Tuesday, December 21, 2010
L'Etranger (The Stranger)
"I felt that I had been happy and that I was happy again. For everything to be consummated, for me to feel less alone, I had only wish that there be a large crowd of spectators the day of my execution and that they greet me with cries of hate."
~Albert Camus~
~Albert Camus~
Monday, December 20, 2010
Do you remember what it was like to be a kid? Can you think back that far? Can you put yourself in that place? Imagine the feeling of holding a balloon as a child; how it felt real to you even though a part of you understood that it probably wasn't alive. It existed as a being for you and that was all that mattered. It was the faith that you had in its existence, in the tiny inkling that there was really something that could feel in that balloon, that made it worth something to you. And you would spend days with the balloon, drawing faces on it, running with it, maybe even talk to it and share things that you wouldn't tell anyone else because you felt that the balloon was a real friend to you and had no tricks to pull; Because inside you there was a belief that the balloon was listening and the balloon understood and that somehow the balloon loved you back even if it was just between the two of you, even if these were secret moments.
But a few days would go by and without warning the balloon would begin to deflate. It was happening every second you spent together but you paid no attention to it because to you, balloons never really died. So you made this promise that you would still love it, no matter what. But one week later your mother would come through your room to see this deflated balloon with maybe one bubble of air left and the faces you drew shrunken and smudged. She would tell you to get rid of the balloon, that it wasn't worth keeping anymore. And even though you knew, you would never be able to run with the balloon flying above you anymore and that its smiley face would just be a black splotch and not have the same pleasant air as it once did, it was still worth something to you. It mattered and was still just as important to you as when you first saw it flying high above you with that magical aura of invisible life that it evoked. So you'd let it stay, maybe even distract your mother from ever seeing it.
But a week later she would see it again. She would tell you that it was ridiculous to hang on to it, that it was dead and it was time to throw it away. And even though you knew that it had just become a relic of sorts, pathetically tied to some chair in your bedroom doing nothing but taking up three inches of ground and creating an eyesore, that it was no longer a playmate but just a dear memory you were holding on to for sentimental sake, it still breathed some sort of life in your mind, its blotched ink still smiled for you. And sometimes you thought that maybe you could blow some air into it and it would look a little more like itself again. But you wouldn't because you couldn't run the risk of completely deflating everything that it was, everything that it meant to you. So you left it alone.
Eventually your mother would throw it away while you were at school or at a friend's house and you would come home to find the balloon gone. And because you felt for it even then, you searched through every known trash can in the hope of finding it still there. But it would be gone. Forever. No balloon ever replaced another. Was that so foolish a thing to believe?
Now imagine the balloon as a person.
People give all kinds of advice. They tell you to let go of things because that would be the best thing to do. Because what you had with it didn't mean anything anyway. That it was worthless because it wasn't real. But regardless of the circumstances, of all the actions that speak louder than the words, regardless of the fact that nothing will ever be the same, in your heart you know it would be wrong. Never mind the fact that the walls collapsed around you and that everything in your head has told you how pathetic it is, in the end it was the company you enjoyed. In the end, it was worth something to you, no matter how solitary that feeling was. In the end, you always believed in it even if it tore you apart. That alone is worth more than all the "good" advice in the world. That alone is what makes people better. I believe in the good that there is in people. I always have.
But a few days would go by and without warning the balloon would begin to deflate. It was happening every second you spent together but you paid no attention to it because to you, balloons never really died. So you made this promise that you would still love it, no matter what. But one week later your mother would come through your room to see this deflated balloon with maybe one bubble of air left and the faces you drew shrunken and smudged. She would tell you to get rid of the balloon, that it wasn't worth keeping anymore. And even though you knew, you would never be able to run with the balloon flying above you anymore and that its smiley face would just be a black splotch and not have the same pleasant air as it once did, it was still worth something to you. It mattered and was still just as important to you as when you first saw it flying high above you with that magical aura of invisible life that it evoked. So you'd let it stay, maybe even distract your mother from ever seeing it.
But a week later she would see it again. She would tell you that it was ridiculous to hang on to it, that it was dead and it was time to throw it away. And even though you knew that it had just become a relic of sorts, pathetically tied to some chair in your bedroom doing nothing but taking up three inches of ground and creating an eyesore, that it was no longer a playmate but just a dear memory you were holding on to for sentimental sake, it still breathed some sort of life in your mind, its blotched ink still smiled for you. And sometimes you thought that maybe you could blow some air into it and it would look a little more like itself again. But you wouldn't because you couldn't run the risk of completely deflating everything that it was, everything that it meant to you. So you left it alone.
Eventually your mother would throw it away while you were at school or at a friend's house and you would come home to find the balloon gone. And because you felt for it even then, you searched through every known trash can in the hope of finding it still there. But it would be gone. Forever. No balloon ever replaced another. Was that so foolish a thing to believe?
Now imagine the balloon as a person.
People give all kinds of advice. They tell you to let go of things because that would be the best thing to do. Because what you had with it didn't mean anything anyway. That it was worthless because it wasn't real. But regardless of the circumstances, of all the actions that speak louder than the words, regardless of the fact that nothing will ever be the same, in your heart you know it would be wrong. Never mind the fact that the walls collapsed around you and that everything in your head has told you how pathetic it is, in the end it was the company you enjoyed. In the end, it was worth something to you, no matter how solitary that feeling was. In the end, you always believed in it even if it tore you apart. That alone is worth more than all the "good" advice in the world. That alone is what makes people better. I believe in the good that there is in people. I always have.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Letters To A Young Poet
"It seems to me that almost all our sadnesses are moments of tension, which we feel as paralysis because we no longer hear our astonished emotions living. Because we are alone with the unfamiliar presence that has entered us; because everything we trust and are used to is for a moment taken away from us; because we stand in the midst of a transition where we cannot remain standing [...] And that is why it is so important to be solitary and attentive when one is sad: because the seemingly uneventful and motionless moment when our future steps into us is so much closer to life than that other loud and accidental point of time when it happens to us as if from outside. The quieter we are, the more patient and open we are in our sadnesses, the more deeply and serenely the new presence can enter us, and the more we can make it our own, the more it becomes our fate."
~Rainer Maria Rilke~
~Rainer Maria Rilke~
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Sunday, December 12, 2010
In Bare Quiet
Dividing the spare rations among us,
we've become more of a phantasm
but separate is our illusion.
nursing on words that linger
sparkling above the trees as the storm sets in.
There are giants out here where this road narrows in
and they'll be watching my pockets for a dime
fools in petty crimes
where the air is warm and they take nothing
crows fly low above the scene
twisting all the in-betweens, awaking to choke you back to sleep.
To pull, by a thread, to hold it there
until the weight sinks in
and they can't be held responsible.
we've become more of a phantasm
but separate is our illusion.
nursing on words that linger
sparkling above the trees as the storm sets in.
There are giants out here where this road narrows in
and they'll be watching my pockets for a dime
fools in petty crimes
where the air is warm and they take nothing
crows fly low above the scene
twisting all the in-betweens, awaking to choke you back to sleep.
To pull, by a thread, to hold it there
until the weight sinks in
and they can't be held responsible.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
All The King's Men (Film, 2006)
"The friend of your youth is the only friend you'll ever have. For he doesn't really see you. He sees in his mind a face which doesn't exist anymore. Speaks a name, 'Spike, Bud, Red, Rusty...Jack,' that belongs to that now non-existent face. He's still the young idealist you used to be, still sees good and bad in black and white and men as sinners or saints but never both and feels superior in the knowledge that you no longer can distinguish the two. That's what drives you to it, to try to stick the knife in. There is a kind of snobbery in failure, like the twist to the mouth of a drunk."
Jack Burden (Jude Law)
Jack Burden (Jude Law)
Friday, November 19, 2010
This Room And Everything In It
"Lie still now
while I prepare for my future,
certain hard days ahead,
when I'll need what I know so clearly this moment.
I am making use
of the one thing I learned
of all the things my father tried to teach me:
the art of memory.
I am letting this room
and everything in it
stand for my ideas about love
and its difficulties.
I'll let your love-cries,
those spacious notes
of a moment ago,
stand for distance.
Your scent,
that scent
of spice and a wound,
I'll let stand for mystery.
Your sunken belly
is the daily cup
of milk I drank
as a boy before morning prayer.
The sun on the face of the wall
is God, the face
I can't see, my soul,
and so on, each thing
standing for a seperate idea,
and those ideas forming the constellation
of my greater idea.
And one day, when I need
to tell myself something intelligent
about love,
I'll close my eyes
and recall this room and everything in it:
My body is estrangement.
This desire, perfection.
Your closed eyes my extinction.
Now I've forgotten my
idea. The book
on the windowsill, riffled by wind...
the even-numbered pages are
the past, the odd-
numbered pages, the future.
The sun is
God, your body is milk...
useless, useless...
your cries are song, my body's not me...
no good...my idea
has evaporated...your hair is time, your thighs are song...
it had something to do
with death...it had something
to do with love."
~Li-Young Lee~
while I prepare for my future,
certain hard days ahead,
when I'll need what I know so clearly this moment.
I am making use
of the one thing I learned
of all the things my father tried to teach me:
the art of memory.
I am letting this room
and everything in it
stand for my ideas about love
and its difficulties.
I'll let your love-cries,
those spacious notes
of a moment ago,
stand for distance.
Your scent,
that scent
of spice and a wound,
I'll let stand for mystery.
Your sunken belly
is the daily cup
of milk I drank
as a boy before morning prayer.
The sun on the face of the wall
is God, the face
I can't see, my soul,
and so on, each thing
standing for a seperate idea,
and those ideas forming the constellation
of my greater idea.
And one day, when I need
to tell myself something intelligent
about love,
I'll close my eyes
and recall this room and everything in it:
My body is estrangement.
This desire, perfection.
Your closed eyes my extinction.
Now I've forgotten my
idea. The book
on the windowsill, riffled by wind...
the even-numbered pages are
the past, the odd-
numbered pages, the future.
The sun is
God, your body is milk...
useless, useless...
your cries are song, my body's not me...
no good...my idea
has evaporated...your hair is time, your thighs are song...
it had something to do
with death...it had something
to do with love."
~Li-Young Lee~
Monday, November 15, 2010
Religion & Science (my own opinions)
Due to some recent arguments I've either overheard or been in the center of, I've decided to include this essay as a part of my blog. Unfortunately, it is necessary for me to start out with a disclaimer ****I am agnostic. I'm neither for nor against believing in God and spreading the word of peace and serenity in the world. This is strictly my opinion, you are entitled to your own. This is an essay on why religion exists, why people misunderstand it, and why it causes so much conflict. Give it a chance, you're bound to agree with at least one sentence, I'm sure.****
Religion began as an attempt to answer two very important questions in the hearts and minds of humanity: Why are we here? What happens after this?
Somewhere in ancient history someone died and the survived person was daring enough to try and answer those questions. As with any knowledge, it branched off into much more elaborate details and explanations to compliment the answer so that today we have approximately 750 million identifiable religions existing in the world. Of course, some of those religions have extremely noteworthy flaws to their foundation, such as Scientology. However, believing in whatever suits your own needs and feels most accurate to devoting your faith to, is perfectly acceptable no matter what that may be so long as it is not inflicting upon the free will of others. Religions (when interpreted correctly) were never created to spread hatred or war. The top three religions in the world (Christianity, Islam, Judaism) are all peaceful offerings for belief and created to spread harmony in the hope that people may co-exist better if they were given a reason to live better. It's pretty simple and very easy to prove. Proof. This is where science has tried to burst the religion bubble.
There is no solid evidence that supports or disputes the existence of any God or Gods. That is actually a scientific fact. It isn't a safety net either. So we know about evolution, about the universe, but what created the universe. We have the Big Bang Theory almost 100% proven now, but what exactly came before that? There were things floating around to cause that reaction right? Who put those there? How lucky are we to be alive considering the magnitude of the universe and the fact that we haven't contacted anyone else yet? Maybe someone or something did plan this, who knows? Consider the Book of Genesis in the Christian religion and how it begins with the beginning of people. For some, this is enough proof that the Bible is false. However, the Bible was not written by God, it was written by men telling a story from where they think it began....for them. If you want to read a book that is the direct word of God then you must learn Arabic and read the Qur'an. Why? Well, few people actually realize this but the Qur'an is to Islam as Jesus is to Christianity; a miracle. However, it was given to Muhammad in Arabic, therefore every translation could be tainted, it is not directly from God and is therefore not the Qur'an. Allow me to clear something up about the Qur'an:
Islam is an extremely peaceful religion and is probably one of the most liberal and flexible religions in the modern world. Some people would find that hard to believe, when in fact Judaism is actually the most conservative religion. Islamic extremists are actually reading, not the same Qur'an bestowed upon Muhammad to spread the peaceful word of God, but a different Qur'an that has been interpreted incorrectly. I'm not discussing the difference between Shi'ite and Sunni, I am stating the extremist paradox. The children residing in areas run by Islamic extremists grow up to believe that this is the Qur'an, it is their primary education. But how could this be the same Qur'an that the Muslim community who once resided in Spain building advanced cities and educating in mathematics and sciences and spreading poetry read? It isn't. Muslims promoted education, even the education of women, they did not ban it as so many believe. Amazing isn't it? How one group can alter the face of Islam entire.
I shall now state my arguments as to why certain scientists, and certain members of my generation, need to consider re-thinking their deductions on religion. I'm not suggesting suddenly embracing God, I'm suggesting accepting religion for what it is. Without religion, science would not exist. The first true scientists were astronomers. They studied the heavens in an attempt to move themselves closer to the Gods, to understand the Gods and to map the heavens. As everything, it advanced into today's space travel (rather unfortunately scrapped to conquer something unconquerable) and that goes for all sciences as well. Every scientist had the same question that surviving person did, what is the meaning of all of this? See, science is even closer linked to religion than most give it credit for.
There is nothing in the Christian Bible that states that missionaries need forcibly place their religion on others. That is false and has caused many a conflict in the world. But I have found that most people who so adamantly attempt to spread their religions (excluding Jehovah's Witness) have not actually read their holy book. Christians especially. It is not religion which causes wars but rather, the misinterpretation of religion. No where was it written that fighting a crusade is the ticket to heaven. I could be wrong, but I'm agnostic and I've read the Bible.
Raised Catholic, I went to Sunday School and CCD and two hour Saturday Confirmation classes. I've been to Bible study and sat in some of the grandest cathedrals in the world and actually cried at the beauty that was created in a time where things were made by hand over many decades all out of a leap of faith. I cried almost out of jealousy for the devotion of those people living in horrible conditions, building walls of such magnitude and chiseling statues so painstakingly perfect, devotion that I realized I didn't have. I cannot confirm my faith. I don't think I ever will be able to. But even so, I cannot say that Catholicism is really the best choice in religion when there are so many which offer so many glorious lifestyles. I cannot and will not condemn someone for what they believe, there is a very simple reason some people embrace religion: hope. Religion is, believe it or not, a very important part to maintaining society so long as it is interpreted correctly. I will not ever put someone down for having the audacity of faith in something I can't see 100% on. It sounds backwards but, for me, I'd rather do my personal best to live however many short years in this guaranteed place than try so hard my whole life to live up to the standards of being accepted in a place that is not so guaranteed (to me). As I previously stated, I have no problem with religion.
