The Life Neurotic with Duncan Horst

Self-Sabotage and Jello Shots: A cautionary tale.

2006-09-27T20:29:23Z

Guys, I letcha down again. I have by now far exceded my self-imposed 3 months exile from the livejournal. Shit, I haven't written fifty words together since my last entry. All of which you really care about. But allow me to expostulate.

(This is a long one guys. It really does get somewhere, but you might have to read to get there. And I'm sorry if you all didn't understand where I was at, (that means you, Randazzo) but...I just wanted to clarify)

I spent this summer killing brain cells and coming to important self-realizations. The brain cells were killed by a variety of softcore drugs provided in parts from a variety of sources. Oh, I was ever-so-chill about the whole affair; chill being the mode. Chill is the holy grail of Hillsborough.

(Fun fact! As matter cools, its molecules move with decreasing rapidity! Thus, the more chill any individual becomes, the slower their brains must necessarily cognate!)

Truth be told, I would be much more respected in Hillsborough if only I had managed to be less of an officious dick in my tenure there. No guys, hey! It's the truth! If I had actually behaved like a human instead of marketing myself like some sort of B list celebrity, (see also: Donny Osmond) I'd know much better both how to be happy, and how to interact with my fellow human beasts. So I made busy myself with chilling as a kind of 'mid-adolescence' crisis, spurred by the fact that in my high school carreer, I got by with an absolute minimum of human connections.

No, it's true. By senior year, I was both everywhere and nowhere in high school. After my old best friend John Hughes went off the deep end, I replaced live contact with an online "relationship" with a girl from Maryland that I allowed to corrupt my heart for...actually years. But more on that later. Though I can finally say I've gotten over most of the negative tendencies of my three year obsession, after that, I never really bothered to form actual devoted friendships.

Luckily enough, I was employed as a big fish in Hillsborough's wading pool. Yet whatever sustenance I devoured from the rinky-dink cult of celebrity I had, by senior year, adopted, it was diminished by my lack of connections to actual people. The quality was that of a sunken Ferris Bueller: known by everyone, but forcibly; fresh in peoples' minds, but festering, generally, on their invite lists.

So I painted it as a case of maturity vs. immaturity, whereas the truth was I simply wasnt content to 'chill,' to slow down and not be the center of everything. So gradually their center shifted; my universe became heliocentric, and like any isolated star, I developed some stellar qualities: becoming a bit of a gas bag, with a hot temper to match. And certainly always right.

Isolation does strange things to people. Some nurse violent tendencies, others self-embalm, sealing themselves off further and further; I decided to control as much I could in the town of Hillsborough (trust me, it's not worth it) via what skills i possessed. Even coming back this summer, I was surprised about how many people had still heard of me. Yet even with the whole 'chill' motif, I still couldn't seem to fully connect with all my new, younger, imaginary (senior class) friends. Then i found out/realized why. The rumors I'd started about myself regarding my sexuality on this very livejournal were following me. No play for poor little Duncan. Even in cases where some fair Boro'ite was willing, I realized her friends were talking her down. But let's first examine why I made my profoundly game-killing, self-destructive, and ultimately toothless allegations. It all goes back to my freshman year at Hillsborough High.

In a chess room at yahoo games I met a girl, my age, named "Katy." We talked for a while; it was ridiculous. She devoured my probing metaphors, and came back with others; a conversation standard was established of collinear one-upsmanship. Not only did she A: not think I was weird, she B: kept up with me and in some cases C: kicked my ass. We exchanged pictures. Surprise. Goregeous (picture one of the Olsens with tits.) We exchanged poetry. Hers was completely original. It was better than mine! For the first time I could admit someone my age was better than me. It felt good. I fell hard, though I couldn't show it. She had a boyfriend (of course), I was content to keep her a dream of what was possible. We talked on and off for a year.

You know how it goes. She broke up with her overbearing boyfriend after a year, after I told her that her soul was amazing. We got webcams; she was the most stunning thing I'd ever seen. I'm not exaggerating at all. The glimmer of her eyes, her hair, her body...I was completely, hoplessly, moronically lost. She was the perfect girl I had always thought I deserved. We talked about everything, huge phone conversations, webcam conversations...things escalated. Yeah.

I still didn't have a car, so I never got to go down to see her. My parents had heard of her in passing, and they definitely didn't approve. Mother was convinced, from hearing about her once in conversation, that she was being held at gunpoint in front of her computer, or some kind of cardboard animatronic. The result is that I was going through my adolescence addicted to a foreign symbol, a personification of perfection that I could never reasonably reach in the flesh. Unsatisfied and grasping for something solid, the fantasies we (I) crafted became gradually more graphic.

And slowly she melted away, over that long year of never touching, never seeing, or sharing the same air. It became about, not even sex, but the expectation of sex. Obsession with the carnal until it took over, unfulfilled, still wanting. The very special qualities about her that made me fall (was it ever love?) for her blurred, fell to the side, dissapeared. She stopped writing poetry. Our conversations ran out of spontaneity and fell into loops. I spent hours at home talking to her, and she eventually became a prison, an expectation that built up so high that she could no longer be ignored. She had to be experianced, there was no other options. I had waited for a year, perhaps two. I needed to know. And then I found out why she had delayed.

We met on a ferry that would take us from the Ocean Point to the tip of Maryland. I didn't recognize her at first because...she wasn't what I thought she was, what I knew she was at all. Evidently (and my sister STILL doesn't know how this happened, having seen both iterations of "Katy") she had angled the camera at such a perspective to slim any trace of arm fat, had rigged the lighting to smooth over all pores, subtly changed a thousand things perfectly without telling me why, or how she had snared me. I figured I had simply deserved someone beautiful and brilliant, but of course there was a catch. Of course; that's why she wouldn't show me her skin below her tits...I figured there was a scar(which couldve been a fun story), or she was preserving the mystery for the flesh. No. No. Just let me think, let me imagine, and she couldn't bear to stop it. The snowball rolling down the hill. Even when the poetry was dying, the conversations were shrivelling, she still was mezmerizing every time I glanced at a photo or booted up the streaming webcam; I could still afford to shut out the whole petty world of High School. It was still something better! At least! At least. Yeah. No. Pas de tout.

