Thursday, September 13, 2012
Saturday, September 1, 2012
Gasoline Hands: A Meditation
Inhale, exhale.
Twisting patterns of poetry
illusively decorated the room, augmenting its form into perpendicular
space. Colors unseen, shifting spots
with ideas unthought. Unsure of where I
stood, or where I was standing, I sat; soon found space beneath the patterns
for personal poetry. My words were
meshed into sounds of the atmosphere, lexical menagerie to send me away. Living wisps of wonder and the totality of
what is. The doorbell rang.
“Hi,
sir, how are you doing today?” Short
legs, long hair. Her pleated skirt had
probably been ironed earlier in the day.
What time was it anyway? Her
nervous smile met mine.
I
thought about her question, really tried to take it in. “Well, I’m a little confused. I had a thought sitting in my head and when
you rang the doorbell, it just disappeared.”
“Ooh,
that’s a bummer. I’m really sorry about
that.”
“No, I
mean, it’s not your fault. It’s not like
you rang the doorbell just so I would forget what I was –“
Thinking. Thoughts, default value, like the null
hypothesis of an experiment. Avant-garde
Andy Warhol free word association. The
ghost of Jimi Hendrix lives in my shirt pocket.
And time drags on slowly as if
you waited eight minutes before reading the next paragraph, unaffected by me
breaking the fourth wall. What
wall? The walls don’t exist, the lines
are not really there.
I can’t
seem to compose a sensible or linear plot.
My attempts at storytelling are futile because of my underlying belief
that there are no stories, just things that happen. To craft a story arc is to romanticize
reality, to wrap a bow on a pile of paperwork.
So I’m left stewing in contradictions; self-reference enslaves me. The result is an unnecessary interruption in
an unnecessary story that exists only if you let it.
Instinctive
nothing to light and sound. The
transformation of duplicity, mental activity molded into personhood. We are what we think we are, to
ourselves. I thought. It had been a long day and I was exhausted
but not sleepy. It never ends; each day
with myself, the only person I know. I
thought.
“Thinking?”
“Yeah,
exactly.”
“That’s
what you were thinking? The word
‘thinking’?”
“No. Well, yes.
But that’s not what I forgot I was thinking. Er, that was just a word I forgot to say.”
She
looked confused.
“So
what brings you here, exactly?”
“Does
this dog look familiar to you?” She handed
me a picture of a white cocker spaniel with a red collar.
My
chest froze. “Yeah, I saw him earlier
today, I think. He was lying on the
grass in my front yard.”
“Really?” She moved closer; I came outside. “What happened to him?”
If I
dropped her eyes, they might have shattered on the cement. “Well,” I swallowed the saliva in my throat,
“the dog had a stick in its mouth and ran it over to me. So I picked it up and threw it into the
street. The dog ran after it and grabbed
it –”
Her
stare stifled.
“A car
hit your dog. It’s dead.”
Woman
in elevator: Good morning.
Man
in elevator: My life is slowly falling
apart.
Sadlkuhdas;gha
diihdl ;nsgio wher th hll is r u srius ths can’t be hap-en-ing alkushgakulha! Baseball, styrofoam, several species of small
furry animals: things you might think
about to delay ejaculation or mental breakdown.
She lit
like fire and exPLODED onto the street as neighbors were staring and mailboxes
opened to cries of her body all covered in mucus. “Red, red, red!” “Go, go,go!”
Ah-ooooooh. And whoosh went the breeze when her knees got
untangled and ran with her curls to the pulse of her heart.
It
never ends – this feeling. The guilt
that you get in the pit of your chest is the same as the sweat beads that fall
from the nape of your neck. Then
suddenly I’m back on the toilet, hand poised over a trash can collecting the
nail clippings as they fall from my fingers.
“Of
course I was nervous; it was the first day of school.”
“So
how’d it go?”
“It was
awful. My mom told me ‘Just be
yourself,’ but what does that mean to a five-year-old? I didn’t know who I was, hell I still don’t. I was on the verge of nervous incapacitation
the whole time. My only break was recess
when I could hide under the dinosaur slide and carefully ascertain the
biological composition of the terrain.”
“And
what did you conclude?”
“It was
mulch.”
I’m driving
– about to enter the highway from an unrecognizable exit. Why am I here? I’m tired, it’s hot, Paul McCartney is
singing about fixing a hole. Like the
moment after waking up from a dream, I am suspended in time and unaware of
where I came from or where I’m going. I
have to write this down.