I've studied so many of them and every one that I had the privilege of reading about was so beautiful in its real mission. If you are religious, don't ever stray from what that real mission is, because one foot away is the chaos of Hell on Earth. Keep hope, whether your own or that of a religious one, behind you in your life, whatever you need to believe that everything can and will be better tomorrow. That's the point. There's no real reason why we're here, don't forget to live even if you're so determined to find that reason. Don't hurt others while trying to live, there is never a full on call for selfishness. For me, whatever happens when I die, happens. If the Christian God is there, I will surely give him a hug and put in a good word to those who survived me then be off to wherever he decides I should go. But I don't feel I should worry about that day just now, although some may feel otherwise and that is fine too. Just don't forget that even God gave the power of free will, he probably gave it so that you would use it...kind of like Adam and Eve, God didn't smite them, he just created original sin and moved on. He's kind of like that one really cool teacher that had to punish you somehow but didn't want to destroy your entire spirit. Believe whatever you want, however you want so long as you don't have to hurt anyone by doing so. Even if you believe yourself one of God's children, you still have a life of your own.
Without further delay, a clip from a very thoughtful movie which really relates to this essay a lot (it's funny, you can laugh):
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xPzmq2zeWm4
Religion began as an attempt to answer two very important questions in the hearts and minds of humanity: Why are we here? What happens after this?
Somewhere in ancient history someone died and the survived person was daring enough to try and answer those questions. As with any knowledge, it branched off into much more elaborate details and explanations to compliment the answer so that today we have approximately 750 million identifiable religions existing in the world. Of course, some of those religions have extremely noteworthy flaws to their foundation, such as Scientology. However, believing in whatever suits your own needs and feels most accurate to devoting your faith to, is perfectly acceptable no matter what that may be so long as it is not inflicting upon the free will of others. Religions (when interpreted correctly) were never created to spread hatred or war. The top three religions in the world (Christianity, Islam, Judaism) are all peaceful offerings for belief and created to spread harmony in the hope that people may co-exist better if they were given a reason to live better. It's pretty simple and very easy to prove. Proof. This is where science has tried to burst the religion bubble.
There is no solid evidence that supports or disputes the existence of any God or Gods. That is actually a scientific fact. It isn't a safety net either. So we know about evolution, about the universe, but what created the universe. We have the Big Bang Theory almost 100% proven now, but what exactly came before that? There were things floating around to cause that reaction right? Who put those there? How lucky are we to be alive considering the magnitude of the universe and the fact that we haven't contacted anyone else yet? Maybe someone or something did plan this, who knows? Consider the Book of Genesis in the Christian religion and how it begins with the beginning of people. For some, this is enough proof that the Bible is false. However, the Bible was not written by God, it was written by men telling a story from where they think it began....for them. If you want to read a book that is the direct word of God then you must learn Arabic and read the Qur'an. Why? Well, few people actually realize this but the Qur'an is to Islam as Jesus is to Christianity; a miracle. However, it was given to Muhammad in Arabic, therefore every translation could be tainted, it is not directly from God and is therefore not the Qur'an. Allow me to clear something up about the Qur'an:
Islam is an extremely peaceful religion and is probably one of the most liberal and flexible religions in the modern world. Some people would find that hard to believe, when in fact Judaism is actually the most conservative religion. Islamic extremists are actually reading, not the same Qur'an bestowed upon Muhammad to spread the peaceful word of God, but a different Qur'an that has been interpreted incorrectly. I'm not discussing the difference between Shi'ite and Sunni, I am stating the extremist paradox. The children residing in areas run by Islamic extremists grow up to believe that this is the Qur'an, it is their primary education. But how could this be the same Qur'an that the Muslim community who once resided in Spain building advanced cities and educating in mathematics and sciences and spreading poetry read? It isn't. Muslims promoted education, even the education of women, they did not ban it as so many believe. Amazing isn't it? How one group can alter the face of Islam entire.
I shall now state my arguments as to why certain scientists, and certain members of my generation, need to consider re-thinking their deductions on religion. I'm not suggesting suddenly embracing God, I'm suggesting accepting religion for what it is. Without religion, science would not exist. The first true scientists were astronomers. They studied the heavens in an attempt to move themselves closer to the Gods, to understand the Gods and to map the heavens. As everything, it advanced into today's space travel (rather unfortunately scrapped to conquer something unconquerable) and that goes for all sciences as well. Every scientist had the same question that surviving person did, what is the meaning of all of this? See, science is even closer linked to religion than most give it credit for.
There is nothing in the Christian Bible that states that missionaries need forcibly place their religion on others. That is false and has caused many a conflict in the world. But I have found that most people who so adamantly attempt to spread their religions (excluding Jehovah's Witness) have not actually read their holy book. Christians especially. It is not religion which causes wars but rather, the misinterpretation of religion. No where was it written that fighting a crusade is the ticket to heaven. I could be wrong, but I'm agnostic and I've read the Bible.
Raised Catholic, I went to Sunday School and CCD and two hour Saturday Confirmation classes. I've been to Bible study and sat in some of the grandest cathedrals in the world and actually cried at the beauty that was created in a time where things were made by hand over many decades all out of a leap of faith. I cried almost out of jealousy for the devotion of those people living in horrible conditions, building walls of such magnitude and chiseling statues so painstakingly perfect, devotion that I realized I didn't have. I cannot confirm my faith. I don't think I ever will be able to. But even so, I cannot say that Catholicism is really the best choice in religion when there are so many which offer so many glorious lifestyles. I cannot and will not condemn someone for what they believe, there is a very simple reason some people embrace religion: hope. Religion is, believe it or not, a very important part to maintaining society so long as it is interpreted correctly. I will not ever put someone down for having the audacity of faith in something I can't see 100% on. It sounds backwards but, for me, I'd rather do my personal best to live however many short years in this guaranteed place than try so hard my whole life to live up to the standards of being accepted in a place that is not so guaranteed (to me). As I previously stated, I have no problem with religion.
I've studied so many of them and every one that I had the privilege of reading about was so beautiful in its real mission. If you are religious, don't ever stray from what that real mission is, because one foot away is the chaos of Hell on Earth. Keep hope, whether your own or that of a religious one, behind you in your life, whatever you need to believe that everything can and will be better tomorrow. That's the point. There's no real reason why we're here, don't forget to live even if you're so determined to find that reason. Don't hurt others while trying to live, there is never a full on call for selfishness. For me, whatever happens when I die, happens. If the Christian God is there, I will surely give him a hug and put in a good word to those who survived me then be off to wherever he decides I should go. But I don't feel I should worry about that day just now, although some may feel otherwise and that is fine too. Just don't forget that even God gave the power of free will, he probably gave it so that you would use it...kind of like Adam and Eve, God didn't smite them, he just created original sin and moved on. He's kind of like that one really cool teacher that had to punish you somehow but didn't want to destroy your entire spirit. Believe whatever you want, however you want so long as you don't have to hurt anyone by doing so. Even if you believe yourself one of God's children, you still have a life of your own.
Without further delay, a clip from a very thoughtful movie which really relates to this essay a lot (it's funny, you can laugh):
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xPzmq2zeWm4
Saturday, November 13, 2010
What Stands To Stay
Constant darkness in infinite summers
in the sweet and salty tears that glide
everyday, they'll make rivers,
rivers I can't sail on.
Be prepared to bleed,
between the lines and caged emotions
that seep from the pores and cracks in my skin.
Everyday, brace yourself, force yourself to stay,
stay awake.
It's manageable in the dreams,
to hide the hurt and the scrapes from my own attack
scratching at the doors.
Maybe it's better still, wrapped in arms that don't want
but lust, but to drink what's inside me.
Take it all away.
Chances granted in missing,
but there is no need, no purpose, no use
for these bones.
Haunted everyday, with every move,
shadows will chase me.
I see faces, looking familiar
belonging to strangers
and it rips all the life away.
in the sweet and salty tears that glide
everyday, they'll make rivers,
rivers I can't sail on.
Be prepared to bleed,
between the lines and caged emotions
that seep from the pores and cracks in my skin.
Everyday, brace yourself, force yourself to stay,
stay awake.
It's manageable in the dreams,
to hide the hurt and the scrapes from my own attack
scratching at the doors.
Maybe it's better still, wrapped in arms that don't want
but lust, but to drink what's inside me.
Take it all away.
Chances granted in missing,
but there is no need, no purpose, no use
for these bones.
Haunted everyday, with every move,
shadows will chase me.
I see faces, looking familiar
belonging to strangers
and it rips all the life away.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Thoughts From West Egg
I took a drive early yesterday morning to nowhere in particular, just a drive to breath a little. There wasn't much out there so I decided to stop at one of my favorite places in this world. I don't really know why I like it there. Maybe because it's almost always quiet, there's really no people around, but probably because it reminds me of walking around in the setting of one of my favorite books in the world, kind of like a two-for-one adventure. I just kind of sat down in the grass and took in everything around me and how it's changed. In the attitudes of the park benches, and the trees, and the age old houses that sit cozy in their dangerously close location to the water, all the flavor has been sucked out. It's almost like everything kind of left this place. It's been abandoned...by me.
Do memories ever remember us? Does the replaying in some other dimension of all our life's struggles and happiness ever think about where we went or what happened to us? Probably not. They're unaware of everything in a blissful way. Kind of like when someone hits you and it feels like it hurts at first but then goes away quickly, so you forget until later on when it all comes back as this horrid bruise and the person who hit you has no idea the hurt that they caused. They knew it at the initial strike but they didn't see what happened when they were gone, when they were no longer looking. But it's already over for them. They've moved on and there you are with this bruise that you barely even understand the origin of. We've all bruised at least one person in our lives and they're just walking around trying to deal with it. All the while we go confidently about our daily lives. But maybe we're all equal since we've all been bruised. It's kind of hard, making sense of something like that. I guess you just have to do your best not to bruise anyone or at least try and remember everyone. To never forget what they were saying before you hit them, who they were, why you were even standing there with them in the first place, is so important.
Memories can't remember, only we can. Our memories are not perfect even when people wish for one. But, there is a price for having a perfect memory. Everyone wants the memory of an elephant because they think it would help them, but the reality is, it would only make things unbearable to witness. True, you remember all of the happiness and all of the wondrous things that some people have the ability to say, but you can also remember all of the sad things those same people said, all of the things that weighed you down the minute they were spoken. And all of these things come together in some sort of mixed up and crazy way so that in the end you realize, you can't tell the truth from what was a lie. Suddenly you don't know anyone anymore and you feel like the dumbest animal alive. This whole world would make you fall apart in pain if you could remember everything. You would find yourself begging on bloody hands and knees not to be fooled again. But elephants, somehow they live in these perfect societies that are wise and beautiful. If it wasn't for the fact that they still fight, an elephant society would almost be a utopia. Elephants, however, don't long as humans do. Humans have a much more complex emotional range so that mental pain can quickly turn into physical pain.
There's a longing in me as there is in everyone. I can find myself drifting away in thought sometimes and a shower of hurt can fall over me as I realize, something is gone. It's like someone took a huge chunk of my chest and ripped it out, then ran away with it because that was all that was needed for them to go on living and for me, just to survive. It can wake me up in the middle of the night. It can disturb me as I'm reading a book and suddenly all of the words seem to pertain to my feeling, as if trying to draw a map to something I'll never get back. Sometimes it's as if a child has been ripped from me, and I can't ever see it again. There's a word for just about everything in the English language, but there really isn't a word strong enough to describe this feeling. The closest I've come is found in Portuguese: saudade. I think a lot of people have felt at least something similar. If they haven't, they more than likely will at some point in time. That isn't pessimism, it's just wisdom.
In the end, I suppose the only real trust is the trust you put in yourself. You can't lie to yourself, you'll always know the truth, even if you know absolutely nothing about you. You don't necessarily have to like who you are or what you've done, you just have to believe that one day, you may just get it right. People are quick to say that someone depressed has given up, but the truth is, they've fought for so long and tried so hard and believed so much but then found that none of it was worth while and they're tired. They've got too many bruises and can't stand up because it hurts so much. Never forget that everyone has fought a battle, no matter how young or old and those could have been terrors beyond belief. Nobody ever just falls down and says, "I give up." They keep trying until they're so exhausted that they don't have a choice but to lay down in the middle of the highway and let the world run over them. Be consistent in what you believe, it's all the possessions you really have. If you step away from it, you're the one giving up.
I realize that Blanche Dubois isn't exactly a model character to follow, but she deserves credit for the adversity she had to face and for never abandoning the truth about who she was. As they're escorting her away to the mental hospital at the end of the play, do you know what she says?
"I've always depended on the kindness of strangers." In my opinion, it's the bravest thing she does in the entire play. So I suppose I came to the conclusion around 2 am that, you have to remember everyone for who they are. Never forget how you saw someone yesterday, how beautiful they were, even if they've turned against you today. You can miss them all that you want, but they probably will never come back. You can hope for it though, and you become a saudade. But most of all, listen to Polonius before you leave, "This above all, to thine own self be true, and it must follow as the night the day, thou canst then be false to any man." Thanks, Shakespeare.
Do memories ever remember us? Does the replaying in some other dimension of all our life's struggles and happiness ever think about where we went or what happened to us? Probably not. They're unaware of everything in a blissful way. Kind of like when someone hits you and it feels like it hurts at first but then goes away quickly, so you forget until later on when it all comes back as this horrid bruise and the person who hit you has no idea the hurt that they caused. They knew it at the initial strike but they didn't see what happened when they were gone, when they were no longer looking. But it's already over for them. They've moved on and there you are with this bruise that you barely even understand the origin of. We've all bruised at least one person in our lives and they're just walking around trying to deal with it. All the while we go confidently about our daily lives. But maybe we're all equal since we've all been bruised. It's kind of hard, making sense of something like that. I guess you just have to do your best not to bruise anyone or at least try and remember everyone. To never forget what they were saying before you hit them, who they were, why you were even standing there with them in the first place, is so important.
Memories can't remember, only we can. Our memories are not perfect even when people wish for one. But, there is a price for having a perfect memory. Everyone wants the memory of an elephant because they think it would help them, but the reality is, it would only make things unbearable to witness. True, you remember all of the happiness and all of the wondrous things that some people have the ability to say, but you can also remember all of the sad things those same people said, all of the things that weighed you down the minute they were spoken. And all of these things come together in some sort of mixed up and crazy way so that in the end you realize, you can't tell the truth from what was a lie. Suddenly you don't know anyone anymore and you feel like the dumbest animal alive. This whole world would make you fall apart in pain if you could remember everything. You would find yourself begging on bloody hands and knees not to be fooled again. But elephants, somehow they live in these perfect societies that are wise and beautiful. If it wasn't for the fact that they still fight, an elephant society would almost be a utopia. Elephants, however, don't long as humans do. Humans have a much more complex emotional range so that mental pain can quickly turn into physical pain.
There's a longing in me as there is in everyone. I can find myself drifting away in thought sometimes and a shower of hurt can fall over me as I realize, something is gone. It's like someone took a huge chunk of my chest and ripped it out, then ran away with it because that was all that was needed for them to go on living and for me, just to survive. It can wake me up in the middle of the night. It can disturb me as I'm reading a book and suddenly all of the words seem to pertain to my feeling, as if trying to draw a map to something I'll never get back. Sometimes it's as if a child has been ripped from me, and I can't ever see it again. There's a word for just about everything in the English language, but there really isn't a word strong enough to describe this feeling. The closest I've come is found in Portuguese: saudade. I think a lot of people have felt at least something similar. If they haven't, they more than likely will at some point in time. That isn't pessimism, it's just wisdom.