So I still went down there. I still tried to find the poetry, the reality, anything. Whatever she was, she was on her period, so not even any consummation for two, three years of my life. Everything else, yes, in her gigantic house in the boondocks, everything but imagined beauty, new poetry, everything but what I wanted. I had tried desperately to want it, to make it work. It didn't work. I couldve lived without the aesthetics, but the soul was gone; it had flown far from there. And I guess mine had too. Some part of my creativity was gone, replaced by obsession and cynicism, and domination, and blind carnality. And yes, I want it back. I'm tired of seeing things through a cloud of suspicions and kneecapped expectations.

And then I started my senior year, right after that. I replaced emotions with 6 hours a day on partypoker. +EV, +$1000, ...somehow. No close friends, but found a reason to go in to school by forging some shitty announcements, publicity stunts, mindless adulation. Associates. Isolation and growing bitterness, becoming the villain in the musical, looking with scorn at Gavin's heroic circle of friends and the parties I would never feel welcome at. And the bloody bitterness, and the lack of consummation in my gashed heart, for all it was worth, I began to realize that I had fallen for perfection and I could never settle for anything less.

I was scarred. I had no-one to talk to. And I only wanted to belong. I wanted friends I could trust in, but it was too late to build up the friendships. I had long ago convinced myself to expect nothing from the women of Hillsborough. I didn't start again until this summer, honestly. And my complete inexperience, my desire for connection, manifested wherever it could. And the fact that I wasnt talking honestly about anyone with anything, only heightened my confustion. And then I decided to express the doubt, and the emptiness, and the curious, frightful spectre that took the place of my imagined love, by bringing it to the public stage, the only voice I had left. The fact that I was wrong only made it worse, of course.

I don't hate Hillsborough. I wasted it, in the end. If not entirely, then just the personal development.

I lost my virginity at 19 to a girl on my floor, my first month of school. I have since had sex with six other girls, one of whom I've liked as a person. Two pseudo-relationships among the bunch, the like. Not very personal. But I've learned that I need someone who can understand me. Someone who I can talk to, someone who enjoys the same things I do, not only underneath a bedsheet. There are a few girls. But I've got to care. I've only to work again. To be honest.

To care about someone.

To believe in someone.

Tough, right?

Ugh

2006-04-09T15:57:38Z

I'm telling you from experience, ladies and gentlemen:

you may think it's cute.
You may think everything will go fine.
You could assume you've got nothing to lose.

You are wrong.

NEVER get drunk and crash a frat party.

And once you're there, don't claim to know "Josh."

(The good outcome is that there is no Josh. The bad outcome is that he exists, and (understandably) has no clue who the fuck you are. Guess which side I fell on?)

You will end up disoriented on the 17th floor threatened by fifteen or so rambunctious cityfolk, defending the two nonattractive females they had smuggled up to the penthouse in truly heroic fashion.

You will end up sprinting out of the room, jumping down staris, then taking the elevator to the fifth floor, then the stairs to the sixth (for the puropse of CONFUSION) to rejoin the party you were actually invited to.

Most importantly, if ever you find yourself in this situation, NEVER EVER EVER give your real name.

Thank you. I'll take my vitamins, then it's back to bed. G'nite.

Daylight Savings Time

2006-04-08T22:31:37Z

Allow me to preface by stating that this will not be what anyone could consider a "coherent" entry. That is because my ears are being assaulted by a barrage of skullfucking snores at a tempo of one every three seconds, calibrated specifically for an off kilter sound. Picture a man breathing with bleu cheese shoved deep into his nasal cavities. Ok. Ok. HE IS SOUND ASLEEP AT 5:30. Every day. then again at like 9. These are on friday and saturday nights!

I should not hate my roommate. He is a great guy. Pretty clean, has morals, interested in saving the world as opposed to destroying it. Ok. Ok. I'm an open-minded guy. I can understand where he's coming from. Just because I don't agree with him shouldnt preclude understanding, and empathy, or whatever the kids are doing these days.

That said, apparently not. Roommate talks to everyone else on my floor more than he talks to me. I know this to be the truth. I have tried to initiate conversations on multiple occaisions, but to no avail. The first month I was here, I invited him to come hang out with whatever posse I was affiliated at the time, night after night, and he always 'had homework' or 'other plans,' usually involving the 'Bobst library.'

(And an aside. The Bobst library is NYU's wonderwall, just across the street from our dorm. It is massive, modernistic, and geometrically obstinate. It is brick red and imposing. It is a brilliant building; a master thesis on soul-crushing. I call it the 'cube of death.' Bobst's inside is a black, cavernous atrium, with huge draperies and bookshelves circling the center area for 12 floors, over 100 feet. There are fresh plexiglass walls around these floors. This is ostentibly to honor the memory of the kids who saw fit to jump off the sides a couple years ago. This is where my roommate voluntarily spends his nights and weekends. He sleeps during the day. I think it's eating him.)

Well ANYWHO, It's all coming to a head, so to speak, because I got sexiled the other day. Now don't get me wrong, I am not opposed to this process as a natural state of events. It happens. It MUST happen. It has happened to my roommate. So obviously I wouldve been proud of him for settling the score had it not been at 6:15 in the afternoon and had I not had a pressing arrangement at 6:30, for which I needed my laptop computer. Door's locked. Knock. Knock.

And silence. This is bad. In his shoes (well, not shoes per se) I wouldve responded "one second!" and furiously ensured the clothing of myself/guest. This is what I have done in the past. This is what I may do in the future, until I have a room of my own. That or leave notice. But silence! Man! So, after a minute...

Knock! Knock!

Silence.

"Hold on a minute."

Nyet. One hopes in this situation for a muffled apology, or at least an, I'm coming, (either context will do) which assures that It will be over soon. Neither of these is present.

