't On the one hand, this is a pitiful excuse that this has become my writing. Then again, forced fiction is shitty fiction. On the other hand, when I sit down and write on this shit (something that I swore I would never do), I realize that I'm showing this to two people. One that I really barely know that lives in Scotland, and one that I barely know and rarely see that lives right down the street. Either way, I'm showing this to two people for a reason (and by the way, two people that I want to see together, soon). This might seem strange to be approaching a "journal" entry as aimed towards other people, but why the fuck do I want to write shit to myself? If I don't remember every word I write, it only means I was too fucked up, and that's just depressing. No one writes online for themselves. I know my thoughts, I know my stories. Yeah, I write stories for the art, for the truth, for the catharsis, for the fact that maybe, just maybe, I'll help someone the way stories helped me, or maybe a different way. Same with music. People don't post their shit on here for that. They (and I) write what they can't say, but need to. They write what they don't want a verbal response to. That's not the way our society is based, so we fill roles. We hold back. We build up, and we release. Some more than others. The reason I'm writing this is one of my best friends, one of the few people in my life that I will always call my brother is moving to China tomorrow. Forever. I will probably never see him again. He has no family here, and none of his friends (our friends) will ever be on his level. I have been blessed with the opportunity to know him, and learn from him, and teach him. There is no other definition of family to me. That is love. He has never presented anything to me that has detracted from anything that I hold close. As far as I know, he has never lied to me. He has never fucked me over. He has never expressed his judgement of me beyond his concern (I'm sure he judged the fuck out of me, that's obvious, but he never, ever, ever, strayed from my side for a second, and there are only two people in my life that have been there through it all that I can say that about, which doesn't include anyone I'm actually related to). So anyways, it was his last night. 25th hour. see the movie if you haven't, because eventually, hopefully, you will fill at least one of the roles in that movie (not going to jail, but just seriously leaving what you know. Craig, you're doing it, hopefully, if you don't lose heart. Amber, in one sense you already have, but you want and need to do it again. If you two end up leaving all the B.S. you know and end up with each other, I promise you I will be crying at your wedding because that's the type of shit that keeps me alive.) Anyways, side tracked for a second. I made it my goal to show him everything tonight. We talked about closure, we both grew up here, together. We both have always prided ourselves on growing up poor as fuck and not being worthless. We've always had pride in the fact that we are as comfortable around a pound being split up as we are around some well-dressed gentlemen eating Brie and discussing Elliot or Ezra Pound or post-capitalist consumerism. When it comes down to it, we lived very different lives. Very fucking different, from the first to the last, from friends to grades to girls to social interests to hobbies. We really had nothing in common, but when it came down to it, we were always on the same level, never above anyone else, never below, but never the same. We could always formulate some theory on life, answer some questions we knew there were no answers to. Brothers. No one that will ever read this knows my only brother, but he's severely mentally retarded. I will never be able to listen, really, to a complete conversation with him. I will never be able to explain to him how to avoid the mistakes I've made, the pain I've felt, because he will never have friends or lovers or drugs or alcohol or rent or anything. When I call people my brother, sister, family, friend, what I'm saying is that is everything to me. Every fucking thing. I'll see you next year, next week, whatever, I don't give a fuck. Something was given, something was passed, and sometimes it fades, but the lesson remains, the memory remains. I'm taking, as usual, a long winded route to an easily explainable point. Tonight my friend David told me that he printed up an e-mail that I sent him shortly after I got back from Europe. He printed it up because he was living in Cambodia, lost as fuck, slamming down whisky all day every day (sound familiar?), all his norms were gone. Apparently my words meant enough to him to carry him through his days. He read that letter every day in Cambodia. He read it on his flight to Paris. He read it on the street, in the Louvre, in Thailand, in Indonesia, all over the fucking world. And now he's headed back, this time to China, for good. I may never see him again. Fuck, as far as I know, I'll never see anyone reading this again. Irrelevant. The point I'm trying to get across is he never understood what he gave me, he only appreciated what I gave him, unintentionally and intentionally at the same time. Tonight was the 25th hour, like I already said. I took him out, we went