In the end, I suppose the only real trust is the trust you put in yourself. You can't lie to yourself, you'll always know the truth, even if you know absolutely nothing about you. You don't necessarily have to like who you are or what you've done, you just have to believe that one day, you may just get it right. People are quick to say that someone depressed has given up, but the truth is, they've fought for so long and tried so hard and believed so much but then found that none of it was worth while and they're tired. They've got too many bruises and can't stand up because it hurts so much. Never forget that everyone has fought a battle, no matter how young or old and those could have been terrors beyond belief. Nobody ever just falls down and says, "I give up." They keep trying until they're so exhausted that they don't have a choice but to lay down in the middle of the highway and let the world run over them. Be consistent in what you believe, it's all the possessions you really have. If you step away from it, you're the one giving up.
I realize that Blanche Dubois isn't exactly a model character to follow, but she deserves credit for the adversity she had to face and for never abandoning the truth about who she was. As they're escorting her away to the mental hospital at the end of the play, do you know what she says?
"I've always depended on the kindness of strangers." In my opinion, it's the bravest thing she does in the entire play. So I suppose I came to the conclusion around 2 am that, you have to remember everyone for who they are. Never forget how you saw someone yesterday, how beautiful they were, even if they've turned against you today. You can miss them all that you want, but they probably will never come back. You can hope for it though, and you become a saudade. But most of all, listen to Polonius before you leave, "This above all, to thine own self be true, and it must follow as the night the day, thou canst then be false to any man." Thanks, Shakespeare.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Concave Life
"What can you do now?"
As the crust of the Earth collapsed.
A face was no longer looking.
Somewhere in the canyon, a child cried.
And the sun set on today to what it became; yesterday.
There was no stopping that.
Only the words on a poignant whisper
could be heard through the rubble pounding of the war
and the scars being made
saying, "Nothing, nothing is the same."
As the crust of the Earth collapsed.
A face was no longer looking.
Somewhere in the canyon, a child cried.
And the sun set on today to what it became; yesterday.
There was no stopping that.
Only the words on a poignant whisper
could be heard through the rubble pounding of the war
and the scars being made
saying, "Nothing, nothing is the same."
Sunday, November 7, 2010
The Innumerable Hours Of My Soul
The heart, what powers the soul, is like a child. It's small, naive, and hasn't the strength to keep this old soul alive. It beats though, audaciously, as it has no other purpose. And the soul, what walks in a world so frozen in unwavering beauty knows of the withering minutes in its time. but still it will climb any hill for its tenderness, for its love and its innocence. Although it knows, this is a world that echoes to but a whisper in its vacant cathedral halls, it walks among them to envy the hours of the flowers that share the ground, wishing one would match its truths to add mere seconds of bliss to the minutes which are frayed.
Age. It has its numbers and its years to expire. It has its winters and its springs. But nothing lasts as the heart or the soul, nothing is as evergreen and undying. But omniscient, by only the light of a candle in miles of darkness. It lasts and lives. And if it is seen in one of these glorious days, it shines. The music, which sings to bend above the trees delivers words carried on the tips of the syllables, the expanse in the crescendo, the passion in its verses. It lives. And the heart inspires on, calling for silence ahead at the precipice of life, not existence, in fact, different all the same. It is there. In front of me, all around me, it wraps to cradle me in its welcomed warmth. It will not hurt me. It will not harm me but instead may just devour me. It is that of a flame which never fades. It is hope. The only thing leftover. Too many things seen in too few days.
Hope. It lives. The only thing that really does.
Age. It has its numbers and its years to expire. It has its winters and its springs. But nothing lasts as the heart or the soul, nothing is as evergreen and undying. But omniscient, by only the light of a candle in miles of darkness. It lasts and lives. And if it is seen in one of these glorious days, it shines. The music, which sings to bend above the trees delivers words carried on the tips of the syllables, the expanse in the crescendo, the passion in its verses. It lives. And the heart inspires on, calling for silence ahead at the precipice of life, not existence, in fact, different all the same. It is there. In front of me, all around me, it wraps to cradle me in its welcomed warmth. It will not hurt me. It will not harm me but instead may just devour me. It is that of a flame which never fades. It is hope. The only thing leftover. Too many things seen in too few days.
Hope. It lives. The only thing that really does.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
The Scarlet Letter
"My heart was a habitation large enough for many guests, but lonely and chill, and without a household fire. I longed to kindle one! It seemed not so wild a dream [...]
She had wandered, without rule or guidance, into a moral wilderness. Her intellect and heart had their home, as it were, in desert places, where she roamed as freely as the wild Indian in his woods. The scarlet letter was her passport into regions where other women dared not tread. Shame, Despair, Solitude! These had been her teachers - stern and wild ones - and they had made her strong, but taught her much amiss. [...] She had not known the weight until she felt the freedom."
~Nathaniel Hawthorne~
She had wandered, without rule or guidance, into a moral wilderness. Her intellect and heart had their home, as it were, in desert places, where she roamed as freely as the wild Indian in his woods. The scarlet letter was her passport into regions where other women dared not tread. Shame, Despair, Solitude! These had been her teachers - stern and wild ones - and they had made her strong, but taught her much amiss. [...] She had not known the weight until she felt the freedom."
~Nathaniel Hawthorne~
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Blind
My eyes are gone.
I haven't lived this way.
I wasn't trained,
but it is the price I've had to pay.
They have stolen my eyes.
I tried so hard not to cry.
Their hands wrapped so well around my throat,
the only thing that was meant to be.
They told me it was better not to see,
they convinced me.
They stole my eyes.
I see only blackness.
When I walk,
I stumble over the things around me,
the things I can't have.
They are not mine,
they are like my eyes.
If I could have my eyes,
I'd look once more on the night skies.
I'd watch light turn dark
and brilliant dazzling bodies,
miles away,
They don't exist by the time they reach
my eyes.
My eyes are gone.
They have stolen my eyes.
I wish I could see you now,
with my eyes.
My eyes are gone.
They have burned my eyes.
I haven't lived this way.
I wasn't trained,
but it is the price I've had to pay.
They have stolen my eyes.
I tried so hard not to cry.
Their hands wrapped so well around my throat,
the only thing that was meant to be.
They told me it was better not to see,
they convinced me.
They stole my eyes.
I see only blackness.
When I walk,
I stumble over the things around me,
the things I can't have.
They are not mine,
they are like my eyes.
If I could have my eyes,
I'd look once more on the night skies.
I'd watch light turn dark
and brilliant dazzling bodies,
miles away,
They don't exist by the time they reach
my eyes.
My eyes are gone.
They have stolen my eyes.
I wish I could see you now,
with my eyes.
My eyes are gone.
They have burned my eyes.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Broken Bones & Crying Stones
The whispers through the trees,
and their dying leaves
sing. They sing for me.
And I'll lay in these lush meadows
to see a silhouette
appear on my horizon.
Although, I realize,
the dawn may never come,
this heart never seemed to fail before.
For had life sprung
from the now gone eternity,
I could have stepped into that infinite sea
shining before me.
But my palace
is the castle that falls.
And my pillows see no sleep.
But they dream
of a day when a head
will stay.
I wish I had waited
more patiently for the rain.
But the sun scorched the flesh,
down to my aching bones.
I have hoped in the depths
of a new moon night
that one day I'll lay
under ancient lights again.
And I know my broken feet
walk only on stones
but those stones belong to an existence
far greater than my own.
And I'd walk upon them for miles,
if only for one more smile.
and their dying leaves
sing. They sing for me.
And I'll lay in these lush meadows
to see a silhouette
appear on my horizon.
Although, I realize,
the dawn may never come,
this heart never seemed to fail before.
For had life sprung
from the now gone eternity,
I could have stepped into that infinite sea
shining before me.
But my palace
is the castle that falls.
And my pillows see no sleep.
But they dream
of a day when a head
will stay.
I wish I had waited
more patiently for the rain.
But the sun scorched the flesh,
down to my aching bones.
I have hoped in the depths
of a new moon night
that one day I'll lay
under ancient lights again.
And I know my broken feet
walk only on stones
but those stones belong to an existence
far greater than my own.
And I'd walk upon them for miles,
if only for one more smile.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Something Like Drowning
This place seems battered,
hounded and betrayed.
It's tired and afraid.
How much left is there to lose?
When will the clock on the wall
lose its melodic ticking?
Cold coffee on the counter,
went untouched.
Burn all the blank books on the shelves,
to release their words in horrid shrieks.
Migraines of questions unanswered
but too late to ask.
There's no song and no time
to break this fever.
No time in the world.
It's cold, alone, in bitter words but
better left that way.
There wasn't a light on the horizon
that didn't fade away.
And there's no way out of this place.
So reflex kicks in,
can't hold it any longer,
and water fills the lungs,
convulsions stab at the muscles.
And death comes closer every inhale,
the organs, the heart, the mind.
Become a waste of time.
hounded and betrayed.
It's tired and afraid.
How much left is there to lose?
When will the clock on the wall
lose its melodic ticking?
Cold coffee on the counter,
went untouched.
Burn all the blank books on the shelves,
to release their words in horrid shrieks.
Migraines of questions unanswered
but too late to ask.
There's no song and no time
to break this fever.
No time in the world.
It's cold, alone, in bitter words but
better left that way.
There wasn't a light on the horizon
that didn't fade away.
And there's no way out of this place.
So reflex kicks in,
can't hold it any longer,
and water fills the lungs,
convulsions stab at the muscles.
And death comes closer every inhale,
the organs, the heart, the mind.
Become a waste of time.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Never Let Me Go
"[...] and I half closed my eyes and imagined this was the spot where everything I'd ever lost since my childhood had washed up, and I was now standing here in front of it, and if I waited long enough, a tiny figure would appear on the horizon across the field and gradually get larger until I'd see it [...]"
~Kazuo Ishiguro~
~Kazuo Ishiguro~
Monday, October 18, 2010
Distracting Still Waters
Harmony in their existence,
they cry out for me to lead them
to the gallows and swim
in human filth.
But the tides will turn,
and I am their filth,
stripped to bone,
I am their hate, their innocence, their folly.
I have led them to their being and hung myself,
in that place.
I am not love,
I am an abstraction, or rather,
distraction.
I am not you,
but I am inside you.
I had made love to you,
on a Persian rug and sucked the poison
from your soul.
I have healed you of the beast
that brought you to me.
Birthed in the precious waters of moments,
but I am your leech,
who abandoned the excess and drinks only the life.
I am me, but I am not me,
a dream within your dream,
not a reality.
But with a fire that burns for all time,
I dance around it,
the mourning of your death.
With charms of resurrection,
dripping sour blood from my tongue.
I am bones, imprisoned in muscle,
in skin.
Hear my fatal yelps as I collapse within.
I am your mistake,
your one, only regret.
In those moments when your roof collapsed,
I passed those roses to you.
I am amnesia,
a glance, a tombstone, a relic,
antiquated youth that guessed the age.
I am your hurt,
trickling down between your thighs,
euphoric cries.
I am the mirage,
in your desert of life,
there but not there,
I wait on receding lines, you will never touch.
Yet I am still....
alive.
they cry out for me to lead them
to the gallows and swim
in human filth.
But the tides will turn,
and I am their filth,
stripped to bone,
I am their hate, their innocence, their folly.
I have led them to their being and hung myself,
in that place.
I am not love,
I am an abstraction, or rather,
distraction.
I am not you,
but I am inside you.
I had made love to you,
on a Persian rug and sucked the poison
from your soul.
I have healed you of the beast
that brought you to me.
Birthed in the precious waters of moments,
but I am your leech,
who abandoned the excess and drinks only the life.
I am me, but I am not me,
a dream within your dream,
not a reality.
But with a fire that burns for all time,
I dance around it,
the mourning of your death.
With charms of resurrection,
dripping sour blood from my tongue.
I am bones, imprisoned in muscle,
in skin.
Hear my fatal yelps as I collapse within.
I am your mistake,
your one, only regret.
In those moments when your roof collapsed,
I passed those roses to you.
I am amnesia,
a glance, a tombstone, a relic,
antiquated youth that guessed the age.
I am your hurt,
trickling down between your thighs,
euphoric cries.
I am the mirage,
in your desert of life,
there but not there,
I wait on receding lines, you will never touch.
Yet I am still....
alive.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
My Wish
I wish for the world to fall into your hands.
For the oceans to flow in your veins,
for the soil to roll over your skin.
I wish for the fire to burn in your soul,
for the cool, still, air to fill your mind.
And I wish for all the peace to fill your eyes,
so that only hopeful rain you may cry.
And I wish for your heart to sail in the sky,
and to reach freedom as you fly.
For the oceans to flow in your veins,
for the soil to roll over your skin.
I wish for the fire to burn in your soul,
for the cool, still, air to fill your mind.
And I wish for all the peace to fill your eyes,
so that only hopeful rain you may cry.
And I wish for your heart to sail in the sky,
and to reach freedom as you fly.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
The Last Was The Swansong
There is a well, a hole in the Earth,
it shelters you from all that can hurt.
No one can or will ever find you,
safe to stay there rather than anywhere.
But in those pools I see reflected
a stranger, a face so old, so torn from its mind.
Where has it gone? What has it given in to?
Where was the glory in life?
Was it there and then gone?
Never there at all.
Your eyes reflect light the same as that man in the corner.
The same as the world.
you do not see but shadows, you move right through me.
The things I believe just walk right on by...
or do they trample? I can't quite know anymore than what I'm told.
The only truth heard in whispers behind me,
they say so many things...
but I stay to dream, a cerulean hue,
my color palette the same,
comfort in pain,
it brings honesty to the reason of my being.
What I am, what I forever will be and longed for more,
written on fine parchment paper,
marked in silk ribbon.
No one ever reads.
it shelters you from all that can hurt.
No one can or will ever find you,
safe to stay there rather than anywhere.
But in those pools I see reflected
a stranger, a face so old, so torn from its mind.
Where has it gone? What has it given in to?
Where was the glory in life?
Was it there and then gone?
Never there at all.
Your eyes reflect light the same as that man in the corner.
The same as the world.
you do not see but shadows, you move right through me.
The things I believe just walk right on by...
or do they trample? I can't quite know anymore than what I'm told.
The only truth heard in whispers behind me,
they say so many things...
but I stay to dream, a cerulean hue,
my color palette the same,
comfort in pain,
it brings honesty to the reason of my being.
What I am, what I forever will be and longed for more,
written on fine parchment paper,
marked in silk ribbon.
No one ever reads.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
The Great Gatsby
"He must have felt that he had lost the old warm world, paid a high price for living too long with a single dream. He must have looked up at an unfamiliar sky through frightening leaves and shivered as he found what a grotesque thing a rose is and how raw the sunlight was upon the scarcely created grass. A new world, material without being real, where poor ghosts, breathing dreams like air, drifted fortuitously about...like that ashen, fantastic figure gliding toward him through the amorphous trees."
~F. Scott Fitzgerald~
~F. Scott Fitzgerald~
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
A year.
An anniversary.
Inhalation, exhalation.
Short winded sorrows.
Yesterday's dying dreams
exposed on pavement.
Streets left unswept,
empty even in death.
Crushed flora
wheels of time.
Laughter ringing.
Screams echo.
Whispers follow.
Canyons gray and black misted mountains,
those goats can climb.
Skies reign
cerulean pain
Gods of men
fail within.
Smiles in eyes
Never forgets.
Fails to consider.
Confusion again.
Deliberate disregard.
Avoidance witnessed.
Beasts to cradle.