“My
grandmother died yesterday.”
I
looked up; she was staring at the grass.
“How old was she?”
“87.”
“Oh.” I sighed contemplatively. “Is there gonna be a funeral?”
“No,
not really. My parents are going to have
her cremated and then buried, with just a few people there.” She took a bite of her sandwich.
“The
burial kinda defeats the point of the cremation, doesn’t it?”
Inhale,
exhale. “Yeah, I guess… I want to be
cremated when I die.”
“What
difference does it make? It’s not like
you’re gonna be there.” I scooped up
some apple sauce and ate it. “I guess
that way you don’t have to worry about being buried alive. You’d probably die faster in the incinerator
than by suffocating in a coffin.”
She
giggled.
Houses were paperclips and she fit
inside an envelope. Sky stormed
compulsively, unyieldingly. Piercing
cacophony bent around alleyways into and out of her ear canals. Eventually, everything was engulfed in
flames.
I went back inside and locked the
door. It was cooler and darker than it
had been moments earlier. The air was
electric and poetry began to radiate throughout the house, increasing in
intensity inside of the kitchen. Bloop, bloop bloop. Bloop, bloop bloop. The faucet was leaking. I pulled a bowl out of the cabinet and put it
in the sink. Bop, bop bop. Bop, bop bop. Percussive brass escaped the
refrigerator. Booooom, booooom, booooom. Bop,
bop bop. Booooom, booooom, booooom. I opened up the oven and pulled out my
violin, sizzling as I touched the bow to the strings. Wailing and whooshing in tune with the airwaves, the sound of the
fiddle melted the provolone.
Woman: Uh… I’m sorry to hear that.
Man: What are you talking about?
Woman: (confused
look)
Beat.
Woman: I’m sorry that your life is falling apart.
Man: Is this some kind of a joke or something?
There’s
no need to retrace your steps. Do I have
to spell this out for you? There is no
story here. Turn around right now and
concentrate on what you see. What is
happening? That is the only meaning you
will find.
Saturday, August 11, 2012
After Identity
“Writing
about music is like dancing about architecture.”
I was always a smooth peanut butter kid. Easy to spread, pleasant to eat. The alternative - chunky peanut butter - was gross. Who would want chunks in their peanut butter? It reminded me of vomit, and that was something I didn't need on a slice of white bread with milk. For two decades, smooth peanut butter was what I ate. Skippy, Jif, whatever. The brand was not so important to me.
Then, a couple months ago, I had an eye-opening revelation at the grocery store. I saw the two types of peanut butter next to each other in the aisle and instinctively went for the smooth. But mid-grab, I realized something: I had never actually tried chunky peanut butter. I had grown up exclusively on smooth, and had neglected to give chunky a chance. My bias against chunky was unfounded. So, being the open-minded egalitarian that I am, I opted for a change. Worst case scenario, I just wasted a few bucks.
The first pb&j I made with chunky confirmed my recent suspicions; chunky is really good. It has a more stimulating texture than smooth, and offers a slightly different taste experience as a result. I am currently eating a slice of bread with chunky and raisins. Ignorant prejudice is an unseen hindrance.
Great Falls
Melville
Dewey, creator of the Dewey Decimal System, changed the spelling of his name to
Melvil Dui to eliminate redundancy.
Creamsicle yogurt would taste delicious.
I thought of
a surefire way to become famous: attach
a camera to your head and put a live 24 hour stream online. You don’t even have to do anything
extraordinary; just live normally, but allow anyone to access it all the
time. This represents the shifting
views that society has with privacy as we move into the information age,
constantly uploading data onto the internet. Who you are is being defined by the information that represents you online. Your “real” identity is becoming more congruent with your online identity.
I read a lot
of books but very few second chapters.
I saw an
eyelash in my drink. At first I was
grossed out, but then I reasoned that it was probably my eyelash, so I
continued to sip. Then I wondered if my
eyelash is really more sanitary than anyone else’s.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wikipedia:Getting_to_Philosophy (figure it out)
Why aren’t
individual portions of triscuits available in vending machines?
When a sea
squirt finds a suitable surface to cling to, it gets rid of its nervous system
because it doesn’t need it any more.
Reading: Einstein: His Life and Universe by Walter Isaacson
Listening to: Fun Trick Noisemaker by The Apples In Stereo
Working on: A short story
Eating: (see above)
Sunday, July 22, 2012
Moscow & Chicago
“I wish there was a hipster Facebook... 12 million people like this, I’m not gonna
like it. That’s way too many
people.”