Still, I hold with me the guilt of the one (ONE) time when I got pretty drunk and brought a girl back with me while the roommate was, I discovered, still in the room. This lead to a dilemma that I believe I fell on the wrong side of. While that night was not the rule, but its exception, I still felt at fault for any disturbance I had caused. My roommate is a strict teetotaler, you see. Also a moralist. Nothing can be done. I lay down on our cheap, rugged carpet in our vomitous vestibule. Nestled between the microwave and the bathroom door. and I wait.

So. Five minutes.

Knock. "I just want my laptop! You could put it by the door! I'll close my eyes!"

"Hold on a minute."

And he says the same response. This is NOT looking promising.

This story does not have an exciting ending, really. I wait for another seven minutes and they leave, flush-faced into the midafternoon sun, and I do some furious tip-tapping on my computron. I am, once again, late to my engagement. The circle of life spins ever on.

I make no complaint. I mean if I ruled the world, it would be business by day, pleasure by night, but hey. I don't. Not currently, anyhow. People have sex; it is a thing that they do. For some it is an inconvenience, for others, a blessing, and this can change depending on which side of the locked door you're currently at. poetry, and such. wunderbar. But the interesting thing is the eight words he said to me - "Hold on a minute-" twice - that was the most we had spoken all week. So I am grateful, at the very least. It's always nice to be included.

News From the Front.

2006-04-06T20:28:04Z

Today our college (NYU) was invaded by a bunch of hipsters known as the incoming freshman class. Attractive girls, intimidated boys, et cetera, whatever. They were mostly here to clog up the residence halls and eat free cotton candy, which incidentally was provided for them, pro bono in exchange for $45,000 American. Yeah, pretty standard procedure. BUT! there was a plus side to their descent onto the campus.

A balloon arch.

Yes, I know what you're thinking. "Duncan, you're paying an ungodly sum of money to live in New York City, practically the center of the world, with people from everywhere, with a night life like no place on earth, and with a 60-40 female to male ratio, and the most exciting thing you've seen all week is a BALLOON ARCH?"

To which I would say yes, I have $12.00 in my bank account. I squandered my money long ago on loose women, gamblin', cheap eats and cheaper liquor. I'm working at the post office this summer. Fuck you.

Anyway, as far as balloon architecture is concerned this was a pretty shining example. It stretched across a city street, arcing a perfect parabola in purple, silver, and for reasons totally unrelated to our school, gold and green, all tastefully done, of course. This was before class, when all the prospectives were happily munching their admittance cotton candy (which, I'm pissed, was a new feature this year). After class ended, one side of the arch had broken free of the mooring, leaving it to dance like a sixty-foot schizo in the wind.

This was an opportunity.

OK, for those of you who don't know me, my morality is a subjective thing. Not that I've been brushing up on my Nietzsche and all, (which I have) but it stands that this was not a functional balloon arch, and was thus no longer capable of serving the function it was created for, namely, to aesthetically please a great number of people with basic geometric principles. Half-unmoored, it could serve only to depress, causing the innocent incoming freshmen to perhaps reflect on the transience of their existences and how fleeting true happiness is. And personally, I wanted to shove it in my dorm room just to see the look on my roommate's face. (likely he would say nothing, as he usually does. He's an environmentalist and human rights activist who likes gangsta rap and sports an authentic jew-fro. I recently expressed a desire to club baby seals 'to revel in the glory of nature, and the wonderful sounds it produces.' Needless to say, we have A LOT to talk about.) My decision was clear.

I sprint back to the dorm room to get my best pair of scissors, dodging groups of rogue freshmen in the stairwells who had self-segregated into homogenous pods of boys and girls. No matter that my dorm was being invaded by a middle school, I grabbed the scissors and literally sprinted through the crowd, holding them up while yelling, "I'VE GOT SCISSORS!! I'VE GOT SCISSORS!!!" Needless to say, they got the...erm...idea. One of them asked me where I was going. I told him, "To cut down the balloon arch." Done and done.

I return to University Place. Security is nonexistant; the tour guides were all away making $8/hour, leaving their crippled masterpiece to writhe in the spring sunshine. I looked around a bit, as suspiciously as I could, popped the chissors into my pocket, scaled a newspaper box and reached to the 10 ft. mooring, slicing it off and grabbing the high-tensile plastic string - first popping a few balloons for good measure. I got a good grip and jumped off the bin. Extatic, the balloons followed suit. I began walking towards washington square park. People were in awe. Freshmen were in tears. Small children and large dogs were visibly smiling.

That is, until the whole thing was ripped out of my hands. By my old nemesis: Nature. Apparently I had neglected to realize that parks, while scenic lacales wor walks with helium, also contain trees. Trees which will greedily trap balloon strands longer than 10 feet. Mine was over six times that limit. And thus, the environment fucked me yet again. Good job, environment. Guess it's straight to the toilet with those 6-pack holsters.

Anyway, perhaps it's for the best, because as soon as I saw that my brilliant, anti-establishment plot was fucked I ran to the student center to get lost in a sea of diversity, and to get a better look. There was now a police car in the park. The arch formed a kind of quizzical, shuddering circle, almost in the shape of a birth-defective question-mark. Some of the event's organizers were standing and staring. I begin to think that bringing it directly back to my dorm room wouldve been a dangerous plan. So I go back to the dorm room to sheathe my scissors, and change my shirt.

That's where I'm at right now; deciding which shirt to wear. It should be trendy, but not too metro, and moderately tight without being constricting. I need to be just the right kind of perfectly thought-out, intellectual uber-hipster. I think I'll go for the carefully calculated unkempt look, since all my shirts are wrinkled anyway. Classic black T? Wifebeater and white buttondown. It could WORK!

duncanhorst @ 2006-03-25T17:58:00

2006-03-25T23:08:46Z

You all of course already know this, but the secret to life really is taking a nice long walk every once in a while. Well, not THE secret to life, of course, but it's certainly helpful for enjoying everything in it. Especially the city. You really mustn't just stay in one place here.