everywhere he wanted and had to go. We saw everyone he wanted to see, unless they didn't show up, and fuck them in that case, they have no comprehension of the permanence of time and distance and history. I got him drunk, I didn't get drunk. We reminisced, he told people I've never met all about me, and everything I've ever given him. There was no one else involved in this that had any significance the way I saw that I did. I showed him everything about me tonight, told him everything, in the hopes that he will realize what he gave me. And in doing this, I realized that no one else did. No one else told him how much they respected him, how much he taught them or gave them, and he's never going to see any of them again. Everyone was too caught up in their lives, their machismo, their drunken stupidity, their sober stupidity. Eventually my brother is going to be institutionalized and die. Retarded kids don't live too long. Eventually my friends are going to move away, drop away, fade away, OD, go to jail, just be gone, die, or never have anything to say that I can ever relate to. I guess my point is this: fuck that. fuck holding truth back for the sake of avoiding embarassment or pride. Tonight I sat in my car and I talked to god out loud for the first time. I want to put god in qotation marks but I didn't then. I wasn't talking to myself. I was asking for help. I want everyone to know what they do for everyone else. I want the people who have helped me and changed me and taught me to know how much that means to me. My words can't mean too much, I know, I'm still fucking up. I was asking, honestly and truly, for any God that may exist to just let the people I love and care about to know, in their weakest moments, that at least someone is thinking about them, not only out of concern for them, but that I am so fucking thankful for everything that they have given me. I don't care what your scale is, I'm going to be dead soon, and I have been given truth, love, humor, respect, kindness, anger, pain, agression, friendship, passion, violence, lust, tears, laughter, and everything in between from the people that have been in my life and matter. There really is nothing else I could ever ask for, at this point I consider my life to be full, and getting fuller by the day. Thanks to everyone who will never read this, and those who do. It's 7 in the fucking morning. fuck. Someday I'll straighten up, and you'll all come to my summer home in the Hamptons. For now, I'll sleep. Current Music: Nick Drake again (Comment on this)
Monday, August 30th, 2004
4:51 am	I'm gonna post this everwhere I can... because I can't make international calls on my phone.... You know, I've got an older sister. She graduated when I was 17 and moved away. She is one of my best friends, without a doubt. Since then, she's lived in Germany, Mexico, Nicaragua, Williamsburg, and New York. I always know, though, that no matter how far away she is, no matter how much time passes between the times that I see her, she is always my family. We will always connect, we will always relate, no matter how different our paths may be. And I know the same holds true for all of my other true family members, regardless of blood. Everyone who reads this, if you know him, if you know me, if you've never met either of us, raise your fucking glass for my friend's birthday, please. From across the Atlantic, The motherfucking Godfather, The infamous Izash, Craig, truly my brother. Happy birthday man, I wish I was there to help you celebrate. I hope you lived it up like Sweet Motherfucking Woodruff would have. See you soon man. Nothing but love, always, Sweet Woodruff... a.k.a. Drunk Christopher... a.k.a. a few other things, Chris (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Wednesday, August 25th, 2004
4:19 am	One of those nights where you don't feel like you have to write anything, nothing to get off of your chest, even thinking about that shit makes you smile, appreciate the fact that you have something to think about, some form of perception. Appreciate life... What sold me on Bill Hicks was when he said that (butchered quote) "The cost of living is dying. Everyone has to pay the same price - death. Everything else in life should be a gift." (Comment on this)
Monday, August 23rd, 2004
8:29 pm	Barot RICK BAROT Psalm with a Phrase from Beckett The boulder that is bigger than a house, perched on the edge of another boulder, painted gold and prayed to by monks in saffron robes. This is you being somewhere for once. The circle of men in the flea-market parking lot pounding on paint buckets, conga drums, the noise bulky and hot as a furnace. Tell them they are heard. If you are every morning the world has ever had, the rose is the pharmacy and brothel, visited and visited. If I try to sing, it is like standing too long by the magazine rack, a crime beheld by the clerk's warring eye. That is your gazing too. In one narrative of desire, the young poet can't see a field for the field of broken stars that has landed there among his own and a lover's body. Let the dark be longer for this. Certain papers are made of rice hulls, lambs-wool, hemp and bark, all the good bodies of things. If there is everything to be done let it be in this way of careful ingenuity. Walking