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graham

I am here for Friends

About Me

Listen:
Space for rent. Your ad here.
My name is Graham Isador, the prodigal son of tradition and crackers.
I am eighteen years old and would rather not be.
Blink.
My entire life, culture, opinions, soul were bought on books, records, websites.
For six easy payments of mistrust and dignity this could be yours!
But right now it’s mine, and I don’t mind that.
Hornby and Gavin call it the best years.
I call it my teens.
When I was five I wanted to be a power ranger.
Nine a police man.
Twelve an anarchist.
Sixteen a martyr.
Now I just want to be. There isn’t nearly enough time for that anymore though; as I waste my days in a school, a coffee shop, a basement, a bar; playing a big city life in a small town. I rotate the things that are still here to make it seem as if none of the pieces are missing. A lot of time spent, shooting, and filling blanks. She hasn’t minded, so I pretend not to. I’ve always had a strong appreciation for vertigo. It keeps me grounded.
Giving up and growing up haven’t really been that different.
Cough.
The most important thing to remember when ordering a green tea is that it’s tall, medium build, brown hair, with a battling sense of arrogance and insecurity, five sugars and no milk. Milk just fucks it up. That’s not shock value. It’s just how I see it.
There is a time and place for subtlety and articulation.
Describing myself is not the time or place.
If you’re so enamored I still have some room in the back.
The front rows are reserved for a dog named Jodie and a girl named Cassie.
She’s in California. I don’t recall what colour her eyes are but mine are grey.
If you turned her sideways she’d disappear. I like that.
Capitalism, though the ism people like most, is organized exploitation.
But you and I have always run on cheap oil and profit.
So it goes. We’ll learn soon enough.
The right don’t get it and the left have it wrong. I hope, I think, I know.
But there’s still a hole where a phone was thrown.
A pint of Guinness to make me strong.
A light that never goes out.
And another pattern forming.
These tunes in play in my head and when no one's looking I sing along.
Twitch.
Sometimes I try and get the insides out.
Other times I’d rather not.
I wonder if they talk about me, and if they do what they say.
“A writer with no direction, a poet with no muse, a liar, a cheat, and a loser”
Not that I’d care. I just really want to be noticed.
Really. For real. Forever. Ever Ever? Really.
Every line I’ve ever written has never really said what I’ve wanted to say.
Every mic I’ve sang into has never been loud enough.
My voice cracks when too many people listen.
I am over prescribed and under the weather.
My parents tell me it’s a phase. They’re okay.
It may be a phase. I don’t see them enough to know.
Trust me.
I’ll say sorry if it’ll make you feel better.
I’ll apologize if I can have my way.
That’s childish. You’re childish.
Time out. Wait your turn.
I wait a lot under a thousand calories a day!
Terrified of ending up past thirty two.
Round. Right round. Sideways. Like a tape deck.
Just flip a coin to get some head or tell tall tales.
I’ve made a habit of learning how to kill time.
I commit its murder daily.
And despite it’s death it doesn’t ever stop.
Ever Ever? Really.
I am in a band.

My Interests

I write for:
Scene Point Blank
My interviews include:
AFI
Broken Social Scene
Cursive
The Faint
French Kicks
Henry Rollins
The Holy Roman Empire
Jack's Mannequin
Matt Skiba
Maria Taylor
Placebo
The Organ
Pretty Girls Make Graves
Rise Against
Two Gallants

I'd like to meet:

The girl beside me has just dropped her pen. Noticing that is probably the most thought I will ever give to her. That this person who has her own separate wants, needs, feelings, and goals once dropped a pen in an English class, picked it up, then continued to kill time before our professor began to speak. That was her impact: her role. She performed it without flaw.

For some reason I believe I’m destined for bigger things.

As I made my way out of the classroom into this city of cold clay and shit I began to stare down the street, past the lights, to the bus stop. A ride out to god-knows-where just turned the corner and I can’t say I’m jealous. I found this place a long time ago, all full of high rises and homeless people, and felt oddly at ease. I now reside quaintly between city hall and a hospital for sick kids, in what used to be a Best Western. The hospital reminds me of someone, but that’s a story for another time. Light a cigarette, walk it off. What is this story then? It’s a story about…well, it’s a story about the only thing I ever write about. It’s a story about me.

Like a Salinger beginning I don’t really have an urge to give you the basics. Find it out.

Music:

andrew bird
bane
bauhaus
cursive
elliott smith
jets to brazil
jawbreaker
joy division
okkervil river the cure
the faint
the good life
the jesus and mary chain
the murder city devils
the smiths
the stone roses
tom waits
toyko police club
two gallants
stars

Movies:

24 hour party people
Hedwig and the angry Inch
I rushmore
sin city
the fountain
the life aquatic
the royal tenambaums
the rules of attraction

Books:

bukowski
beckett
coupland
eliot
foer
giaman
ginsberg
hemingway
hornby
kundera
o'connor
panych
seth
vonnegut
ware
welsh

Heroes:

Henry Rollins

My Blog

Back again.

At best this is an appeal to nostalgia, at worst it's a play at my own vanity, but none the less here I am, both thinking and writing of these things. I've missed this ideal in the way you miss your c...
Posted by graham on Sat, 11 Aug 2007 09:35:00 PST

read

I think that sometimes being a person is really hard. And I think there is a fault with language, because if this is how we're suppose to communicate with each other then why is so hard to make anothe...
Posted by graham on Wed, 07 Mar 2007 10:45:00 PST

read me

  When we were younger my brother burnt his thigh fairly badly by spilling boiling water on it. Mom and dad weren't home. While he sat in the kitchen screaming I continued to watch TV. My rationa...
Posted by graham on Tue, 07 Mar 2006 11:25:00 PST