So: simply go outside. Find new and interesting things. And look for locked doors. They're really fascinating, especially when they also have clear windows. I went to the NYC branch of the Supreme Court today, by chance- a huge, classical building with imposing statues and allegorical etchings. I wanted to go inside, but all doors were locked (I checked) but, there was a window which faintly showed tapestries, gilded ceilings and walls, wood paneling, and a metal detector. It's refreshing, spontaneously wanting to go somewhere and then being barred. Finding incomplete new things, not experiencing all of them, but being richer for the part that you do see.

Oh, and the weather was perfect today. Bit chill, but not quite cold. And a very expectant feeling in the air, with all the people streaming about. Like the air in Independance Day before the hatches opened- I half expected a volcano to open up in Times Square. Maybe not, but something felt like it was the horizon. The sky was grey and blue, and full of mysteries.

Ooh ohh oh

2006-03-20T02:56:47Z

I need truth to do great things.

And I need to be truthful myself.

I cripple myself by being able to get by in life without believing in what i'm doing- a case where laziness is not always best. If you aren't enjoying the entire jourey, if you're just staring at the goal unsmiling, well, 'twont do you much good, or anything else. Losing focus here might be good, if i could just enjoy it all.

To be fair, I just passed a very enjoyable spring break. This is true. But in order to bridge the gap between good and great, I need to feel something more than a long, hard slog towards meaning, and achievement. There ARE poetic people in the world, maybe at time I was one of them, and I need to get in touch with that again.

I think it's joy, really. I'm not unhappy, but it's just the core. I don't feel an urge to make anyone smile in this post. Which is why its probably not good reading.

But I digress:

Some are good.

2006-03-04T08:34:39Z

There are the failures which discourage, and the failures which motivate.

Not that I've failed anything lately, but I can betterdistinguish the difference between the two.

In other news, I think my first mass transit concert went pretty well.

It is after 3:30.

Goodnight, moon.

Pony up; Ride that GRAVY TRAIN!!!

2006-01-30T08:51:47Z

Hey. I don't update much, but a few (5[five]) things!

1. Transferring schools within NYU! It will either be to the creative writing program or into the cloisters of an acting studio, but I must decide which by March 1. I think that it is a good bet that I would be accepted to either of these, so this is not an issue. What is the issue is, which of these would be better for my future? I've been doing some research over the past couple months and it's pretty close. Hmmm...acting or playwriting? Of course, doing one doesn't necessarily rule out the other. Because-

2. I've effectively already transferred! Yeah, I'm basically a mutt within the school. I am taking two dramatic writing classes at Tisch, three music courses at Steinhardt, and one measley required course at CAS. Normally I wouldnt be able to do this, but with the miracle of computers, anything is possible- that and weaseling access codes. Tip for all incomers and assorted newcomers: Teachers matter. And if you know a good prof, lie, cheat, and steal to get into their class. Just go there and stage a good ol' southern style sit-in if need be. Because sometimes you'll need to

3. DROP COURSES! YES! Its so good, so good, to spend one day in a class and just go BAM! Done. EXAMPLE: My Machiavelli seminar. One day. Prof was thoroughly depressing, and fixated on his lower stature in his department, compared to the other 'greats' in the department. DROPPED. Hello, playwrights! New 5 page script every week...MMM And also a growing hello to

4. My musical. It's chugging along, but it will be titled, 'Hike!' And follow the tale of a high school football team in a district where the policies for sports and the arts have just been -- reversed! Yeah, there's a plot now. Songs are coming slower, but I'm trying to learn how to actually write music with em, and I'm looking to be VERY happy with an inspirational ode to Doug Flutie that will tentatively close out act one. If you don't know who Doug Flutie is, google the poor bastard; for he is a GOD. Also new on the music front:

5. MASS TRANSIT. They held new auditions for the spring semester and I. AM. IN!!! If you havent heard them, check em (well, hell- US!) out at http://www.nyu.edu/clubs/masstransit/home.shtml. Man, this is looking pretty sweet. Just because it's such an establishment. Yeah, and the dance steps are pretty tight.

So that's about what's up with me. I do not expect updates in the forseeable future, but shizz, dudes! I'll let you know if things are happening!

Rock, scissors, love, but the greatest of these is scissors.
(2 Corinthians 13:13.)

The bandwagon.

2005-12-17T15:52:23Z

I don't normally do this, but I am WHOLLY in favor of this programme.

Hit refresh a bunch of times for a rather nice retrospective.

It would seem so...

2005-12-12T07:19:13Z

Ok. So when I had blond hair, I would walk through Washington Square Park, my head held high, at all hours of the night and early morning, and not a soul would entreat me with the proposition: need weed?

Yet- now that my hair is black, I am accosted nearly half the time I enter the park post-midnight, the only exception being a hellish sleet-filled dreamscape wherein I was the only living soul in sight (including squirrels and all but the heartiest of rats). Tonight, in fact, a youth queried me about the whereabouts of Ms. Mary J. outside of our dining hall. Regretfully, it being finals week and all, I had to inform him that 'twas neither the time nor the place.

In groups, nobody used to inquire about my aptitude for the bong. 'Twas always the darkling child among any cadre who was picked out from the herd. Now I am somehow eligible to engage in illicit and generally socially irresponsible behavior- I am fair game.

This is because I have black hair.

Thanksgiving Brings Families Together!

2005-11-26T05:20:55Z

Back in town for a couple days.

Still belong...almost. It's a strange feeling, being here. I'm just a little bit unnecessary, but only a little. Most of the gears still work, though, the machine ain't totally foreign. Pretty good.

We're finally finishing our album. I think we'll still be called 'Aftermath X,' strangely enough. It's a mediocre name to begin with, but so are Shaniqua, LeBron, or Monique. They couldn't change theirs either, and they're doing fine, so there's the rationale.

