Field notes

Here you will find a trove of cheesy literature and Ewok droppings. I am 19 and I shoot space debris for a living. I also write things occasionally.


I REALLY like being alone. There, I said it. Being alone might seem dark and “depressing” to most people but to me, it means just one thing: freedom. Freedom to do whatever the hell I want, whenever I want. I make my own decisions. I only have to pay for myself. I don’t have to worry about the opinions of others. And I love it. But some days, I gotta admit, it really sucks. It can get stale on certain days. I definitely do get lonely, and sometimes, I just want to be able to talk to someone. It’s hard, but I deal with that on a regular basis. I know how to handle that, as difficult as it is. But opening up to other people, compromising with them, and interacting with other people — that is hard.

I mean, I keep getting invited to go places, or see people and stuff, but I just can’t, for whatever reason. My body won’t allow me to do any of those things. When I do convince myself to go out, I end up just spending most of the time thinking about being home again to enjoy some solitude. That’s pretty much how it goes for me. I’m that person that goes “man, I wish someone would hang out with me”. Then someone offers to hang out with me, we do, and the second we get together I’m like “nah, I want to go home.” I truly am just THAT pathetic.

Very rarely in my life have I felt the need to seek out the company of others, and this has sort’ve been a thing ever since I was little. I have always been very comfortable in the company of myself. In elementary and high-school I really didn’t talk much, just because I didn’t feel the need to. And this probably sounds elitist as hell, like, *insert posh voice* “I don’t need to talk to other people. I’m already so great. I’m high and mighty.” That’s not what it is. Everything just clicks together when I’m with myself. I’ve just sort of always been that way and in some cases, it’s a trait that I value because I think independence is a really important thing. It’s something that you need in order to survive in the world. Being able to appreciate yourself and your thoughts and what you believe in, is one of the most important things you can work on.

Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life. Don’t be trapped by dogma — which is living with the results of other people’s thinking. Don’t let the noise of others’ opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition.”
– Steve Jobs

To live, you gotta trust yourself. Trust your ability. Trust your power. At the end of the day, all you have is yourself anyway, so I think it is extremely important to be able to handle things on your own. I think there’s nothing wrong with being alone and being happy about it. My mindset may change in a few years though. I say, be open to change. The important thing here is that you do you and you’re happy about it.

Leaving you with this cool video.

How To Be Alone

It really hit home for me.




“I just want a hot cup of coffee, black, and I don’t want to hear about your troubles.”
— Charles Bukowski

Substance of choice: Coffee
Relevant musings: “When you’re caffeinated as fuck, you feel so lightheaded you can’t even feel your fucking toes. It’s flowing through your blood vessels, and it’s in you. You are the Coffee Man. You are the Coffee Maker. And you are the most compelling writer you will ever meet.”

I’d be a liar if I said I can’t write without caffeine. I can’t function without caffeine – being sleepy all day every day isn’t something I can handle. I need coffee before just about any activity more stimulating than putting on my pants. Like writing, sweeping the floor, taking a bath, going to my classes. And I’m still on the fence about whether this is an entirely good thing. I do believe it’s a hedonistic tendency.

Before, I only drink coffee when I need a boost, or an adrenaline spike. But lately it got harder and harder to write without it. I think it’s the caffeine addiction kicking in. I mean, I’m not properly conscious in the morning without caffeine. I can’t think straight without caffeine. And I definitely cannot go on a day without caffeine.

 “I orchestrate my mornings to the tune of coffee.”
Terri Guillemets

Yes, I love my coffee. I may be addicted – but, there are far worse things to be addicted to. Like, the morgue [Dickens, anyone?]. Coffee makes me invincible. Coffee gives me incredible powers. It makes me feel like I’m a fucking superhero; typing words away in my word processor to save the day. I shoot off like a Saturn V rocket, from the power of my thrusters. I feel more positive about what I’m writing, more confident, and I’m basically more productive. Coffee silences my inner critic too, blocks out the damn voices.

The experience of being caffeinated is just different. The buzz puts me into a state of bliss, or as Paramhansa Yogananda would put it, “a state of superior calm”. Ideas drift, flow, glide, and cascade down the pages from the mind easier, words and phrases click together like magic, and creative juices show up when I need them. It makes my brain go weeeeeee! And although it’s not the only factor, coffee has helped me be more creative and become a better writer.

At this stage in my life, I honestly don’t have the time to get everything done and delivered in high quality. So, I’ve squeezed out all my energy options that don’t require a prescription. I understand how disturbing it can be for your creativity to be reliant on a chemical, but I don’t feel like that weakens the virtue of said creativity. As long as you’re getting shit done and you’re happy with it, just be happy and get shit done.

I began writing this article while drinking a mug of coffee, but now that mug is empty. The buzz of caffeine alertness is gone, and I’m considering having a second mug. Warm weather be damned, I need my hot mug of coffee. I need to fucking write!


50 Awesome Moments Only Writers Would Understand

I love this post so much.


you were a rebellious sinner
and told me i wrote like a Latin painting
i asked you why
you half-smiled and replied,
“the inside of your mind must be a fucked up place”
i looked away
but you grabbed my hand
and took me to a boat
rowed us in the middle of the night sky
painted on a lake
and with the moonlight on your cigarette
told me a story i’ve never heard before

you told me to close my eyes
and think of the universe expanding,
endlessly away from my fingertips.
you told me to write you a story that’s never been told;
a story of infinite worlds we’ll never get to touch,
a story that’ll cause me a missing vein
and you half a heart.

you told me i was a traveler on a cosmic journey,
bathed in whirlpools of stardust and galaxies
and i believed you,
and i stood alone in the stitches of oblivion
trying to hold the universe together
burning up in the hearts of stars
that left me scattered near and far.

you told me i was a revolving mystery,
drifting like dust in a tie-dye sky
your world was outstretched before me
and there’s untamed electricity,
coursing through my veins.
i’ve been spat out of supernovas,
danced for a whole lifetime
upon Saturn’s dusty rings,
i’ve traveled on the tails of comets,
dined in distant galaxies,
sung celestial lullabies,
that sent the moon and the sun to sleep.