Demons to dance with.
Hazy afternoons come soon.
Lost.
Never seen, never there,
meaningless being,
merely existing.
Fucked over delusional.
Cut from grasp.
Call as they pass.
Docks drown among waves.
Fish flee from yesterday.
Imprisoned, alienated,
isolated, stripped.
Patient smile.
Coffee beans grind
easier to find.
Fallen to fall.
Nooses, vivacious skin.
Veiny, supple neck.
Grease enters in.
Sweep blackness,
under the rug.
Search hay in needle stacks.
Pulling knives from others' backs.
Hang around, watch 'em scurry.
Days are numbered, lettered,
alphabetized,
organized.
Pay fees for what is free.
Smoking cigarettes to save lives,
money, emotional ties.
Turn page.
Around the margins
glowing angst.
Favored by most,
no room to boast.
Orphaned in self-expression
put aside.
Another try.
Take a drive.
Attempt to fly.
Broken.
Beaten, battered,
black-eyed.
Test results back:
Normal.
But then why-?
Too late to cry.
Believing.
Thinking.
Feeling...
pensive.
Soaked pillows,
swollen eyes.
Everything, everything lies.
Disappears, dies.
Same streets.
Same town.
Haunted mind,
feeling down.
Wine to water.
Grass to dirt.
Everything, every part hurts.
Carry on,
they look on.
Whispered words.
Disapproval.
Wearing "A's"
moral wilderness.
A life.
Promised.
A secret.
Alone.
No one shall ever know.
Drown rat, disease plagued.
Defend until death
A thought understood
A feeling... insecure.
No answers found.
A year.
An anniversary.
A toast,
to tomorrow.
An anniversary.
Inhalation, exhalation.
Short winded sorrows.
Yesterday's dying dreams
exposed on pavement.
Streets left unswept,
empty even in death.
Crushed flora
wheels of time.
Laughter ringing.
Screams echo.
Whispers follow.
Canyons gray and black misted mountains,
those goats can climb.
Skies reign
cerulean pain
Gods of men
fail within.
Smiles in eyes
Never forgets.
Fails to consider.
Confusion again.
Deliberate disregard.
Avoidance witnessed.
Beasts to cradle.
Demons to dance with.
Hazy afternoons come soon.
Lost.
Never seen, never there,
meaningless being,
merely existing.
Fucked over delusional.
Cut from grasp.
Call as they pass.
Docks drown among waves.
Fish flee from yesterday.
Imprisoned, alienated,
isolated, stripped.
Patient smile.
Coffee beans grind
easier to find.
Fallen to fall.
Nooses, vivacious skin.
Veiny, supple neck.
Grease enters in.
Sweep blackness,
under the rug.
Search hay in needle stacks.
Pulling knives from others' backs.
Hang around, watch 'em scurry.
Days are numbered, lettered,
alphabetized,
organized.
Pay fees for what is free.
Smoking cigarettes to save lives,
money, emotional ties.
Turn page.
Around the margins
glowing angst.
Favored by most,
no room to boast.
Orphaned in self-expression
put aside.
Another try.
Take a drive.
Attempt to fly.
Broken.
Beaten, battered,
black-eyed.
Test results back:
Normal.
But then why-?
Too late to cry.
Believing.
Thinking.
Feeling...
pensive.
Soaked pillows,
swollen eyes.
Everything, everything lies.
Disappears, dies.
Same streets.
Same town.
Haunted mind,
feeling down.
Wine to water.
Grass to dirt.
Everything, every part hurts.
Carry on,
they look on.
Whispered words.
Disapproval.
Wearing "A's"
moral wilderness.
A life.
Promised.
A secret.
Alone.
No one shall ever know.
Drown rat, disease plagued.
Defend until death
A thought understood
A feeling... insecure.
No answers found.
A year.
An anniversary.
A toast,
to tomorrow.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Starry Starry Night
Music is an incredible art. Probably because it is a tradition of expression and communication dating back so far that it goes unrecorded as to the beginnings. It is something that every single human being can identify as an interest. We all listen to music, whether we consider other's tastes in it "good" or "bad" is far too biased of a declaration. Although I tend to be picky about music, I have never shunned the acceptance of the art in it's various forms for everyone else to enjoy. For me, music takes on a meaning beyond that of just enjoying the sound. Music is so much more than just hearing to me; I feel it, I taste it, I devour every note, every line of lyric, and when it's all over, I want nothing more than to experience it again and again. Ever since I was a child hearing music has been my obsession. From Mozart to, well, whatever I'm into at the moment. My father always appreciated that in me. I can remember him putting on records of classical music and, of course, the most vibrant memory is that of the Broadway soundtrack to The Phantom of the Opera. I would hear music and suddenly get real quiet, close my eyes and dream I was there, inside of it. I wanted to own every note and keep them with me always.
Naturally, I decided to try and create my own music. After my dad taught me the basics of piano, I sat there obsessively trying to make music. Well, several instruments later I learned that perhaps something that unique, that perfect, that absolutely beautiful actually does take a special kind of natural talent. But I had my voice and I used to sing for anyone who asked, but as I got older that eagerness to perform sort of just plain died and I stuck with singing in the shower. Although my grandmother does desperately try, "But you're voice is beautiful! Why don't you sing?!"
"Well, grandma, if it is as beautiful as you say, shouldn't I keep it inside for the right listener? Beautiful things should never be tossed about as if they were worthless imitations of originals."
So she continues to shuffle around the kitchen making cakes and singing her favorite hits from the 40's and 50's. My grandmother and I share a common stubbornness.
As I grew up, mostly with my father's music blaring from the stereo system, echoing around the neighborhood as the summer breeze carried it through the house, I developed certain tastes for the "right" sound and the "perfect" lyrics. As I was also an avid poetry writer (not very good poetry, mind you), I found in songs an entire new way to deliver the emotion of a poem through the perfection that is music.
My dad used to tell me stories of his glorious summers growing up. Songs would bring him back to specific years, even moments of his life and I always found that to be a spell that is intertwined in music, as I've experienced the same thing. But the power of music was written in the telling of one of his stories as "Vincent" by Don McLean came on the radio while we were playing chess.
He told me when he was fourteen he had a friend with a little brother who was mentally challenged and would sway back and forth whilst mumbling nonsense. One day they were playing cards and the little brother was sitting with them, swaying and mumbling, and that song came on the radio. Suddenly the boy stopped swaying, looked up at the people sitting at the table and said, "This song is about Vincent Van Gogh," and then, just as quick as he had stopped, went back to swaying and mumbling.
There, in that thirty seconds of conciousness, is the proof of how profoundly powerful music really is and for that matter, how important it is. "Vincent" is a very poetically beautiful written song, no real masterpiece, but the context of it is the saddest truth of one person's actual life and this boy recognized it. It was probably only because of the mentioning of Starry Night, but no less impressive when you consider that a second before speaking he appeared the most disassociated member at the table.
To me, the story always reminds me of the day I finally realized that there is no possible way to meticulously write a song based off of the knowledge of notes, rhythm, and time. Music is much more powerful than that. Music takes a true artist to conquer it, to sit down and just know it. It's Mozart, constantly hearing music in his head and jotting perfection down on sheets of paper with no mistakes and no copies made. It's Beethoven, desperately pounding the keys, feeling the music he was unable to hear. It's four geniuses meeting, collaborating, and creating the greatest collection of art in our time. It's the man playing saxaphone, echoing through the stone gateways of the Louvre on a summer night in Paris, whom I paid 42 of my remaining Euros and smiled, having no way to put in words the love I felt for the sound he was creating. I have no talent for the instruments. Although I long for it and envy it with every bit of flesh on my body, I lack the ability to create music the way some can. But I am thrilled with the idea that I have ears still, and I can still feel it and taste it too. Yes, I love music with an astounding passion. It's an escape to a world that is safe and filled with dreams and other such romances. It corrupts me and holds me just as words do, all through the madness of the midnight hours.
So, for those of you who are unfamiliar with that song:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dipFMJckZOM
Naturally, I decided to try and create my own music. After my dad taught me the basics of piano, I sat there obsessively trying to make music. Well, several instruments later I learned that perhaps something that unique, that perfect, that absolutely beautiful actually does take a special kind of natural talent. But I had my voice and I used to sing for anyone who asked, but as I got older that eagerness to perform sort of just plain died and I stuck with singing in the shower. Although my grandmother does desperately try, "But you're voice is beautiful! Why don't you sing?!"
"Well, grandma, if it is as beautiful as you say, shouldn't I keep it inside for the right listener? Beautiful things should never be tossed about as if they were worthless imitations of originals."
So she continues to shuffle around the kitchen making cakes and singing her favorite hits from the 40's and 50's. My grandmother and I share a common stubbornness.
As I grew up, mostly with my father's music blaring from the stereo system, echoing around the neighborhood as the summer breeze carried it through the house, I developed certain tastes for the "right" sound and the "perfect" lyrics. As I was also an avid poetry writer (not very good poetry, mind you), I found in songs an entire new way to deliver the emotion of a poem through the perfection that is music.
My dad used to tell me stories of his glorious summers growing up. Songs would bring him back to specific years, even moments of his life and I always found that to be a spell that is intertwined in music, as I've experienced the same thing. But the power of music was written in the telling of one of his stories as "Vincent" by Don McLean came on the radio while we were playing chess.
He told me when he was fourteen he had a friend with a little brother who was mentally challenged and would sway back and forth whilst mumbling nonsense. One day they were playing cards and the little brother was sitting with them, swaying and mumbling, and that song came on the radio. Suddenly the boy stopped swaying, looked up at the people sitting at the table and said, "This song is about Vincent Van Gogh," and then, just as quick as he had stopped, went back to swaying and mumbling.
There, in that thirty seconds of conciousness, is the proof of how profoundly powerful music really is and for that matter, how important it is. "Vincent" is a very poetically beautiful written song, no real masterpiece, but the context of it is the saddest truth of one person's actual life and this boy recognized it. It was probably only because of the mentioning of Starry Night, but no less impressive when you consider that a second before speaking he appeared the most disassociated member at the table.
To me, the story always reminds me of the day I finally realized that there is no possible way to meticulously write a song based off of the knowledge of notes, rhythm, and time. Music is much more powerful than that. Music takes a true artist to conquer it, to sit down and just know it. It's Mozart, constantly hearing music in his head and jotting perfection down on sheets of paper with no mistakes and no copies made. It's Beethoven, desperately pounding the keys, feeling the music he was unable to hear. It's four geniuses meeting, collaborating, and creating the greatest collection of art in our time. It's the man playing saxaphone, echoing through the stone gateways of the Louvre on a summer night in Paris, whom I paid 42 of my remaining Euros and smiled, having no way to put in words the love I felt for the sound he was creating. I have no talent for the instruments. Although I long for it and envy it with every bit of flesh on my body, I lack the ability to create music the way some can. But I am thrilled with the idea that I have ears still, and I can still feel it and taste it too. Yes, I love music with an astounding passion. It's an escape to a world that is safe and filled with dreams and other such romances. It corrupts me and holds me just as words do, all through the madness of the midnight hours.
So, for those of you who are unfamiliar with that song:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dipFMJckZOM
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
A Requiem In The Wood
Set beside the light
under a requiem play
to the service of those
who've whispered in agony
their final words
a death before death dies.
In darkness a mirror they gaze
into the mask distorted face
of their withered bitter existence
of the hearts always remembered
but forgotten are they.
To what heroism do they pay?
A life of yeses and uttered agreement
A life of terror as in premonition.
A life of sitting on the edge of the bed
of the lover they've wed
tomorrow this face
will turn cold and grow old.
But not to them,
not to them do their memories fail
for they live in the redness of their eyes
a bloody river which murks the world
it's all they have and all they know.
They once knew the inside of their friends
walked among the fields of truths.
Or were there weeds of lies among the grains?
Who should know what they became?
One day so close.
Blink.
And they're walking away.
Thinking is all they should know,
thought deep in what they refer to
as passion of knowledge
and the acceptance of folly.
For it was they who were convinced.
Convinced of the good there was within.
Within those fields they danced,
a ballet to the debt of yesterday
and the promise of tomorrow.
Sitting in trees of songs,
no more good-byes
should need be cried.
Love who should they have known,
years, centuries ago
if it had been found.
Lost in the wood where every stone
looked the same
and every wolf
called her name.
But in silence this bird flew on
into that wilderness
and with every sweet berry
passed poison through her blood.
The accumulation of gracefully masked trickery
soon broke her wings...
among other things.
They stare on.
They know this fate
for they too have lived this way.
Broken bones,
broken soul,
a life of empty lay on the forest floor.
On look the scavengers
to feast the remains.
It is her gift
all that is left of her to give.
under a requiem play
to the service of those
who've whispered in agony
their final words
a death before death dies.
In darkness a mirror they gaze
into the mask distorted face
of their withered bitter existence
of the hearts always remembered
but forgotten are they.
To what heroism do they pay?
A life of yeses and uttered agreement
A life of terror as in premonition.
A life of sitting on the edge of the bed
of the lover they've wed
tomorrow this face
will turn cold and grow old.
But not to them,
not to them do their memories fail
for they live in the redness of their eyes
a bloody river which murks the world
it's all they have and all they know.
They once knew the inside of their friends
walked among the fields of truths.
Or were there weeds of lies among the grains?
Who should know what they became?
One day so close.
Blink.
And they're walking away.
Thinking is all they should know,
thought deep in what they refer to
as passion of knowledge
and the acceptance of folly.
For it was they who were convinced.
Convinced of the good there was within.
Within those fields they danced,
a ballet to the debt of yesterday
and the promise of tomorrow.
Sitting in trees of songs,
no more good-byes
should need be cried.
Love who should they have known,
years, centuries ago
if it had been found.
Lost in the wood where every stone
looked the same
and every wolf
called her name.
But in silence this bird flew on
into that wilderness
and with every sweet berry
passed poison through her blood.
The accumulation of gracefully masked trickery
soon broke her wings...
among other things.
They stare on.
They know this fate
for they too have lived this way.
Broken bones,
broken soul,
a life of empty lay on the forest floor.
On look the scavengers
to feast the remains.
It is her gift
all that is left of her to give.
And that there is where,
a requiem play.
And she will join they
who died that very same day.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Filth.
Bathe in your own filth. Sit there and marinate in it. Let it corrode the veins of the you they see before them. Know of your lies and lustful verbiage. Know of your callous smile as they offered the divine pathway of peace before your eyes. But you, omniscient being, knowing, perceiving that this, was not peace but a night of gloom you were to be walking. A lost pathway for your exiled soul. Realize in the silent seconds of servitude to a mere cage which provokes you into agonizing astonishment and palpable personal persuasion, that in that horror of midnight blackness, behind the walls of apathetic absolution, in surreal breathlessness, in that brief time of blithe dreaming.... you existed. Through serenity in a lie, you were alive. You moved with the passion that became your thorny crown. You lived. In dreams, you were real. You were free. No longer relying on the cerebral choke hold of that underestimated organ residing in your skull. Intellectually inclined to perfect conversation but intuitively longing for confirmation, substance, assurance. Dreams know of no promises. It is a curse they share with lies. Dreams, elaborate lies, perhaps simple ones, what difference would it make? You lived but for one hour amongst the stars and they sent you to the gallows, a black bag of delusion over your head. A noose of reality, truths, of which they slung around your neck, spinning in wistfulness from the apotheosis of what now remains a stranger occurring inside. Silence at the realization of idiocracy on the part of your being. Thus this hanged man's sentence carried out. Bathe in your filth. Know it all. In dreaming alone, we exist.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
The Earth Being
Can you see her?