So, we're mixing/mastering/masturbating our considerable mental energies into the process. We are planning on a Christmas release date, this time for real...so ready your stocking stuffer impulses! Coming in at a scant $10, this is one item you WON'T want to miss!

Crazy, crazy, crazy times. Just saw rent; my acting professor has a bit role as the lesbian lawyers' mother- I was understandably overjoyed. It's strangely affirming- to know somebody who's known, to see special signifigance when looking at them blown up to 15 meters. She assigned me a special project for the final, woirth sweating over, a 'tour de force,' as she puts it.

So, the final in our acting class "A Real PLay of Identities" is a performance of just that, with the class giving different vignettes of a wide array of people, sometimes solo, sometimes in groups of two or three. These presentations are either direct interviews or modernized snippets from various plays. I have to play:
-A man on an electric chair giving an extraneous inner monologue, and
-Marilyn Monroe, in an interview given just before her death.
Oh, full costume.

I'm a big, brave dog. I'm a big, brave dog. I'm a big, brave dog.

Seriously, though, I'll be fine. You might laugh about it, but actually seeing it, I'm not going to be an insult to the memory of Ms. Norma Jean. Yee-Haw!

Povertay!!!

2005-11-14T04:31:33Z

As of right now:

My money: Is located in an empty plastic daquri cup i bought in some trashy festival in Little Italy.

This is less than ideal.

What to do:

A: Play Poker?-
No. This is a self-depriciating, self-destructive habit. Also, Jacks always lose. More importantly: Requires an investment of capital. There are currently no games for $6.47. (three subway rides.)

B: Get a campus Job?-
Campus jobs are for losers. Everybody laughs at those people! They're soooo lame, sitting in their little booths, making like $8 an hour (whereas it costs roughly $100 for an hour of class! Man, are they getting screwed! No sir, not for me!

C: Become a bum?-
As Duncan B. Horst III, When I do ANYTHING, I can't stand to do it halfway! I can't be a bum by day and sleep in a bed at night. That's hypocritical! I am no hypocrite. Ever. Look at anything I've ever done. Yeah, I'm cool.

4: Requisition money from friends?-
Whoever said debt is the glue that holds together lasting relationships was probably huffing it. I just figured out that people like you better when you have money! In fact, this may be the most important factor for success in this world! Listen up, party people- If you want to make good friends, GIVE them money, don't ask for it! Don't make my mistake!

E: Sell body for sex?-
This could actually become quite effective. Remembering to wear a condom would be key here, but otherwise, I think it could be a really good way to eat, and actually a pretty decent form of exercise. Also: no handcuffs. Not for me, I'm saying; my arms can slip out of them because I'm a freak, which has become useful in more than a few circumstances. But you viewers at home, you should use caution, gumption, and good old street knowhow. Just because you wouldn't lynch a friendly whore, doesn't mean everytbody thinks that way. Just stay smart!

Unfortunately, I don't currently have enough cash for a train ticket home, so I think I'll live here forever. So if this is goodbye, everyone, then goodbye. You were wonderful. But I suppose I'm too cool for you. And by too cool, I mean you have more money than me, you capitalist squares!

~Searching for pennies from heaven, preferably with my birth year on them, or an indian head or some weird rare crap I can sell,

Duncan Bradford Horst!

Curious

2005-11-10T09:23:33Z

You ever have one of those moods where you're not sure if you've done anything, so you have to look back at everything you've done to be sure of yourself?

I wouldn't say I'm constantly in one of those states, but it certainly isnt very conducive to being a human, or even being. So, let's work on that! :)

duncanhorst @ 2005-10-28T02:23:00

2005-10-28T06:31:48Z

Amazing night.

It's wonderful when you can be happy for someone that you genuinely like, pleased to see them really succeed, and to be able to feed off of the smiles in a room. Then to see a group where the major bond is a happiness, a trust in each other, and just a general bond...its almost more than my Jersey cynicism can bear.

There are really some wonderful people, who will never tell it to your face. Inexplicable people, as far as I've been concerned. So different from what Hillsborough is about. So hard to break my defenses and love people, or myself. But seeing these people from a thousand miles away or greater, fly from the begginnings in a Florida arts high school to see the debut of a wonderful girl having just stepped onto the stage as an understudy, playing Tracy in Hairspray onstage for a sold-out audience...then hugging her and congratulating her, and eating with her and talking with her and knowing all of her friends after the show.

Something I'll have to learn, no doubt. But there are real people in the world, and they do real things. I'll have to change to be among them, to really be among them. But just to be with them is enough for now. Osmosis of the soul.

Quizzical

2005-10-23T21:13:39Z

Ok, so I just auditioned for an A Capella group today.

Things were going pretty good; 20 tried out, 6 made callbacks. I was confident in my performance, standard issue stuff. They seemed an amiable group.

They seemed to be looking to fill one or two spots.

They kept: zero. None. Nobody. Nada.

Everyone who tried out was sent back - it was 'A numbers thing.'

Now, how to take this? It's interesting. I dont have to feel inferior, because, everyone was rejected. But I don't get fulfillment, as I'm not technically in the group, and i did get rejected. but hey, c'est la vie. (Pronounced: suh-esssT lAH v-EYE)

A breakthrough

2005-10-06T06:30:37Z

I have decided to write a musical. Yes, i know this is a huge undertaking, but I have the gumption, dammit. It will be a great show.

It will be called, 'NFL: the Musical.'

The first song is near completion at present; find me and i'll send it to ya. It's called, The Quarterback's lament. It is in 3/4 and has a waltzy feel, and is in B minor for piano, strings, and timpani. I intend to illuminate the more showy side of the National Football League.

Are you ready for some football?

Hey Everyone!

2005-10-05T04:42:57Z

Remember me? My name is Duncan!

But enough about that. On a more practical note:

I think what I need is to be a constant outlet. Constantly working, creating, becoming a furnace for creative material. Man, that would be satisfying. Working through self-motivation and ignorant of the standards placed upon me. So, all I need is the drive and the medium.