“for a star to be born, there is one thing
that must happen:
a gaseous nebula must collapse,” you told me.
so collapse, you said laughingly
you told me this was not my destruction
but my birth.

you told me i am the dark and the light,
the moon and the starless night sky
and i believed you.
i’ve been frozen
i’ve been molten
and you told me i was an artist
molding magic and purpose in my hands
and i believed you
oh–did i believe you.

we took a trip back to reality,
and we were silent for a while
just the smoke of your cigarette and the spark in your eye filling me up
soaking me into your limitless dimension.
and suddenly
i shouted to the heavens
at the top of my lungs.
and it was beautiful
the stars shined
the lake howled
when the universe swallowed your heart and your name.
i was free and
i was finally
in control.
– n.t


In the cold light of the moon,
He was led down a spiraling alleyway,
Smoke, fumes, dust, slowly taking his sanity away.
Hands grasped at his clothes, snatches of conversation, gunshot and mad laughter,
Whirling around in his head.
Scream, he wanted, Scream!
But fear trapped his voice in his throat.

Quite still, full of fear, he suddenly saw a light in the darkness,
Dawn was breaking.
“At last,” he rasped.
He began walking again, walking, walking, trudging –
Beginning the ascent up what seemed to be a hill.
But when he believed that he was safe at last,
He found himself facing a Methuselah,
Blocking his path.
In despair, he heard voices.
A man gave a burst of crazy laughter.
Opium. Yes, it was opium.

He was screaming in solitude.
Ice penetrated like a sharp blade
Between his boards and strong facade.
Mice scuttled, latrines smelled.
People bowed down to infidels.

Years passed, and yet he was still walking.
For a time he had given up counting the slow passing of the hours,
He was no longer conscious of the foul smell of the Smoke.
Instead, he saw sunlit fields, smoky inns and starry skies.
He was found.

But at the same time, he was lost, he could not go on.
An anxious mind wandered in the darkness,
Caught up in the feeling of some serious foreboding.
Another crisis was coming.
Then there came a cry,
And he found himself standing beside his bed,
Arms painful and covered with sweat,
Palms itching and shiny with regret.

Early rays of dawn filtered through into his room.
Now had arrived the moment of rest and reflection,
The time to understand that power can crumble like dust.
Yet he was discontented.
Crouch he did,
And inhaled the dust through his nostrils,
Pierced novocaine between his toes,
And in the cold light of the moon,
He was led down a spiraling alleyway.
– n.t

Here Comes The Sun

We stared at the bright yellow ball of light
Graciously falling from a slender fracture
Falling, falling, falling leisurely,
Like a comet in the park,
Between dark clouds and lightning and booming claps of silver,
Surrounded by tiny cyclones of scorching flame and catastrophe,
Hurling pools of magma toward our blushing cheeks,
Oh—it is the angry Inferno!
It is the End.

The tempest made our hairs stand and our skins perspire ice,
Made your nostrils flare,
Made my skin eat itself raw,
Made us scrape and hurt our knees—black and blue.
And yet as we stretched out our arms,
Submitting ourselves to Agony’s glare,
Both of us yelled against our throats’ liking:
“This? This is the rapture?”
Followed by a loud clap of thunder,
And yes, we fell like dying birds in the moonlight.

It crashed,
Crashed, crashed, crashed,
Like a time-lapsed sunflower blooming with brilliant petals of Yellow.
Everywhere, it was Yellow,
Eyes, lips, scalded tongue, necks, arms, hands, nails, feet, teeth.
Yellow, grinning devilishly before our eyes,
Yellow, cracking our lies–breaking your feeble disguise,
Killing the innocent sheep and sparing the weak.
Oh—it is the Great Yellow!
It is the End of Mankind.

– n.t


Oh friend,
I too had failed to hear my whisper
for it was enveloped by the overwhelming sounds
of the great big world
that we so proudly call our Maker’s canvas.

Deafening it was,
like the pattering of silver droplets,
echoing throughout the sinister dark,
in a hollow cave,
between a tight conduit
of rushing water and acid and icicles,
that can eat you whole,
that can trap your ears inside a finger trap,
and make you prisoner in its ineludable belly

My friend,
it was too noisy,
i screamed as i was submerged in an unrelenting vortex
in pure darkness,
of desolation,
sucked into a vacuum of nothingness,
shackled against a bed of mice,
around red eyes,
with a pendulum swinging freely upon my thighs,
slicing sharp hairs and fields
of silence and peace and starbursts
of horns and firecrackers
of paint explosions and jesters.

My friend,
we are a whirling world,
of unending pain and suffering
and noise,
spinning like a top,
failing to stop,
to break through,
and see the joyous surge of sunlight
with angel-headed hipsters dancing around its orange flame,
like drunken men kicking with their knees.

this world had deprived us
of the natural sensitivity it promised to give so long ago,
failing once more.

You and I are now prisoners of this failed Utopia,
faking happiness and sophistication,
our real whispers and murmurs snatched,
now laced with poison,
walking the stairs toward a false heaven,
with toy flotillas and wooden soldiers behind our backs
unprepared to die,
yet ready to live and give in,
and submerge our lungs
in this world of noise and static,

– n.t

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