home, I clink my knuckle against fences and trunks, the moon coming up behind the hills like a thought. By these means at hand you can only be proven. Let the river clear of filth. Let him write his twenty-one poems, one for every year of his age. In still one more narrative about desire, a man makes bracelets of the little bones of his neighbors and sells them at the church fair. Let this be time for you to drink the blue sludge of airplanes. At dusk, the fog is happy to take the place of the leaves on the branches, fallen shiny as shoes on the ground. Tell me you are here. Certain towns in the Midwest have radio towers tall as lighthouses, belated of a first ocean, red eyes on their bodies like gods. Let the dark be longer for this. Let him stop hearing the knives of his parents, the knives in their fair use. Let him turn from the words exploding too small even for the dog to hear: quaquaquaqua. Because that is your singing too. (Comment on this)
Thursday, August 19th, 2004
5:24 am	fucking fucking shit I just fucking wrote for two fucking hours, this whole big response to how much those fucking responses meant to me. I told pretty much my entire life story, explaining how hard it is for me to trust people, and how much that shit means to me... Fucking hell. Fucking Explorer quit right when I hit send. Lost it fucking all. I am so fucking pissed right now. Fuck. Maybe I'll rewrite that shit. Well, to sum shit up, that made my week, my month, everything. Unless I rewrite what I wrote, you'll never get the point here, how much what you two said means to me... AHHHHH fuck. I'm going to go eat some Doritos and go read until I fall asleep, all covered in Cool Ranch crumbs. I'm out man, that was a total fucking catharsis, the first time I had ever written a lot of shit down. I've got no more energy. Thanks is all I can say. Dammit. (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Wednesday, August 18th, 2004
3:20 am	Let's Market Communism! So I hung out with some friends tonight, all great people. One kid's only 18, nice as hell. He grew up rich, his parents pay his tuition, his rent, and give him $400 a week to go to film school. $400 a fucking week. He was telling me how he was going to start having to live poor. Now don't get me wrong, I'm happy for him, and for everyone that doesn't have to work, etc. This isn't personal. The point is that he wears a Che Gueverra shirt a lot of the time. I don't understand the dynamic there... rich American spends money, feeding the capitalist consumeristic machine, on a T-Shirt of Che Gueverra... it seems oxymoronic, or at least counterproductive. I don't know, anyways... I really need to write a lot, fiction, Glasgow Book. I need to make some fucking music, buy a banjo, learn it. Write some songs on something and not give a fuck if they suck. Need to wake up early tomorrow so I can go get paid for my shit work last week, then maybe eat lunch at Emily's.... should be interesting. Fuck, one of those moods where you can't write shit because you can't begin to define how you feel. Back to Domino's tomorrow, then school next week. Should be interesting to see how all of that shit feels. Sleep time... (Comment on this)
Tuesday, August 17th, 2004
2:01 am	A Night In The Mind So fuck, this is a monumental event. The fact that this livejournal exists is a testament to the fact that lately, I've been able to drop the "Richmond tough guy" shit that I hate in everyone else because I know it's fucking bred in me. There's nothing that makes me happier... Tonight was interesting, as every night has been. I tried to go to the shack, tried to make some music again, but Chhang didn't call, so I went and played a Fender Rhodes (piano, not guitar), at Guitar Center with Ian and Scooter (Scooter doesn't stand in line for a fucking salad!), went to Bamboo after spending $3 for gas until Wed. so I could have enough to go get a drink with Ian, went back after many more drinks than I could afford. Smoked, got fronted an eighth because I can't afford one, but I feel bad smoking everyone else's shit all the time, smoked some more. So Ian passes out, a couple people leave, I let the dog out, shut the door, lean against the counter with my beer, look at a friend and sigh. I felt like the parents after the kids go to sleep, or the kids after the parents go to sleep. Is there a difference? It was just like last night, I'm high as shit dicing tomatoes, Maddie stops by, Amber comes over, we call the motherfucking Godfather Izash. It's fucking insane, it's like an amazing family. Will this shit fade? Am I the only sentimental fuck that feels like that at all? Even if that's the case, I feel it, and I appreciate it. So we continue to smoke, and drink, talking shit back and forth, and the room clears out. I have to be up at 6:30 for fucking brick work, I shouldn't even be writing this, I should be sleeping. So I head out, and stop to take a piss. Walking to the toilet, I look in the mirror, see my red ass fucking eyes, my pale skin, my skin unshaven two days. "If I leave this house, I'll get a DUI," is all I'm thinking, I'm certain, there's no fucking way I could drive home without getting a DUI. So I walk past the mirror, to the toilet, repeating that thought over and fucking over, pissing, finally asking