As for the former, drive: out of luck. My sister has my car, and the subway is my only means of transportation.

As for the latter, a medium: It's rather daunting, flying solo on this. I suppose I should get very serious about piano, so that I could form the core of some musical group. Being as I am, I'd have to go very 'leech and latch,' working up through an existing organization rather than starting my own. Plus, people really respect anyone who can actually play an instrument. Singers, wunderbar though they may be, are generally regarded as tools unless they at least strap on an acoustic and drill some chords for show. Man, oh man.

Might come home for a fenstaar show in early November. I'll keep you guys posted.

Until then, you're neat!

duncanhorst @ 2005-09-10T02:20:00

2005-09-10T06:52:42Z

Tonight I have come to a very important realization; a very expensive realization, but one that has probably been a long time coming: I should not be playing poker. It took about half my standing cash to discover this and more than a few bad beats, and thank god.

See, I have an addictive personality. An addictive personality is when someone is pretty empty inside, and they want to be full, so they decide that victory will make them full. And they eat and eat until they become torpid, but they get hungry again. And when they eat things that have no effect on them, on their hearts, on who they are, well, they grow old. And Empty.

Poker is a game that is played for piles of nothing, and empty fuel. Money as a transitory reminder of greatness will never last for anyone, and the time sacrificed to it cannot be used for personal gain. It is not making me worse, but it is not making me better. It is either making me richer or poorer, but it does not help me.

I made the proper plays and I still lost. Improper plays met the same fate. Cards do not respect conscience, cards do not have a sense of fairness outsidee of straight probability. Cards are not people; cards will not love you. Money will not love you. People will not love you for your money. People absolutely will not love you for your skill at beating them.

Maybe I don't love people, and I need to, but I love to entertain them. And my egomania wants to go to being the best at something, so let it be entertaining people. Let it go towards improving myself and my abilities in order to influence others, to make them laugh or close their eyes and understand, and the byproduct will help me, yes, and it may go right through me, but every day I'll get better at something that's worthwile.

If I get too attached to the idea that poker will make me happy, or more fulfilled, or financially stable, snap me out of it. If I ask you to play or ask you to ship me money online, politely refuse. And tell me it will make me emptier.

Before this moment of clarity fades. Because you can get everything you don't want in this city. I watch people do it every night. But what I, what I really need, can only come from myself, and I submit to the fact that I'll need help to get there. I have to only grab for the food that will make me stronger. And not that which will leave me fat and empty. Thank you. Glory be.

College!

2005-09-04T07:38:01Z

Hah! Infrequent updates? Sporadic spasms of interminable interest? Yes! Tis welcome week!

They have given us great shows. Went to see Letterman, a comedian actually singled me out for my parents' dubious reproductive tendencies, had a birffday, and am kinda supercool. This is good!

Ask not what I have done, or what I will do. FOR IT SHALL BE DONE! (or, it already has been.) This place is really empowering. And for all of you at home, may you too journey to a place such as this.

What did I do? The list is long. So you can ask me questions!

NYU

2005-08-28T20:07:30Z

I am at college.

So, in summation:

If you are dissatisfied with home.

For seemingly no reason.

If you feel like invisible forces are pinning you down

Or are depressed

Well,

There is a jolt of warmth and freshness

When everyone else leaves

And your stuff is piled on the floor

That is friggin awesome.

The Maine thing Is

2005-08-22T14:06:58Z

I just got back from summer vacation, and am beginning to understand the allure of the mundane. Which, coincedentially, rhymes with 'Maine.' We go there every year. We drive. We visit the same three towns, look at the same ocean vistas and rickety bridges, and eventually end up in the same ancient familial resort of Linnekin Bay. It's a sailing camp in which everything, from the boats to the chairs to the cabins to the little band that plays in town, has been around for 60 years. They celebrated their 60th anniversary this year with some stalish cake. I hope they weren't saving it.

So, I did what I always do there. I read a bunch, played family games, listened to music, and this time, actually learned how to sail, and furthermore, captain a vessel. I think I've finally gotten over my seasickness; when my hand's at the tiller, I can survive even the mightiest of ocean swells. (Take THAT, Gravitron!) Anywho, you didnt really ever have to do anything there. You could dive for sand dollars in the 50 degree surf off of the mystical 'seaweed island,' an atoll only visible during a lunar eclipse, (or maybe just at low tide) or you could dive under the covers with some shitty book you're compelled to read cover-to-cover. And, people yell at you to do stuff a lot less when you're on vacation. Plus, there are a lot more places to hide from them, at least when you've been going there for the past eight years.

So, yeah. That was relaxing. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to record an album in...hmmm...six days. Already written two new songs for it, and you will like them. Just...don't get in my way. No matter what you do. :) Ciao!

Moss' Third Worst Day

2005-08-02T08:42:55Z

I have a friend, an Out of Towner, by the name of Moss Lightman.
Though he sounds like a lichen-based superhero, he is actually a Spanish Jew.
Moor or less.
But, today, he was not lucky to have escaped the Inquisition.
Today was the worst day of his life, or at least, as he put it, Top 3.

(I'm guessing 2 would be when he broke up with his on-again off-again belle, Sam[antha]. 1, without question, would be the death of his father, who was, by all accounts, a great guy.)

He woke at 7:15, after three point five hours of slumber, to his first job, to instruct at a day camp. This year the children, like every year, are real bastards. But this does not bring the day any worse than routine, as Moss is a guy who can truly battle against the monster of the mundane. At 3, he went to his second job, mowing lawns. (Told you he was Spanish.) Its about 10 an hour, no great shakes, but he needs the cash to pay for the hood of his car, having recently gotten friendly with the rear end of some Ford Goliath. He's a truly reckless driver, to the degree that would be almost honorable until you consider that otherwise, he actually does value his life.