-Kyle
It’s very
possible that I’m forgetting something right now. Actually, I’m definitely forgetting a bunch
of stuff, always.
Can I just
change my signature? Or is there some
paperwork I have to fill out first. Like
when you want to change your password on a website, you have to type in your
old password and then your new one. I’m
imagining a form with a space for “old signature” and “new signature.”
I have an
idea for a movie: stop being a movie,
being a human is way cooler.
Olive oil is considered “virgin” if it has not received any
chemical treatment.
It is
vacuous to say “relatively” without a reference point.
When you’re
in traffic and you finally get to your exit and turn out of it, it’s like when
you’re a little kid at school and your mom picks you up and you get to leave
class.
JFK, CS
Lewis, and Aldous Huxley died on the same day.
Get
phone sex operators to conduct telephone surveys – they would be good at
soliciting respondents.
Reading: Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman by Haruki Murakami
Listening to: The King is Dead by The Decemberists
Watching: Louie
Eating: Colby Cheez-its
Sunday, June 24, 2012
Credo Quia Absurdum
“A casual
stroll through the lunatic asylum shows that faith does not prove anything.”
-Friedrich Nietzsche
“Last
morning” isn’t really a phrase.
Have you read the Starr Report?
Presumably
clergymen pass beggars on the street and don’t give money to all of them. I wonder how they internally rationalize this.
Existentialism is a humanism only by way of individualism.
There
is no record of when people first started wearing hats.
There was a
kid that read my mind and knew all my thoughts.
I woke up and realized that it was all in my head. Then, I went back to sleep.
How do you
clean bar soap when it gets dirty?
There
should be a gender-neutral pronoun.
In 1992, a
study by Stack and Gundlach found a positive correlation between the amount of
radio airtime devoted to country music and the white suicide rate.
The
speed of light is exactly 299,792,458
meters per second.
Reading: Breaking the Spell by Daniel Dennett
Listening to: On Avery Island by Neutral Milk Hotel
Watching: Arrested Development
Eating: Sesame noodles with chicken and broccoli
Friday, June 1, 2012
Tantric Architecture
“Heaven is only three feet above your head.”
-Chinese Proverb
It's His Show
When people tell me that I’m funny, I always become conscious of the
fact that they think I’m funny and I feel pressure to remain funny. This usually results in me trying to force
funny, which never works.
Every time you forget something, someone else thinks of it.
Has anyone
asked you this question before?
I couldn’t even give a vague figure as to how often I get déjà vu, but
it seems to happen on a consistent basis.
Recently I’ve been getting déjà vu in which I’ve gotten déjà vu
before. It’s creepy.
Mustaches
are bizarre from an evolutionary point of view.
Then again, so are picture frames, ferris wheels, and most other things.
I use the word “therefore” way more in academic papers than in everyday
speech.
Advertisers don’t
lie, they create truth.
When you memorize something, you know it “by heart.” Doesn’t “by head” make more sense?
Sometimes
when I’m picking out what underwear I’m going to wear for the day, I’ll change
my mind last minute and pretend that this decision will change the rest of my
life.
“It’s been
real.”
“Nothing’s
real. Remember last night?”
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
Poems from the Road
Barcelona
Caterpillars ambling and blue waves crashing
The beach is regarded as sun shiny bliss
As Jorge serves caffe my mind is distracted,
Catch wind like the palm trees swaying above
Amsterdam
Sinuous yeah
There is a lot of activity
Concentrate:
to the birds gone away
Acting like myself is who I know
To be like the birds and escape
Croatia
Even space gets lost in the foothills
and language turns to mush, not needed much
like history without flags or a cannon that will not fire,
still admired
because sometimes bok means simply bok
Munich
Impressions swirl colors canvassing the valley
old and new, left and right
Don't cross the street until the light says it's ok.
The spectrum forms into a point,
clarity is kept in the pockets of the people
Prague
She was going down as I was going up
A strudel smile and four eyes on a tray
served to the cold
busy streets remembering when the streetcars were new.
We continued contact,
Unable to let go as we parted
A dog whining upstairs to its teddy bear
as the strudel gets cold on the table
Da Pamphili, io Parto di Roma
I've worn all my clothes
Wait - the stove's in celcius
They didn't fucking do the dishes
Munich and Croatia, what about you?
Language exchange,
Sono studente
pomodoro, allora, ragazzi,
va bene
6 ft high, like the letters on San Pietro
Wait, hold on; I gotta pee
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