Between the wasted words
she lay.
She is Earth,
Everlasting home.
The storms blow through,
they leave their paths,
their bent trees and scarred terrain.
Eroded heart,
she screams her pain.
Can you hear her?
Your black oil pours through her veins,
tars the life you see within.
She cries, she cries.
You sigh, you sigh.
Can you feel her?
Her body warms.
But quickly grows cold
to the stain
the change
of mind.
Can you taste her?
Your bitter clouds which swirl
in her eyes.
Dazzling gems and diamonds for you,
buried within.
She cries, she cries.
You sigh, you sigh.
Alone she wanders,
her thickets she walks.
Barefoot
broken shells of vacant beaches
but she smiles.
The pain of physical miles
harms not the injured part.
Stomp on her many glorious grounds
the distant yells as you pound her down.
Pushing her being,
may she retreat inside her.
Drag her dusty meaningless remains
on the floors you built,
a gift from her loins.
A solemn trail,
of blood, of tears, of death.
Can you smell her?
She strides with roses on her back
amongst mountains of snow.
Still life amongst the evergreens,
gold on the walls of her soul,
worthless but beautiful.
Remark such dazzling stone,
steal the breath of supple youth within.
Worthless.
She awaits.
Under her clouds of dreams,
hopes of future showers on her head.
But clouds form fast and storm breaks
free.
Gray mixes in blue,
Hope remains.
Silence echoes through the canopies,
she falls back on the wind,
waits for their call.
She cries, she cries.
They lied, they lied.
Between the wasted words
she lay.
She is Earth,
Everlasting home.
The storms blow through,
they leave their paths,
their bent trees and scarred terrain.
Eroded heart,
she screams her pain.
Can you hear her?
Your black oil pours through her veins,
tars the life you see within.
She cries, she cries.
You sigh, you sigh.
Can you feel her?
Her body warms.
But quickly grows cold
to the stain
the change
of mind.
Can you taste her?
Your bitter clouds which swirl
in her eyes.
Dazzling gems and diamonds for you,
buried within.
She cries, she cries.
You sigh, you sigh.
Alone she wanders,
her thickets she walks.
Barefoot
broken shells of vacant beaches
but she smiles.
The pain of physical miles
harms not the injured part.
Stomp on her many glorious grounds
the distant yells as you pound her down.
Pushing her being,
may she retreat inside her.
Drag her dusty meaningless remains
on the floors you built,
a gift from her loins.
A solemn trail,
of blood, of tears, of death.
Can you smell her?
She strides with roses on her back
amongst mountains of snow.
Still life amongst the evergreens,
gold on the walls of her soul,
worthless but beautiful.
Remark such dazzling stone,
steal the breath of supple youth within.
Worthless.
She awaits.
Under her clouds of dreams,
hopes of future showers on her head.
But clouds form fast and storm breaks
free.
Gray mixes in blue,
Hope remains.
Silence echoes through the canopies,
she falls back on the wind,
waits for their call.
She cries, she cries.
They lied, they lied.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
An Agony. As Now.
"I am inside someone
who hates me. I look
out from his eyes. Smell
what fouled tunes come in
to his breath. Love his
wretched women.
Slits in the metal, for sun. Where
my eyes sit turning, at the cool air
the glance of light, or hard flesh
rubbed against me, a woman, a man,
without shadow, or voice, or meaning.
This is the enclosure (flesh,
where innocence is a weapon. An
abstraction. Touch. (Not mine,
Or yours, if you are the soul I had
and abandoned when I was blind and had
my enemies carry me as a dead man
(if he is beautiful, or pitied.
It can be pain. (As now, as all his
flesh hurts me.) It can be that. Or
pain. As when she ran from me into
that forest
Or pain, the mind
silver spiraled whirled against the
sun, higher than even old men thought
God would be. Or pain. And the other. The
yes. (Inside his books, his fingers. They
are withered yellow flowers and were never
beautiful.) The yes. You will, lost soul, The
slow river. A white sun in its wet sentences.
Or, the cold men in their gale. Ecstasy. Flesh
or soul. The yes. (Their robes blown. Their bowls
empty. They chant at my heels, not at yours.) Flesh
or soul, as corrupt. Where the answer moves too quickly.
Where the God is a self, after all.)
Cold air blown through narrow blind eyes. Flesh,
white hot metal. Glows as the day with its sun.
It is a human love, I live inside. A bony skeleton
you recognize as words or simple feeling.
But it has no feeling. As the metal, is hot, it is not,
given to love.
It burns the thing
inside it.
And that thing
screams."
~Amiri Baraka~
who hates me. I look
out from his eyes. Smell
what fouled tunes come in
to his breath. Love his
wretched women.
Slits in the metal, for sun. Where
my eyes sit turning, at the cool air
the glance of light, or hard flesh
rubbed against me, a woman, a man,
without shadow, or voice, or meaning.
This is the enclosure (flesh,
where innocence is a weapon. An
abstraction. Touch. (Not mine,
Or yours, if you are the soul I had
and abandoned when I was blind and had
my enemies carry me as a dead man
(if he is beautiful, or pitied.
It can be pain. (As now, as all his
flesh hurts me.) It can be that. Or
pain. As when she ran from me into
that forest
Or pain, the mind
silver spiraled whirled against the
sun, higher than even old men thought
God would be. Or pain. And the other. The
yes. (Inside his books, his fingers. They
are withered yellow flowers and were never
beautiful.) The yes. You will, lost soul, The
slow river. A white sun in its wet sentences.
Or, the cold men in their gale. Ecstasy. Flesh
or soul. The yes. (Their robes blown. Their bowls
empty. They chant at my heels, not at yours.) Flesh
or soul, as corrupt. Where the answer moves too quickly.
Where the God is a self, after all.)
Cold air blown through narrow blind eyes. Flesh,
white hot metal. Glows as the day with its sun.
It is a human love, I live inside. A bony skeleton
you recognize as words or simple feeling.
But it has no feeling. As the metal, is hot, it is not,
given to love.
It burns the thing
inside it.
And that thing
screams."
~Amiri Baraka~
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Sagacity
Nobody savors when they're freed,
or sees when the roses bleed.
Glimpse the pools in those eyes,
unearth their suffocated cries.
or sees when the roses bleed.
Glimpse the pools in those eyes,
unearth their suffocated cries.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Some Things Considered (excerpt)
"'Feeling. The most crippling of all feeling is that which is felt alone. It seems as if inside there is a universe with unexamined knowledge waiting, but the beholder lacks the ability to express and therefore eats itself up. It eats up everything; the mind, the heart, the soul, the very fabric of life until all that is left standing before it remains a reflection of a hollowed shell that embraces nothing but to expand the lungs and pump oxygen to the dead organ inside its chest. Yes, surely I am uneasy of the future for such beings. So alone, so alone and so skeptical. No one ever taught them to be that way. They will wander on into a field of shadows, battling the whisper of 'fool' to the south of them. Happiness. Indeed, happiness is far from what lingers, rotting on the skin of these beings. What fools. What bravely gorgeous fools.'
The Ferryman shook his head and boldly struck the water. He was dragging on toward a deeper death, much to the dismay of the lingering being cautiously absorbing the information provided by such a seasoned soothsayer and reluctantly enduring psychologist to the recently passed.
The Ferryman shook his head and boldly struck the water. He was dragging on toward a deeper death, much to the dismay of the lingering being cautiously absorbing the information provided by such a seasoned soothsayer and reluctantly enduring psychologist to the recently passed.
Friday, September 17, 2010
Shaking Up the Dust
An intuition of omniscience lay,
in dusty heaps upon autumn leaves,
that no one sees.
Watch it, guard it, make it yours,
it will unleash its truths,
it will flourish in light, in secrets left untold,
In a garden of time yet to pass.
It will corrupt you.
It will heal you of fault.
Listen to it, then ever so gently,
Nourish the death between the cracks,
See it smile, feel it warm the air.
Never avoid, never ignore,
keep watching, keep watching it grow.
All the treasures it will hold.
It's real, it exists,
in deep feeling it is free,
in time so will you see,
it's free, it's free,
just let it be.
in dusty heaps upon autumn leaves,
that no one sees.
Watch it, guard it, make it yours,
it will unleash its truths,
it will flourish in light, in secrets left untold,
In a garden of time yet to pass.
It will corrupt you.
It will heal you of fault.
Listen to it, then ever so gently,
Nourish the death between the cracks,
See it smile, feel it warm the air.
Never avoid, never ignore,
keep watching, keep watching it grow.
All the treasures it will hold.
It's real, it exists,
in deep feeling it is free,
in time so will you see,
it's free, it's free,
just let it be.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Monday, September 13, 2010
Sometimes
Sometimes if you sit real still,
you can hear all the sounds,
all the sounds in the world. 
And there, right there,
you're free as a bird,
just watching those candles burn.
You'll hear your heart,
You'll feel it beat.
You'll hear the sands,
the sands of time,
just passing you by.
If you hear it,
If you feel it too,
devour those helpless hours,
until the tears rip boldly away.
Until your heart whispers, "Everything,
Everything will be okay."
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Half Asleep in Frog Pajamas
"Passion isn't a path through the woods. Passion is the woods. It's the deepest, wildest part of the forest; the grove where the fairies still dance and obscene old vipers snooze in the boughs. Everybody but the most dried up and dysfunctional is drawn to the grove and enchanted by its mysteries, but then they just can't wait to call in the chain saws and bulldozers and replace it with a family-style restaurant or a new S and L. That's the payoff, I guess. Safety. Security. Certainty. Yes, indeed."
Tom Robbins
Tom Robbins
Thursday, September 2, 2010
The Everlasting Hold of a Heart and a Soul (unrevised)
Within the wasted valley of isolation lay a phantom companion beyond that which the world could tell. He wakes only at the dusty crossroads of light and dark and dances majestic circles around your being. This shadow travels with the hope of only complete truth, never to succumb to the changes of heart which so proven mortals fall. He will not disappear and he promises to stay forever, clutching you to his chest in a near claustrophobic grasp of adoration, admiration, of respect, and of love. The weary traveler bats no lash at the coming of a grotesque reaper, to take before ripe the child in you. He will not struggle in a battle sure to fall, but remind you only of the false hope left over from a starry-eyed juvenile who spent a century incarcerated in unrequited longing. Yes, it is a person buried in that heart, a person who bleeds just as the whole does. A person who consistently dreams, a person who once conceived a notion that people knew him, people must know him so as to be protected. "But people are dangerous." The traveler
whispers, "If I know, you've known all along, my love. You are not meant to associate with such giants. Dream, my dear, but dream small for moments of beautiful time will pass by your eyes for many more years. You are only destined to bleed until dry." With that he collapses and fear begs him to cry, "Cry, cry the tears you've held in with such science. Cry until the salty seas within have dried. You are alone now, no one shall see this pain, this anguish, so cry until the sores of younger tears reappear. Cry until the vain blood drains from silk sheets. You remember don't you? You remember. You remember."
And he sobs as he is commanded. Rivers drain from the mountains of his cheeks and merge into a vast lake seeping from his chin. Eyes glowing red now, the reaper whispers his lies, "Now, what do you want more than ever? Reply child, what is it you desire? Freedom? I can promise you freedom if you leave the traveler's arms. I can promise you so much more than he. I have lived over thousands of years. I was birthed at the dawn of time as an idea and I can live forever. I can promise you, a thought never disappears but a soul such as your shadow, he will be forgotten."
"They'll only forget if you leave with him." The traveler whispers as if a lover, confessing the reality he holds in his arms. "Stay. Stay forever and I will stay too. Until the end, my love. Together we will become like water, forever replenished in a cycle of sheer importance to the life it supports. And I will be there with you, always."
He looked up at the sympathetic smile of the traveler and for a moment was lost in the discovery of such a being. So overwhelmed by his comfort and mysterious familiarity that he may as well have been swallowed whole by himself. Absorbed in the beauty of the being holding tight, drawn to the pleasure provided so simply in his arms. He held the traveler even closer now, grasping the weather torn clothing on his back which like burnt paper, crumpled apart and scattered in the air. The traveler smiled and stroked his head. There was a sanctuary in those arms and every stroke to his head comforted the shattered heart being held.
But the reaper wasn't finished. He walked in circles around the huddled mass of heart and of soul and smirked at the pathetic idea of their pairing.
"You cannot stay here forever. Even you know that." He was speaking to the heart with a vicious truth, "You will only grow older, you will whither, and you will die. Why go through more of this pain when the looming of your death is here, you see? You can have relief in that squalor but only if you come with me. Even I know you are unhappy, and you have been for so long. Why suffer? I know the answers you are looking for and I will take you to them but you must let go, child, this has been no place for you anyway."
He felt a rain drop, cool on his head and he looked up to see tears falling from the traveler's eyes. "You have purpose." The traveler whispered in an almost desperate tone, as if he were unsure of it himself, "Stay, my love. Please. You will see the sun, it is there for you and for me, we will taste it and we will let the tang drip down our throats like citrus. We will be glorious. Give it another chance like you have so many a time before. See? See the stars? They are there and we can live among them. We can be like them, it just takes time, my love. Be patient on this road. Don't lose control. You have time. You are young, my child, so young and so many years to go -"
"Years of burning, years of longing, years spent with a leak at the seam." The reaper had interrupted this time enraged with the absurd hope the traveler laid before the heart, "You know better than that. You know you have no business being here. Leave, child. Leave with me and we will search for the place you belong."
He began to back away from the traveler's arms. He could not help but understand that the reaper was correct. For however brief a time, there had been nothing but anguish, nothing but provoking chaos, nothing but a trail of misguided lusting and torture, nothing but a hole that had still to be filled. What if there was nothing to fill that void? What if this was the life that lay out before him? But that is destiny and only fools believe in destiny. Or is it fools who do not? Maybe he did need to leave. Maybe it was time to search for a real home where love, belonging, and importance grew wild from the ground with no natural predator.
"Do you really believe there will be love there?" The traveler had read his thoughts and although an honest question meant to remind him of the reaper's purpose, he couldn't help but hear perhaps a glint of hope like mica among the rocks. "You can't possibly believe him. Look at yourself, who have you trusted in these years? Where has that led you?"
This time he pulled away out of disdain. Who was this thing to judge him for his foolish ways? He looked with disgust at the traveler, but the look merely dropped back to understanding between lovers, for the traveler stared in bewildered sadness.
"I did not mean to hurt you, my love. I only want you to stay. If you go, I shall be forgotten and for that my existence has been taken in vain. You are loved because I love you. You can trust another because you can trust me. I will not tell your secrets, my love, and I know them all. I will never betray you, my dearest. I will hold you for as long as you desire and together we can be one."
The heart looked into the lustrous eyes of the soul. There was love between them, a married understanding of the nature of their being. But they, even together, are so alone in their individuality and unshared, unique sparkle.
"One day, my dear, perhaps one will unlock that and on that day someone may see us as we are and not as perceived. But together we will play a game of hide and seek, and you shall find me when I am needed and I will love you even when hated. If you leave, you know not what lay before you. Your wanderlust is deep and it will not disappear. One day our passion will be returned in heaps of orchids, fragile and beautiful, but everlasting even in the midst of death. Someone will see us and take us to where we belong and we can be free of this sadness. We will know only acres of forest to be explored, only mountains that need be climbed, only freshly fallen leaves to roll amongst. We will drink from springs of life eternal and know only of immortal love. It is there for you, I know. Stay, my love, and we shall unlock the gates to those wonderlands. But first we must search ever so earnestly for the key buried in the soil."