Moss mows lawns until later, when he meets up with his esteemed friend Dan, at the Heightstown Taco Bell. Dan is the only part-time manager in this Bell's short history, of which it has earned the reputation as "one of the cleanest, if not THE cleanest (Taco Bell), in the Tri-State Area." Dan can thus score free food for later, as much as he wishes. Dan has a black manager's shirt. Dan makes good jokes, has an excellent sense of humor, has a good cut to his face and is generally regarded as a likable guy. Dan has two girlfriends. 'Menage A Trois' is in his working vocabulary. Dan doesn't seem to worry about anything. Moss worries about everything, except his driving, and has an on-again off-again girlfriend a half hour away. Moss and Dan pack some bell for later and head for Piscataway, knowing not what waited in store.

At this point, I come into the picture. I am at musical rehearsal when Moss called, asking if he and a friend could spend the night at my place. Apparently there was something happening that next morning in the area, making my home a much more convenient base of operations. My voice was going, and knowing Moss, I would be up till 5:00 AM playing pool, a fine diversion when no rest was required, but a liability when my singing voice was in jeopardy. I declined. However, when Nathalie, a girl both somewhat attractive and somewhat interesting (though not very advanced, or good around liquor) called after musical rehearsal ebbed, asking if I wanted to see a movie, I did not object to the idea. We would meet in Piscataway. Apparantly at Sam's house.

Moss then called again to see if my mind had not changed. Apparently I had been vague before. I told him I was going home, not entirely a lie as I was returning for some mouthwash and deodorant before departing. He was hurt a bit when I showed up half an hour after I declined his offer for Nathalie's company, which indeed proved to be overrated. (not her fault, there were too many guests and the lights were too bright for film to develop, let alone anything of a more personal nature. Not that it actually mattered.) We patched things up with an offer of gummi bears, and watched Constantine, which was as shitty as you would think. Moss, after a long day and three point five hours of sleep, dozed off. I can't blame him. Keanu Reeves' acting has that kind of...nyquil effect.

While this was going on, someone got the brilliant idea to decorate him, a la Garden State, with an array of profanity and phallus-related reverie. With permanent marker. I made no objections. When the movie was over, we shook his now-obscene limbs and told him it was time to go to the diner. He lit one of his obscure clove cigarettes and got into the car.

And folks, in case you, too, have been drifting off, this is where it begins to get interesting.

Upon entering the Fontainbleu diner of historic central Piscataway, it came to Moss' attention that the words, I <3 PENIS were scrawled across his forearm. Appalled, he ran to the bathroom, but was stopped by the belligerent owner, informing him "If you don't want to wait with all the others, you can get out of my Diner now, and spare me the trouble!" There was apperently an embargo on seating onesself at this establishment; the proprietor assumed Moss was trying to lift this embargo, with his conspicuous, Penis-loving arm bathed in permanent glory. Moss washes up, we get a table, and moss lights one of his conspicuous, brown clove cigarettes. Moss and Sam share an even more conspicuous open-mouth kiss. The owner attacks from the rear.

"I told you not to smoke those in here, they stink up the place! I've seen you around here before, you, always making messes and being loud! And you never tip my waitresses!" He apparently noticed that we've all ordered water. "You walk right in here and expect me to bow to you, well, I decide who gets to eat in my restaurant!"

Moss keeps his cigarette lit, informing the proprietor that his brand of choice is perfectly legal, and not in fact, obscently smelling in the least. Better, in fact, than the common brand, in tearms of annoying resedue. I silently agree with this observation.

"That's it!" says the man, his muted Indian accent now clearly audible. "Get out, all of you! You have five minutes before I get the cops!"

He stormed away, into his kitchen citadel.

There were, indeed, cops.
We did, indeed, leave.
Within five minutes.

We were all, of course, holding Moss back throughout. Threats of defication were rampaging through his mind, assorted defilements of the diner echoing off its stucco facade. While most of Moss' and Sam's friends that had stayed for the diner run left, at this point, the faithful (I.E. myself and Sam) loaded ourselves into Moss' smashed 95 Accord and headed for the Somerset.

The Somerset diner was fine, except that Moss and Sam were bickering and I was stuck picking up the entire tab ("My money's in the car!" held Moss, affirming the Jewish side of his heritage) and the tip as well, though everybody ate at least a bit of our sampler platter. So, we went to leave.

EXCEPT MOSS HAD LOCKED THE KEYS IN HIS CAR. (presumably, WITH his money.)

Fun times ensued. we managed to get the window open, a crack. Moss and Sam managed to get into yet another fight, and I wonder how i will come to gain sleep for my precious voice to heal itself for the morrow. We look for sticks in the wilderness to activate the power windows. Finding none, we finally find a woman with a thin metal rod that just barely fits the bill. Moss and Sam open mouth kiss once more, and we're off to Sam's house again, except I get to drive, for Moss is tired. Yay. And he would be spending the night at my house, after all. It had been decided, at this point. Moss falls asleep in the passenger side almost instantly. The only light in the landscape: the summer moon, watching over all, and the fuel light, freshly ablaze and rapidly increasing its intensity. I drive.

I drop them off at Sam's, and transfer to my car. He is to follow, then end up at my house. He will barely have enough fuel to make it, it seems, but that is no matter for the brave Mr. Lightman. Though tired, he flies out of Sam's cul de sac, and I do my darnedest to keep up. He'll have to get gas on the way, but I want to end up with a considerable amount of time to set up a sleeping area for the poor lad. He's had a rough day, after all. But after all, Moss is barrelling down Rt 287, and then 22, at an average of 75-80 mph, on the slow side for him. On 22 I move to pass, and he counters with a burst of speed that wouldve been impossible at rush hour, or for the faint of heart. I allow him to pace me, my efforts to return long before him, thwarted.

And there, as if sensing my dissapointment, a state trooper rushes through the safe corridor, sensing two viable targets. A second's pause; he flies past me and targets the car of Mr. Lightman, fangs bared, stopping him just before the exit to 206. We both deserved punishment, but there was only space for one. It just wasn't Moss' night.