myself. "Couldn't you fucking use one? Wouldn't you deserve it?" I walked out, fully accepting my paranoia and my logic, accepting the consequences of my actions. I drove home fully knowing that I was going to get a DUI, and I knew that it wouldn't necessarily be a bad thing, it could help me in a lot of ways, but it couldn't hurt me too badly, just my driving record. At the same time I was driving carefully as fuck, I'm not that stupid. I didn't want to get pulled or killed, I just really believed that I was going to get pulled, and it was okay. When I got in the car I listened to Common People, I love those fucking lyrics, and I realized that I've never been happier in my life. I appreciate everything, absolutely everything that I've ever been through or done. Yesterday I went out to eat with three friends, two of which we have nothing to talk about, but we still will hang out, because we've grown up together. The third I convinced within 30 seconds to let me give him a mohawk just to be funny and freak out his mom. So I give him a mohawk, my mom wakes up from her nap and we're both shirtless in the bathroom, I'm smoking a cigarette, show her my friend's mohawk, my mom's freaked out at waking up to me and him half naked and half-mohaked. Then she takes pictures of us in the kitchen, looking stupid. Today I spent the day hanging out with my brother, playing Mario on the Super Nintendo (yes, that out of date). We listened to song after song on the computer, singing our asses off, while I talked about some potentially great fucking news with a friend of mine, and random Richmond girls keep asking to be my friend on myspace (I swear it's a not-so-subtle sex network... Good thing I'm celibate lately or I'd probably be getting myself ass-deep in some strange drama.) So this is what I'm thinking about on the way home, completely content with knowing that I was going to get a DUI, but still paranoid as hell about being careful, I wasn't trying to die. Oh, that and the fact that I was watching Synchronized Diving with my mom today, and was trying to explain about center of gravity and physics and why it didn't matter if the divers were different heights, but instead of listening she made me jump up and down in the kitchen and try to land at the same time, and we all just ended up laughing our asses off, my mom, my brother and I. I was talking to my ex today, Shannon, who got pregnant while I was gone. It's so crazy to think that I was with that girl for six years, and now our lives are so completely different. It's not even an issue of "it could have been me," and definitely not "it should have been me," because it couldn't have been me. That's what makes it so strange. The way some people literally fill chapters in your life, but could never carry through all the way. I sometimes look at people, and wonder how far we'll be able to carry through, how far we'll want to carry through. My ex was worried that I would freak out about her being all pregnant, and at first I was. Then I just said thank god it's not mine (also the first thing my mom said). But I'm happy for her, if she's happy. I think she'll be a good mom, and I'd like to see her kid grow up easier than she had to. So that shit was running through my head on the way home as well. And I listened to Turin Brakes and Pulp and Smiths and Elliott Smith and thought about the influence that people can have on you, the differences in my life now, back in Richmond. And I got home. I didn't get a DUI, I didn't get pulled. I walked in happy, after spending all of the money to my name on $3 in gas and two drinks, driving back in my piece of shit, empty-tanked car to my mother's house, where I don't even have my own room, so I can wake up and go to fucking brick hell at 7:30... and I fucking loved it. I'm only broke because I went to Europe. I only live at home, with my amazingly crazy family who I love, because I went to Europe. I only have this job in hell because of people I've met because I went to Europe. I only got this fucked up tonight because of people I met in Europe. Two I will always push together, because they were instant family to me, one that I will always pick up, because I know he would do the same for me, and one that will never fail to boggle my fucking mind and entertain the hell out of me (still she's an amazing person). And then the assorted array of crazy bastards throughout... especially Tim and Emily. Man, I need to consider inviting Tim to my lunch with Emily later this week. That would be some insane shit right there. So anyways, rambling now... The point is, the ultimate fucking point, is that I couldn't have asked to end up anywhere better than where I am, and I couldn't have gotten there any other way, or without any of the people. So I'm home, completely and totally happy as hell, content with everything. Reach in my pocket for a lighter and hit something that I forgot I had on me. I wouldn't have only gotten a DUI, I would have spent a little while in jail there, and I had no idea. Completely forgot. Talk about putting shit in perspective, I'm a dumbass. Complete idiot. Anyways, I had an amazing night, and absolutely nothing happened... thanks to everyone involved, in the past two months, in the future. (3 Comments |Comment on this)