"How dare you punish him further!" The reaper was shouting now in a defiant voice that rang throughout the valley, "Orchids! PAH! Orchids are fleeting, far from everlasting! You foul being! Leave this child in peace now! An orchid will whither from the oil of touch, you know that as well as I! Orchids! Absurd! Child, you must follow me so as to avoid this ridiculous future of helpless hope and of lies from this soul!"
But the heart looked at the traveler who had an honest plea that shone from his eye. He believed in him. He loved him. And so he spoke in passion filled words of wisdom which, although spoken softly, were true and therefore could be heard among the roar of machines and through the muffling of cotton. "But if cared for delicately," his voice carried through the words so faithfully and secure, "an orchid can thrive alone and through patience and sleep, in time new flowers will sprout from the soil around it and that single flower will be lonesome no more."
And the reaper faded from view. The traveler kissed the heart delicately on the forehead and parted ways, looking not back at the heart, but to the ground instead, with a half smile of pride for his lover. The clouds remained in the sky and the valley stayed cold and damp. The ground was covered in a frosty dew that froze naked feet until paralyzed. But a light, small however tenacious, split between the gray seams of the clouds and there was but a slight warmth in that sliver that stood bravely between the hazy, shadowed atmosphere. The heart did not smile and the search over his shoulder at the past did not seize, but the heart took one ever so important, ever so defiant, and ever so courageous step forward in the frozen landscape. He then closed his eyes and began to count. In the distance could be heard the laughter of a traveling soul, echoing over the Earth as he searched for a place to hide.
whispers, "If I know, you've known all along, my love. You are not meant to associate with such giants. Dream, my dear, but dream small for moments of beautiful time will pass by your eyes for many more years. You are only destined to bleed until dry." With that he collapses and fear begs him to cry, "Cry, cry the tears you've held in with such science. Cry until the salty seas within have dried. You are alone now, no one shall see this pain, this anguish, so cry until the sores of younger tears reappear. Cry until the vain blood drains from silk sheets. You remember don't you? You remember. You remember."And he sobs as he is commanded. Rivers drain from the mountains of his cheeks and merge into a vast lake seeping from his chin. Eyes glowing red now, the reaper whispers his lies, "Now, what do you want more than ever? Reply child, what is it you desire? Freedom? I can promise you freedom if you leave the traveler's arms. I can promise you so much more than he. I have lived over thousands of years. I was birthed at the dawn of time as an idea and I can live forever. I can promise you, a thought never disappears but a soul such as your shadow, he will be forgotten."
"They'll only forget if you leave with him." The traveler whispers as if a lover, confessing the reality he holds in his arms. "Stay. Stay forever and I will stay too. Until the end, my love. Together we will become like water, forever replenished in a cycle of sheer importance to the life it supports. And I will be there with you, always."
He looked up at the sympathetic smile of the traveler and for a moment was lost in the discovery of such a being. So overwhelmed by his comfort and mysterious familiarity that he may as well have been swallowed whole by himself. Absorbed in the beauty of the being holding tight, drawn to the pleasure provided so simply in his arms. He held the traveler even closer now, grasping the weather torn clothing on his back which like burnt paper, crumpled apart and scattered in the air. The traveler smiled and stroked his head. There was a sanctuary in those arms and every stroke to his head comforted the shattered heart being held.
But the reaper wasn't finished. He walked in circles around the huddled mass of heart and of soul and smirked at the pathetic idea of their pairing.
"You cannot stay here forever. Even you know that." He was speaking to the heart with a vicious truth, "You will only grow older, you will whither, and you will die. Why go through more of this pain when the looming of your death is here, you see? You can have relief in that squalor but only if you come with me. Even I know you are unhappy, and you have been for so long. Why suffer? I know the answers you are looking for and I will take you to them but you must let go, child, this has been no place for you anyway."
He felt a rain drop, cool on his head and he looked up to see tears falling from the traveler's eyes. "You have purpose." The traveler whispered in an almost desperate tone, as if he were unsure of it himself, "Stay, my love. Please. You will see the sun, it is there for you and for me, we will taste it and we will let the tang drip down our throats like citrus. We will be glorious. Give it another chance like you have so many a time before. See? See the stars? They are there and we can live among them. We can be like them, it just takes time, my love. Be patient on this road. Don't lose control. You have time. You are young, my child, so young and so many years to go -"
"Years of burning, years of longing, years spent with a leak at the seam." The reaper had interrupted this time enraged with the absurd hope the traveler laid before the heart, "You know better than that. You know you have no business being here. Leave, child. Leave with me and we will search for the place you belong."
He began to back away from the traveler's arms. He could not help but understand that the reaper was correct. For however brief a time, there had been nothing but anguish, nothing but provoking chaos, nothing but a trail of misguided lusting and torture, nothing but a hole that had still to be filled. What if there was nothing to fill that void? What if this was the life that lay out before him? But that is destiny and only fools believe in destiny. Or is it fools who do not? Maybe he did need to leave. Maybe it was time to search for a real home where love, belonging, and importance grew wild from the ground with no natural predator.
"Do you really believe there will be love there?" The traveler had read his thoughts and although an honest question meant to remind him of the reaper's purpose, he couldn't help but hear perhaps a glint of hope like mica among the rocks. "You can't possibly believe him. Look at yourself, who have you trusted in these years? Where has that led you?"
This time he pulled away out of disdain. Who was this thing to judge him for his foolish ways? He looked with disgust at the traveler, but the look merely dropped back to understanding between lovers, for the traveler stared in bewildered sadness.
"I did not mean to hurt you, my love. I only want you to stay. If you go, I shall be forgotten and for that my existence has been taken in vain. You are loved because I love you. You can trust another because you can trust me. I will not tell your secrets, my love, and I know them all. I will never betray you, my dearest. I will hold you for as long as you desire and together we can be one."
The heart looked into the lustrous eyes of the soul. There was love between them, a married understanding of the nature of their being. But they, even together, are so alone in their individuality and unshared, unique sparkle.
"One day, my dear, perhaps one will unlock that and on that day someone may see us as we are and not as perceived. But together we will play a game of hide and seek, and you shall find me when I am needed and I will love you even when hated. If you leave, you know not what lay before you. Your wanderlust is deep and it will not disappear. One day our passion will be returned in heaps of orchids, fragile and beautiful, but everlasting even in the midst of death. Someone will see us and take us to where we belong and we can be free of this sadness. We will know only acres of forest to be explored, only mountains that need be climbed, only freshly fallen leaves to roll amongst. We will drink from springs of life eternal and know only of immortal love. It is there for you, I know. Stay, my love, and we shall unlock the gates to those wonderlands. But first we must search ever so earnestly for the key buried in the soil."
"How dare you punish him further!" The reaper was shouting now in a defiant voice that rang throughout the valley, "Orchids! PAH! Orchids are fleeting, far from everlasting! You foul being! Leave this child in peace now! An orchid will whither from the oil of touch, you know that as well as I! Orchids! Absurd! Child, you must follow me so as to avoid this ridiculous future of helpless hope and of lies from this soul!"
But the heart looked at the traveler who had an honest plea that shone from his eye. He believed in him. He loved him. And so he spoke in passion filled words of wisdom which, although spoken softly, were true and therefore could be heard among the roar of machines and through the muffling of cotton. "But if cared for delicately," his voice carried through the words so faithfully and secure, "an orchid can thrive alone and through patience and sleep, in time new flowers will sprout from the soil around it and that single flower will be lonesome no more."
And the reaper faded from view. The traveler kissed the heart delicately on the forehead and parted ways, looking not back at the heart, but to the ground instead, with a half smile of pride for his lover. The clouds remained in the sky and the valley stayed cold and damp. The ground was covered in a frosty dew that froze naked feet until paralyzed. But a light, small however tenacious, split between the gray seams of the clouds and there was but a slight warmth in that sliver that stood bravely between the hazy, shadowed atmosphere. The heart did not smile and the search over his shoulder at the past did not seize, but the heart took one ever so important, ever so defiant, and ever so courageous step forward in the frozen landscape. He then closed his eyes and began to count. In the distance could be heard the laughter of a traveling soul, echoing over the Earth as he searched for a place to hide.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Marionette
And if you could see me,
would you see me cry?
And if you could hear me,
would you heed my call?
And if you could feel me,
would you feel my scabs?
And if you could hold me,
would it only last a moment?
And if I were real today,
would you stay for tomorrow?
And if I told you my truths,
would you say I know nothing?
If you pulled my strings,
would I mean anything to you at all?
Because for me,
you are the only life I see.
And for me,
you mean everything.
would you see me cry?
And if you could hear me,
would you heed my call?
And if you could feel me,
would you feel my scabs?
And if you could hold me,
would it only last a moment?
And if I were real today,
would you stay for tomorrow?
And if I told you my truths,
would you say I know nothing?
If you pulled my strings,
would I mean anything to you at all?
Because for me,
you are the only life I see.
And for me,
you mean everything.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Brave New World
"[...] what with the temptations and the lonely remorses, what with all the diseases and the endless isolating pain, what with the uncertainties and the poverty--they were forced to feel strongly. And feeling strongly (and strongly, what was more, in solitude, in hoplessly individual isolation), how could they be stable? [...] Impulse arrested spills over, and the flood is feeling, the flood is passion, the flood is even madness: it depends on the force of the current, the height and strength of the barrier."
~Aldous Huxley~
~Aldous Huxley~
Monday, August 23, 2010
Revolutionary Road
"-You still felt that life was passing you by?
-Sort of. I still had this idea that there was a whole world of marvelous golden people somewhere, as far ahead of me as the seniors at Rye when I was in sixth grade; people who knew everything instinctively, who made their lives work out the way they wanted without even trying, who never had to make the best of a bad job because it never occurred to them to do anything less than perfectly the first time. Sort of heroic super-people, all of them beautiful and witty and calm and kind, and I always imagined that when I did find them I'd suddenly know that I belonged among them, that I was one of them, that I'd been meant to be one of them all along, and everything in the meantime had been a mistake; and they'd know it too. I'd be like the ugly duckling among the swans."
--Richard Yates---
-Sort of. I still had this idea that there was a whole world of marvelous golden people somewhere, as far ahead of me as the seniors at Rye when I was in sixth grade; people who knew everything instinctively, who made their lives work out the way they wanted without even trying, who never had to make the best of a bad job because it never occurred to them to do anything less than perfectly the first time. Sort of heroic super-people, all of them beautiful and witty and calm and kind, and I always imagined that when I did find them I'd suddenly know that I belonged among them, that I was one of them, that I'd been meant to be one of them all along, and everything in the meantime had been a mistake; and they'd know it too. I'd be like the ugly duckling among the swans."
--Richard Yates---
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Thunder
Thunder cut between
A dream within a dream.
I see the faces I've missed,
I sit upon clouds I've kissed.
I hold my breathe, envision the air,
But I can't ever go back there.
The haze begins to fray,
impossible memory slips away.
A dream within a dream.
I see the faces I've missed,
I sit upon clouds I've kissed.
I hold my breathe, envision the air,
But I can't ever go back there.
The haze begins to fray,
impossible memory slips away.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Chronic Mood Forecast
Suffocate, absquatulate, then acquiescence. Tomorrow consists of either mutiny or introversion, but probably one in that are the same, however different in cause and reaction due to the circumstantial outcome of events. Curing comes from endless routines of a coma followed by bittersweet dejection which serves up nicely with intentional starvation. A helples
s hope for a limitless liberty stands vivified but masqueraded in apathetic gestures of a puppeteer's ecstasy. Its will-power numbed by floating imagery drifting as shadows across glazed pupils which enlighten but enhance the defiance of the listed offenses. Consequently, glazed pupils later result in precipitation in the smaller hours due to the stimulation of memory in response to a heightened anabolic state. All reduced to the recently absorbed knowledge that the moment you become incandescently happy is the minute you will fall. Momentary relief from the everlasting effects of reckless abandonment can be found in song during voluntary isolation and quarantine.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FP7J8ONfIfs
s hope for a limitless liberty stands vivified but masqueraded in apathetic gestures of a puppeteer's ecstasy. Its will-power numbed by floating imagery drifting as shadows across glazed pupils which enlighten but enhance the defiance of the listed offenses. Consequently, glazed pupils later result in precipitation in the smaller hours due to the stimulation of memory in response to a heightened anabolic state. All reduced to the recently absorbed knowledge that the moment you become incandescently happy is the minute you will fall. Momentary relief from the everlasting effects of reckless abandonment can be found in song during voluntary isolation and quarantine.http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FP7J8ONfIfs
Monday, August 2, 2010
Product of Confusion
The product of confusion dreams of the definite.
Dreams forever but merely dies.
On the shore of openness awakes to bravery,
a gleaming moment in time.
One chance, forever to shine.
Just as sure as it appears,
the wind changes course
to shift a mind.
Leaves behind confusion,
helpless victim of the rising tide.
Cling to a moment,
too short to birth a convincing lie.
Sails rise, confusion is passed,
back to the receiver at long last.
Lays there placing sand grains in a bottle,
keeping time to the denied
for it never rains outside.
Dreams forever but merely dies.
On the shore of openness awakes to bravery,
a gleaming moment in time.
One chance, forever to shine.
Just as sure as it appears,
the wind changes course
to shift a mind.
Leaves behind confusion,
helpless victim of the rising tide.
Cling to a moment,
too short to birth a convincing lie.
Sails rise, confusion is passed,
back to the receiver at long last.
Lays there placing sand grains in a bottle,
keeping time to the denied
for it never rains outside.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress
"He believes that it is impossible to shift blame, share blame, distribute blame [...] as blame, guilt, responsibility are matters taking place inside human beings singly and nowhere else. But being rational, he knows that not all individuals hold his evaluations, so he tries to live perfectly in an imperfect world [...] aware that his efforts will be less than perfect yet undismayed by self-knowledge of self-failure."
~Robert A. Heinlein~
~Robert A. Heinlein~
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Persephone
There's a place I reside,
a thought in my head,
in a different body I hide,
and my demon is dead.
There's a delicate scale,
of art and of beauty,
where a spirit can sail,
and hearts know their duty.
Arms never wrap in vain,
words grow in unbreakable vines,
there can be no pain,
and no reading between lines.
But now day turns to night,
this image becomes haze,
these shackles grow tight,
and I meet the demon's gaze.
He's stronger than ever,
there will be no leaving.
I need now more than never,
and he'll keep me believing.
These bars I deserve,
for swallowing seeds of lies.
Every night he'll observe,
the pools of tears in my eyes.
This is where I belong,
he'll set me free every spring.
So how could it be wrong,
playing concubine to this king?
a thought in my head,
in a different body I hide,
and my demon is dead.
There's a delicate scale,
of art and of beauty,
where a spirit can sail,
and hearts know their duty.
Arms never wrap in vain,
words grow in unbreakable vines,
there can be no pain,
and no reading between lines.
But now day turns to night,
this image becomes haze,
these shackles grow tight,
and I meet the demon's gaze.
He's stronger than ever,
there will be no leaving.
I need now more than never,
and he'll keep me believing.
These bars I deserve,
for swallowing seeds of lies.
Every night he'll observe,
the pools of tears in my eyes.
This is where I belong,
he'll set me free every spring.
So how could it be wrong,
playing concubine to this king?