I guiltily rolled past Moss as he was being pulled over, attempting to glide as inconspicuously as possible back to my home, where i would prepare a slightly rank sleeping bag upon our less-comfy couch for the young Lightman, the preferable one preemptively taken by the Tanner. He got back and I met him at his car, the damage: severe. 83 in a 55. In a safe corridor. $600 he did not have, at all. I ushered him in to sleep, knowing that he had to get up early the next morning. 7:00.

He's still sleeping right now. In the morning, he'll be attending the funeral of a boy who committed suicide not long after attending a party he helped Sam host. The motive remains nebulous - a fight over a girl who was there, a friend's quarrel, broken trust - but the exaction was definite: pills and razor blades. A determined man. No note was left.

The funeral starts in 5 hours as I am typing this. His name was Jim. He must be having a pretty rough time too.

But Moss, man, my heart goes out to you. This was the third worst day of your life; lets hope nothing ever inspires you to dread determination.

And drive slower, for God's sake.

^^

The Out of Towners

2005-08-02T07:08:12Z

Friends. I have em. Who doesn't? But interestingly enough, the type of friend I have often depends upon their geographical location to me. Thus, there arises a strange dichotomy between those locals I entrust with my companionship. Two types of people. Two entirely different functions. They are the Locals, and the Out of Towners.

If you are reading this, you are probably a Local. As such, you are likely of above-average intelligence, fairly well-to-do, hold some modest appreciation for the arts, and are nearly straight-edge, in thought as much as inhibition. All symptoms of a life in Hillsborough, New Jersey. But, though that may be unglamrous at times, take heart! For my local friends are all, without exception, exceptional. All are extremely well versed in some area of life, whether it be wit, musicality, creativity, appreciation, or compassion. Not much standard 'popularity' among them, but a whole lot of everything that matters in life. Many of these people are extremely upwardly mobile. I can forsee great futures already establishing themselves all around me. Way to go, Locals! But I digress.

The Out of Towners are very different from my motley boro crue. They hail from Piscataway and Heightstown, and are, by and large, a vein of teenage normalcy almost impossible to tap into around here. Reckless behavior is predominant, with its upside of spontanaity and lack of self control. Long-term consequenses remain typically disregarded, as well as many of societies less popular unwritten rules, but interestingly enough, honesty is more prized. Togetherness trumps talent, and a collective atmosphere is more simply established through a conjoined appreciation for the ephemeral and scorn for the wise. Translation: they like to drink. But not to think. s'coo!

So, there are pros and cons to having each kind of friend. Locals are less likely to need anything from anyone else, and are often more independant, controlled people. As such, they are much less likely to both ask and grant favors, owing as much to the lack of their necessity as to personal pride. They are more likely to offer stimulating conversation than stimulating...stimulation. They are less likely to show obligations towards people they know. They are more in touch with their desires than most. Out of Towners are less interesting in conversation, more interesting in experience. They provide stories to tell later, outside of their company. They will die sooner, on average. They are less intelligent than Locals, on average. They are less affluent than Locals, on average. They are more happy than Locals, for a time.

Fun can be had with both sets of friends, and should be balanced, skewed a bit towards the locality. Locals teach me directly, telling me my flaws. Out of Towners inderectly, their lives at times showing the fallacies of the popular culture. Out of Towners, however, are always willing to listen to a joke, even when sober. And they'll look out for you, with the acuity of those who shut their eyes to everything but friendship. And they'll hurt you if you hurt them. But they won't trouble you at all, so long as you're a decent person, if not human being.

The Toughest Thing

2005-08-01T06:37:27Z

The toughest thing is taking a loss and knowing that you yourself are 100%, fully, totally responsible.

:)

A CHALLENGE!!!

2005-07-28T22:25:16Z

Is is better to be famous or to be loved?

Now.

By famous, lets mean known and enjoyed (or at least, tolerated) by a rather large number of people, so that the name becomes an institution of sorts.

By loved, we shall say cherished and devoted to and open with a person or small group of people, which is restrictive only in number, not in feeling.

And, are the two mutually exclusive at any level, and is the combination so elusive?

See, if you know me, you've known which of the two I've pushed headlong hardcore for. And, if you could get inside my head, I'm sure you would understand why my priorities are as they are. And trust me, they are good, solid, effective priorities.

What is more solid? What one person knows to be true, or what a thousand people think? And haven't we all been taught by our parents to put the group concerns over whatever ephemeral desires arise from the individual? Any desire to be famous is simply taking this to the next level: not heightening individuality by putting it on display, but lessening the self, by catering it to the whims of the majority. It is what we have been taught be everyone that seems to matter in this society -- do what you are told. Entertainers are commanded to entertain, and they generally oblige. This does not make them better, or more interesting, or more privileged people. It simply means that they are fulfilling a different function than a carpenter, a teacher, an office worker. There are no lesson plans; they don't put themselves into their work. They ARE the work. And as such, they must change to suit their profession: other people.

So, does a strong, solid, binding connection with a comparatively tiny demographic undermine the ability to fashion a thousand tiny strands to a thousand different minds?

If someone's work is other people (plural), is there room for a self? Rather, is there really room for other people (singular), which can dominate affection and desires, restricting the flexibility of any honest performer?

Now. Contrast the benefits of being very well known and moderately well liked by catering to the ephemeral in everyone with the responsibility of taking care of a select few, catering to their needs and attempting to solve their problems, daily accepting failure. (What is the risk of ruin of the former versus the latter? I've found, in life, much less.)

What is better in this society: being famous, or giving love?

And please, consider 'heartbreak.' Try the divorce rate if you like; I hear it's delicious.

And please, consider 'immortality.' Almost everyone crumbles to dust, and history books rarely get any longer as the years go on.

And please, consider me. Where am I going? What am I doing? It's a logical question.

I would like to hear your thoughts. Fame or Love. And please, don't be restrictive.

(By the way, this is absolutely not a rhetorical question. I would like a response. And I'm not in a bad mood, either. And I'm not being introspective. This is mere speculation on an interesting, if tired, theme.)

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