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Nothing is Something
Walk a tightrope
between responsibility and life.
Choose wisely,
the place to fall.
We are something out of nothing.
Why must we choose to land
where nothingness is nonexistent,
where servitude makes sense,
and sleeping is just sleep?
When will we choose to see,
something out of nothing is,
forever will be, just nothing.
That sleep may be wake,
and wake may be sleep.
That freedom is true freedom,
lacking restraints.
Why not fall there?
Why not try consciousness?
Maybe you'll find,
something didn't come of nothing,
that nothing came of something,
and that something,
is nothing.
between responsibility and life.
Choose wisely,
the place to fall.
We are something out of nothing.
Why must we choose to land
where nothingness is nonexistent,
where servitude makes sense,
and sleeping is just sleep?
When will we choose to see,
something out of nothing is,
forever will be, just nothing.
That sleep may be wake,
and wake may be sleep.
That freedom is true freedom,
lacking restraints.
Why not fall there?
Why not try consciousness?
Maybe you'll find,
something didn't come of nothing,
that nothing came of something,
and that something,
is nothing.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
I Still Hate Cats
I believe that the idea of having a pet is having something to interact with and essentially socialize with to allow a steady flow of comfort between animals of different species. It is symbiotic, one could say. Dogs qualify automatically for that category. It's ingrained in a domestic dog's DNA to be loyal to a human. To the point where, you almost feel sorry for them since their brains are not very complex (generalization) and focus on just pleasing their human.
A dog is always happy to see you. I have yet to meet a dog that cowers at the sight of a human being. My dog has always been her own character but my shadow, that follows me everywhere grunting at me, which I believe is some form of communication she's trying to develop. She even welcomes me home
at 3 AM, with a considerably groggy look on her face. Yes, there are those few that are aggressive but generally it has to do with the nature of the breed. I was mauled by a husky when I was five, I had scratches and scabs all over my face for weeks but ever since that moment, I've wanted a husky more than any other dog. I love dogs. I honestly couldn't imagine a world without them. They truly are the greatest pets. All they ask of you in return for their unconditional devotion is just a pat on the head, a walk, or some quality time. It's so simple and pathetic that you have to love them.
A horse is another animal, believe it or not, that devotes itself to you if you give it all the attention that an amazing creature such as that deserves. I will never forget the horses that I've owned. Comet was my playmate and playground when I was a kid. He was just this little tri-
color paint pony with a crazy Mohawk who was fearless and had a hilarious superiority complex. Cisco was probably my favorite though, he had a quirky personality for a horse. He was quite protective of me, and despite his clumsiness in the paddock actually rescued me from being trampled by another horse. When I was sixteen and seventeen, I'd stop by at the barn after a late night or if I was upset about something and just sit in his stall. I would curl up in one corner and he would walk over and put his nose between my face and my legs and sometimes playfully nibble at my nose. I loved him, more than I thought I did. I told myself I wouldn't cry on the day his new owner drove away, but I did. I literally collapsed into tears in the driveway.
My chinchilla, Chavez, and I started out slow, but now we're thick as thieves. He gets into a lot of shenanigans and still ha
s a feeling that I may just be edible one of these times, but I think that's what I like about him. He knows perfectly well when he's misbehaving, he enjoys it, perhaps too much. I love playing with him and the weird sounds he makes at night just add to the mystique. So I've concluded that chinchillas make excellent companions if you have enough energy to play all the time.
Cats. I have two. I'm not particularly a fan of cats. They demand a lot and really don't do much in return. A cat is almost never happy to see you, it's just excited you opened the door so it has a possibility of escaping the place that is sustaining its life. They are moody and lazy. BUT when you need something to cuddle out the pain, even I'll admit that a cat will almost always be there for you. Just don't try to hold them too long. I claim I hate them, but I really do like cats. I like all animals, like people, every single one has something to offer.
Everyone should at some point adopt a pet of some sort. It helps you to rationalize your life. It gives you the excuse that if no human needs you here, at least an animal does. Even the meanest pets have love in them somewhere. At the end of the day, it's feeding an animal that puts everything back into perspective. They literally need you, don't ever abuse that privilege.
A dog is always happy to see you. I have yet to meet a dog that cowers at the sight of a human being. My dog has always been her own character but my shadow, that follows me everywhere grunting at me, which I believe is some form of communication she's trying to develop. She even welcomes me home
at 3 AM, with a considerably groggy look on her face. Yes, there are those few that are aggressive but generally it has to do with the nature of the breed. I was mauled by a husky when I was five, I had scratches and scabs all over my face for weeks but ever since that moment, I've wanted a husky more than any other dog. I love dogs. I honestly couldn't imagine a world without them. They truly are the greatest pets. All they ask of you in return for their unconditional devotion is just a pat on the head, a walk, or some quality time. It's so simple and pathetic that you have to love them.A horse is another animal, believe it or not, that devotes itself to you if you give it all the attention that an amazing creature such as that deserves. I will never forget the horses that I've owned. Comet was my playmate and playground when I was a kid. He was just this little tri-
color paint pony with a crazy Mohawk who was fearless and had a hilarious superiority complex. Cisco was probably my favorite though, he had a quirky personality for a horse. He was quite protective of me, and despite his clumsiness in the paddock actually rescued me from being trampled by another horse. When I was sixteen and seventeen, I'd stop by at the barn after a late night or if I was upset about something and just sit in his stall. I would curl up in one corner and he would walk over and put his nose between my face and my legs and sometimes playfully nibble at my nose. I loved him, more than I thought I did. I told myself I wouldn't cry on the day his new owner drove away, but I did. I literally collapsed into tears in the driveway.My chinchilla, Chavez, and I started out slow, but now we're thick as thieves. He gets into a lot of shenanigans and still ha
s a feeling that I may just be edible one of these times, but I think that's what I like about him. He knows perfectly well when he's misbehaving, he enjoys it, perhaps too much. I love playing with him and the weird sounds he makes at night just add to the mystique. So I've concluded that chinchillas make excellent companions if you have enough energy to play all the time.Cats. I have two. I'm not particularly a fan of cats. They demand a lot and really don't do much in return. A cat is almost never happy to see you, it's just excited you opened the door so it has a possibility of escaping the place that is sustaining its life. They are moody and lazy. BUT when you need something to cuddle out the pain, even I'll admit that a cat will almost always be there for you. Just don't try to hold them too long. I claim I hate them, but I really do like cats. I like all animals, like people, every single one has something to offer.
Everyone should at some point adopt a pet of some sort. It helps you to rationalize your life. It gives you the excuse that if no human needs you here, at least an animal does. Even the meanest pets have love in them somewhere. At the end of the day, it's feeding an animal that puts everything back into perspective. They literally need you, don't ever abuse that privilege.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Cruisin'
They water your seeds,
But don't reap what they sow,
I'm in control.
I'm goin' places,
I'm seein' some faces.
Baby, I'm on the road.
But don't reap what they sow,
I'm in control.
I'm goin' places,
I'm seein' some faces.
Baby, I'm on the road.
Friday, July 23, 2010
Allegory of the Playground
The definition of luck is: a combination of events, etc., operating by chance to bring good or ill to a person.
Attaining luck is finding a way to live harmoniously with your surroundings and believing in their ability to get better.
A month ago I was at a playground with a friend and made a study in my mind about our overall philosophical differences in relation to points of focus on the playground instruments. These differences are attributed to our "luck" in our lives and its consequences on our personality and the way we think. There was this balance beam that rocked back and forth depending upon where the weight of your body was distributed. As I watched my friend on this beam, I noticed that all of his brain activity, all of the motions occurring before me, were focused directly to staying on the beam. Whereas, when I was on the beam, my mind was first focused on balancing, but the moment the beam shifted to throw off my balance, my thought process then shifted with it so that it began analyzing the best way to fall in order not to be harmed. This could be seen in my body language as automatically when I lost my balance, my entire body shifted its weight. Not to the other side of the beam (this would be the correct thing to do if I had wanted to stay on) but to the ground and how I was to get there softly.
To my friend, it didn't matter that his balance had been thrown off; he took it one step at a time. Undoubtedly he could fall harder, but his victory lies in the point of the exercise: to stay on the beam. I, rather selfishly, abandoned that plan and jumped off when it was safe. This is the difference in the way we produce our luck.
See, on that beam my friend appears to be luckier than I am, for he had ultimately defeated that exercise. He didn't plan, he launched himself into it and took it one step at a time. Sure, there were probably a few seconds here and there where his thoughts were interrupted by the inevitable belief that he was about to fall, but for the most part, his energy was primarily spent on staying on the beam. When he did fall, by then it didn't matter. It was a surprise, but he still went back on the beam to master the mistake. I, rather, cheated the exercise in my own way, as have I in many life endeavors. Instead of my victory being in the object of the game, I merely survived the game and there lies a personal victory, one of satisfaction and safety. Since I focused my energy on how to avoid the injuries associated, planning every step and every move so that it would produce the least amount of pain, ultimately I have lost.
No one should ever plan things in life. That is my personal failure, I'm afraid I've always been too much of a convinced dreamer, believing that doing the safe things would make those dreams come true, therefore planning. See, chances are, your plans will change around you and all of a sudden you'll be sitting there wondering why the hell you can't be lucky like the rest of the world. You're not on that beam anymore, that's why. You're not using the playground. That's what it's there for. Use it. A word of caution, be weary of the ones who plan to fall, it's probably because they've fallen hard one too many times. Still, they can never actually see the pain that is out there for them. They're too busy planning. For the fortunate planners, be sure to realize that eventually, gravity can and will catch up to you.
I'm taking a break. Chilling on a swing for a while. I'm choosing an option not considered before, pursuing something with interest in the subject area and grasping the hand of someone who will undoubtedly bite back. I figure though, if I hold on to the ones that don't bite, pick and choose the people to hang on to, the ones that really matter to me and that are actually important, someday I won't have to worry about falling. I can have so many spotters. I'm probably going to choose to jump off this swing every now and then, and I know the fall will hurt, but maybe since I know what's coming, it can't hurt as much. Or maybe, as Benjamin Button said, "you never know what's coming for you."
So I suppose this thought is to be continued until I choose to return to that balance beam. This time going at it with the mind of a child but the heart of an old lady.
Attaining luck is finding a way to live harmoniously with your surroundings and believing in their ability to get better.
A month ago I was at a playground with a friend and made a study in my mind about our overall philosophical differences in relation to points of focus on the playground instruments. These differences are attributed to our "luck" in our lives and its consequences on our personality and the way we think. There was this balance beam that rocked back and forth depending upon where the weight of your body was distributed. As I watched my friend on this beam, I noticed that all of his brain activity, all of the motions occurring before me, were focused directly to staying on the beam. Whereas, when I was on the beam, my mind was first focused on balancing, but the moment the beam shifted to throw off my balance, my thought process then shifted with it so that it began analyzing the best way to fall in order not to be harmed. This could be seen in my body language as automatically when I lost my balance, my entire body shifted its weight. Not to the other side of the beam (this would be the correct thing to do if I had wanted to stay on) but to the ground and how I was to get there softly.
To my friend, it didn't matter that his balance had been thrown off; he took it one step at a time. Undoubtedly he could fall harder, but his victory lies in the point of the exercise: to stay on the beam. I, rather selfishly, abandoned that plan and jumped off when it was safe. This is the difference in the way we produce our luck.
See, on that beam my friend appears to be luckier than I am, for he had ultimately defeated that exercise. He didn't plan, he launched himself into it and took it one step at a time. Sure, there were probably a few seconds here and there where his thoughts were interrupted by the inevitable belief that he was about to fall, but for the most part, his energy was primarily spent on staying on the beam. When he did fall, by then it didn't matter. It was a surprise, but he still went back on the beam to master the mistake. I, rather, cheated the exercise in my own way, as have I in many life endeavors. Instead of my victory being in the object of the game, I merely survived the game and there lies a personal victory, one of satisfaction and safety. Since I focused my energy on how to avoid the injuries associated, planning every step and every move so that it would produce the least amount of pain, ultimately I have lost.
No one should ever plan things in life. That is my personal failure, I'm afraid I've always been too much of a convinced dreamer, believing that doing the safe things would make those dreams come true, therefore planning. See, chances are, your plans will change around you and all of a sudden you'll be sitting there wondering why the hell you can't be lucky like the rest of the world. You're not on that beam anymore, that's why. You're not using the playground. That's what it's there for. Use it. A word of caution, be weary of the ones who plan to fall, it's probably because they've fallen hard one too many times. Still, they can never actually see the pain that is out there for them. They're too busy planning. For the fortunate planners, be sure to realize that eventually, gravity can and will catch up to you.
I'm taking a break. Chilling on a swing for a while. I'm choosing an option not considered before, pursuing something with interest in the subject area and grasping the hand of someone who will undoubtedly bite back. I figure though, if I hold on to the ones that don't bite, pick and choose the people to hang on to, the ones that really matter to me and that are actually important, someday I won't have to worry about falling. I can have so many spotters. I'm probably going to choose to jump off this swing every now and then, and I know the fall will hurt, but maybe since I know what's coming, it can't hurt as much. Or maybe, as Benjamin Button said, "you never know what's coming for you."
So I suppose this thought is to be continued until I choose to return to that balance beam. This time going at it with the mind of a child but the heart of an old lady.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Beautiful
beau-ti-ful
-adjective-
having qualities that give great pleasure or satisfaction to see, hear, think about etc...
The simple words mean more than we think. Perhaps sometimes they are built up to the point where they are incomprehensible and we pretend to define on our own terms. But words and their definition, although can be bent and manipulated into pleasant or horrific things, are absolute. It is our world, our society, and our very lives that change them. To one, beautiful can mean just attractive but to another, beautiful can be everything above. Don't think before you speak, just speak what you think, what you really think.
-adjective-
having qualities that give great pleasure or satisfaction to see, hear, think about etc...
The simple words mean more than we think. Perhaps sometimes they are built up to the point where they are incomprehensible and we pretend to define on our own terms. But words and their definition, although can be bent and manipulated into pleasant or horrific things, are absolute. It is our world, our society, and our very lives that change them. To one, beautiful can mean just attractive but to another, beautiful can be everything above. Don't think before you speak, just speak what you think, what you really think.
Flightless Bird
Shouldn't have gotten brave,
Shouldn't have flown away.
Now I've gained this broken wing,
And crawled back here until next spring.
Shouldn't have flown away.
Now I've gained this broken wing,
And crawled back here until next spring.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Thoughts From The Flatlands
Lovely Rita and I took a ride today, very far away. I probably shouldn't have done this since my oil hasn't been changed since maybe February, but there was something calling me east that I just had to follow. So on my way home from yet another day at work full of the most exhausting character acting I've ever put on, I took a spontaneous left turn down Clark Road. This was a rather difficult maneuver considering my left turn signal burnt out two weeks ago and my tires are slowly but surely losing traction. (My poor Lovely Rita hasn't been much of her sturdy self these days, but I suppose if I ran 50,000 miles, neither would I.)
I just started to drive with no plans for where I was heading, which happens to be one of my favorite pass times and I think I really needed this one. In this state, taking a drive into the country is actually rather daring and adventurous. Imagine if Rita had broken down next to the swamps, with no sanctuary for miles and hardly any mobile signal (not like it would have helped considering I didn't even bother charging my phone) just me and the swamp critters, most of which are deadly. I wonder if anyone would have even thought to look for me out there....if they even bothered looking.
Anyway, I drove for a good hour and then had to stop. The road turns from three lanes to one lane rather silently and suddenly you find yourself traveling through "old Florida." Nevertheless, I enjoyed the scenery, for some reason it always has a way of reminding me of places I've been, like Arizona. I realize that Arizona is the complete opposite kind of Earth but it's the flatness and the sun setting with a profound water colored ending that just sparks some sort of memory in my mind of the desert.
When I decided I was going to turn back I just stopped for a minute to take in the air at the farthest point I drove. I looked over the barren terrain at the orange skyline in the distance trying to force myself to see this place as home. I've been here a year now. I am a resident of the state of Florida. The thing is, no matter how hard I try I can't ever picture this place as my home. It's like a wool sweater, it keeps you warm but you get all itchy and the more you scratch the more you'd rather just take it off and deal with the cold. I think if I put it all together, added up all of the good moments, I've probably only had about two happy months in this place. Still, it's not to say that I look at Pennsylvania as home, nor Connecticut for that matter. I'm proud to say I'm from New England but the truth is, it's just the place I was born, I have no real lasting ties that call my name. Pennsylvania is where I grew up and I love the memories I have there, but it just can't really be called home as I told a co-worker the other day.
We were talking about how he had gone back to Boston, where he is from, and how it just wasn't "home" anymore. I told him it was because that part of his life was over and there's no going back to it, you just have to hold on to what you have left of it. He smiled and told me that I was "very wise" for my age and I told him that when you live a life full of brief moments you kind of have to learn how to live fast and learn fast. Maybe that's why I always hated school, it just seemed such a waste of my time when I could learn things a lot faster with experience. The more people you encounter in your lifetime makes you quick on your toes. I've been taught how to network with the "right" people, I've been taught how to speak convincingly to a large crowd, I've been taught how to make a friend smile, I've been taught how to question, and to dismiss anger, and I've been taught how to absorb feeling from around me which provides me with an empathy and understanding for every person I meet.
Next year I will be moving from this state and there will be things, as always, that I will miss. Despite the fact that I never wanted to be here, I have found my places to hide from the world, where I can think without distraction. When you leave a place behind, those places disappear too and you never really go back. I don't know where I will be going next, to be honest. I'm not sure if I will go to New York, somewhere in South America, London, Paris, I was even considering Vancouver for a while (imagine me....in Canada), but I'm sure wherever I end up will finally be the adventure that I've been searching for or at least the beginning of a good one. Wherever I go, I bring a suitcase full of charms and trinkets with memories sealed on them, irreplaceable. And I hope I go along with a true friend, the one I've been waiting for, for so long.
I got back into my car and drove home, feeling a familiar emptiness. What have I done? And why am I here all alone? It's true, I've a lot to learn about the world, people, relationships, and just plain living for that matter. Currently, I'm going to hang on to the things I need, for I have no home but the metaphorical walls I've built around me, protecting myself from those who wish to do me harm. In the end, it is naivety that fails those walls, but I'd rather be stupid and have met the people I have than be too hidden, reserved, and intelligent to explore emotion. I hope that one day they all will see the unconditional love I always had for the persons they are. I suppose somewhere up this road will be a lot more things, good and bad, that will force me to abandon more of my inner child. It hurts to sew up those holes and it's confusing not knowing where to go tomorrow. For now, there is not much more can be said about a crossroads at the corner of nineteenth and never.
I just started to drive with no plans for where I was heading, which happens to be one of my favorite pass times and I think I really needed this one. In this state, taking a drive into the country is actually rather daring and adventurous. Imagine if Rita had broken down next to the swamps, with no sanctuary for miles and hardly any mobile signal (not like it would have helped considering I didn't even bother charging my phone) just me and the swamp critters, most of which are deadly. I wonder if anyone would have even thought to look for me out there....if they even bothered looking.
Anyway, I drove for a good hour and then had to stop. The road turns from three lanes to one lane rather silently and suddenly you find yourself traveling through "old Florida." Nevertheless, I enjoyed the scenery, for some reason it always has a way of reminding me of places I've been, like Arizona. I realize that Arizona is the complete opposite kind of Earth but it's the flatness and the sun setting with a profound water colored ending that just sparks some sort of memory in my mind of the desert.
When I decided I was going to turn back I just stopped for a minute to take in the air at the farthest point I drove. I looked over the barren terrain at the orange skyline in the distance trying to force myself to see this place as home. I've been here a year now. I am a resident of the state of Florida. The thing is, no matter how hard I try I can't ever picture this place as my home. It's like a wool sweater, it keeps you warm but you get all itchy and the more you scratch the more you'd rather just take it off and deal with the cold. I think if I put it all together, added up all of the good moments, I've probably only had about two happy months in this place. Still, it's not to say that I look at Pennsylvania as home, nor Connecticut for that matter. I'm proud to say I'm from New England but the truth is, it's just the place I was born, I have no real lasting ties that call my name. Pennsylvania is where I grew up and I love the memories I have there, but it just can't really be called home as I told a co-worker the other day.
We were talking about how he had gone back to Boston, where he is from, and how it just wasn't "home" anymore. I told him it was because that part of his life was over and there's no going back to it, you just have to hold on to what you have left of it. He smiled and told me that I was "very wise" for my age and I told him that when you live a life full of brief moments you kind of have to learn how to live fast and learn fast. Maybe that's why I always hated school, it just seemed such a waste of my time when I could learn things a lot faster with experience. The more people you encounter in your lifetime makes you quick on your toes. I've been taught how to network with the "right" people, I've been taught how to speak convincingly to a large crowd, I've been taught how to make a friend smile, I've been taught how to question, and to dismiss anger, and I've been taught how to absorb feeling from around me which provides me with an empathy and understanding for every person I meet.
Next year I will be moving from this state and there will be things, as always, that I will miss. Despite the fact that I never wanted to be here, I have found my places to hide from the world, where I can think without distraction. When you leave a place behind, those places disappear too and you never really go back. I don't know where I will be going next, to be honest. I'm not sure if I will go to New York, somewhere in South America, London, Paris, I was even considering Vancouver for a while (imagine me....in Canada), but I'm sure wherever I end up will finally be the adventure that I've been searching for or at least the beginning of a good one. Wherever I go, I bring a suitcase full of charms and trinkets with memories sealed on them, irreplaceable. And I hope I go along with a true friend, the one I've been waiting for, for so long.
I got back into my car and drove home, feeling a familiar emptiness. What have I done? And why am I here all alone? It's true, I've a lot to learn about the world, people, relationships, and just plain living for that matter. Currently, I'm going to hang on to the things I need, for I have no home but the metaphorical walls I've built around me, protecting myself from those who wish to do me harm. In the end, it is naivety that fails those walls, but I'd rather be stupid and have met the people I have than be too hidden, reserved, and intelligent to explore emotion. I hope that one day they all will see the unconditional love I always had for the persons they are. I suppose somewhere up this road will be a lot more things, good and bad, that will force me to abandon more of my inner child. It hurts to sew up those holes and it's confusing not knowing where to go tomorrow. For now, there is not much more can be said about a crossroads at the corner of nineteenth and never.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
The Russian Spy Who Lived Next Door
No really, I'm not kidding this time. I read in the paper this morning that one of my neighbors was, in fact, a former Soviet spy. He died (supposedly) of a heart attack, however they are currently doing an autopsy to find out if perhaps he was killed considering the latest news about the spies recently compromised and deported. About a month ago a friend of mine had told me a story about how a former Russian spy had come into Barnes & Noble to buy his own book. The world got a whole lot smaller when I realized he lived but two houses from me....yet another reason why I should probably branch out and get to know my neighbors. I knew there was something interesting happening in this neighborhood when I saw that one guy walking his dog... backwards (that one still confuses my mind). This never happened in Kimberbrae. Of course, there was that one guy who only mowed his lawn at midnight. I mean, I'm nocturnal myself but, that's just strange and suspicious behavior.
A former Soviet spy, who would have thought? OH the suburbs.
A former Soviet spy, who would have thought? OH the suburbs.
The Art of Filmmaking in this Brave New World
Recently I've picked up on a theme in award winning motion pictures which, although realistic and at times depressing, I happen to enjoy. It's a fact that movies, not just in dialogue, story board, and acting have become far more "real world" in recent years in the style in which they are actually filmed; a harshly honest, artistic sort of way. I have been honored to sit in front of a screen and view the evolution of these films. The clearest and best portrayals of this particular style which shine in both story telling genius and a battered trail of emotional ups and downs, include Slumdog Millionaire, The Wrestler, and Crazy Heart.
Movies like Slumdog Millionaire, which show the triumph of youth and dreams from characters beaten down by their realistic surroundings and terrifying lives in an underdeveloped country, introduce a new level of feeling within audiences. Personally, I believe Slumdog portrayed India in the most truthful of lights, showing the dark worlds of the very children who were cast in the film. That is their life. There was no cutting at the seams. Now, granted, Slumdog was based off of a book to begin with but, regardless of the actual story, the effect left on the audiences' eyes as they viewed the "inside" of a poverty stricken orphan in India is that of a lasting impression on the soul. Although, this movie still reached beyond the realm of reality and did perhaps leave us all with a triumphant "love conquers all" feeling in our hearts, a couple of other movies, with almost parallel themes to each other, leave a whole different kind of impression.
The Wrestler gave a shockingly realistic look into the life of a middle aged man who confronts his lack of luck and reckless life and is forced to accept it. I was hesitant to see the movie at first, probably due to the advertisements depicting actual wrestling matches which honestly I had no interest in. I was under the impression that it was yet another Rocky movie, just a slightly different sport. Regardless, after several suggestions from friends, I decided to sit down and give it a chance.
Filmed in just a few short weeks, not far from the place where I grew up, The Wrestler is, in my opinion, one of the finest cinematic performances given in a very long time. It was raw, reality; the truth conveyed that things just don't work out. The character, played by Mickey Rourke, begins to realize his own mortality is closing in on him and suddenly begins to patch up his completely torn apart life. The ending of the film is not triumphant, there are no new friends, no re-established relations with missing relatives, no cheating death, he doesn't even get the girl. What there is, is acceptance. Far too late to change anything, too much damage left from a broken past the audience knows nothing of, far too old to carry on with any dreams of another kind of grandeur. It is, in fact, the portrayal of the consequences of a lifestyle and the acceptance of those consequences and of self. This movie easily became one of my favorites, lacking a happy ending filled with hope for the future left a meaning so deeply encrusted in the fabric of all humans; we are alone and we are responsible for that. However, another movie introduced the same type of character except this time with a little more hope.
When Crazy Heart opens in the first scene with a character that lacks any sort of caring nature for his surroundings, you feel nothing for him. That, I think, is the genius of the movie. This man is introduced, playing two-bit gigs to an endangered fan base, completely wasted and riding on prior fame. Over time however, the character progresses thanks to his slight devotion to his younger, single mother, lover who takes the risk in falling for him. Though alcoholism ruins any chance of a future for the two lonely hearts, his mistake forces him to better himself with rehab. The realism portrayed finally strikes at the end when the love of his life wants nothing to do with him, and neither does his long lost son. Just as The Wrestler, the protagonist is out of rope and time but instead of a story of accepting circumstances, Jeff Bridge's character, "picks up his crazy heart and gives it one more try."
It is these endings, I believe, which place the audience into a far more empathetic seat. We've all had moments where things seem to fall apart before we even began to get used to the idea that they were there in the first place. Just as picking up a book can capture a reader's heart and send the most truthful message to him or her with the gifts of literature such as The Scarlett Letter, or plays like A Streetcar Named Desire, where things don't exactly work out the way they are supposed to. The benefit of the book is that it is able to send that message as well as portray the inconveniences which society places on people like Hester, Stella, and Blanche. Perhaps a few more years of evolving films will be able to place both these honest endings and realistic scenarios as well as provide that dark emphasis on the consequences of society's rule. For now, however, I have to say that I'm proud of filmmakers for taking a step further. As M. Night Shyamalan (a very much underrated storyteller) said, "My hope is, we broke so many rules, we created a new rule."
Movies like Slumdog Millionaire, which show the triumph of youth and dreams from characters beaten down by their realistic surroundings and terrifying lives in an underdeveloped country, introduce a new level of feeling within audiences. Personally, I believe Slumdog portrayed India in the most truthful of lights, showing the dark worlds of the very children who were cast in the film. That is their life. There was no cutting at the seams. Now, granted, Slumdog was based off of a book to begin with but, regardless of the actual story, the effect left on the audiences' eyes as they viewed the "inside" of a poverty stricken orphan in India is that of a lasting impression on the soul. Although, this movie still reached beyond the realm of reality and did perhaps leave us all with a triumphant "love conquers all" feeling in our hearts, a couple of other movies, with almost parallel themes to each other, leave a whole different kind of impression.
The Wrestler gave a shockingly realistic look into the life of a middle aged man who confronts his lack of luck and reckless life and is forced to accept it. I was hesitant to see the movie at first, probably due to the advertisements depicting actual wrestling matches which honestly I had no interest in. I was under the impression that it was yet another Rocky movie, just a slightly different sport. Regardless, after several suggestions from friends, I decided to sit down and give it a chance.
Filmed in just a few short weeks, not far from the place where I grew up, The Wrestler is, in my opinion, one of the finest cinematic performances given in a very long time. It was raw, reality; the truth conveyed that things just don't work out. The character, played by Mickey Rourke, begins to realize his own mortality is closing in on him and suddenly begins to patch up his completely torn apart life. The ending of the film is not triumphant, there are no new friends, no re-established relations with missing relatives, no cheating death, he doesn't even get the girl. What there is, is acceptance. Far too late to change anything, too much damage left from a broken past the audience knows nothing of, far too old to carry on with any dreams of another kind of grandeur. It is, in fact, the portrayal of the consequences of a lifestyle and the acceptance of those consequences and of self. This movie easily became one of my favorites, lacking a happy ending filled with hope for the future left a meaning so deeply encrusted in the fabric of all humans; we are alone and we are responsible for that. However, another movie introduced the same type of character except this time with a little more hope.
When Crazy Heart opens in the first scene with a character that lacks any sort of caring nature for his surroundings, you feel nothing for him. That, I think, is the genius of the movie. This man is introduced, playing two-bit gigs to an endangered fan base, completely wasted and riding on prior fame. Over time however, the character progresses thanks to his slight devotion to his younger, single mother, lover who takes the risk in falling for him. Though alcoholism ruins any chance of a future for the two lonely hearts, his mistake forces him to better himself with rehab. The realism portrayed finally strikes at the end when the love of his life wants nothing to do with him, and neither does his long lost son. Just as The Wrestler, the protagonist is out of rope and time but instead of a story of accepting circumstances, Jeff Bridge's character, "picks up his crazy heart and gives it one more try."
It is these endings, I believe, which place the audience into a far more empathetic seat. We've all had moments where things seem to fall apart before we even began to get used to the idea that they were there in the first place. Just as picking up a book can capture a reader's heart and send the most truthful message to him or her with the gifts of literature such as The Scarlett Letter, or plays like A Streetcar Named Desire, where things don't exactly work out the way they are supposed to. The benefit of the book is that it is able to send that message as well as portray the inconveniences which society places on people like Hester, Stella, and Blanche. Perhaps a few more years of evolving films will be able to place both these honest endings and realistic scenarios as well as provide that dark emphasis on the consequences of society's rule. For now, however, I have to say that I'm proud of filmmakers for taking a step further. As M. Night Shyamalan (a very much underrated storyteller) said, "My hope is, we broke so many rules, we created a new rule."
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