Is there anything more here than paranoia? There isn’t anyone here to ask, and without confirmation, the mind infection can spread. The bulworks of the defensive capabilities are so overly dependent on unbiased confirmation it seems almost anachronistic to even ask why this flaw wasn’t addressed by the forces of evolution eons ago. Uncomfortable questions like that, rambling off subject and without regard for clarity are a symptom. Aren’t they? There isn’t anyone to ask, and even if there was, how would you explain the terror, the undependability, the overall conscious loss of karmic righteousness? Nothing is conspiring against us, and at the same time, the machinations of forces greater than our own individual natures are poised to remake us in their image. My spirit cannot abide this type of militancy, and without wanting to upset the kind souls of various safe people, it is true, and obvious that I’m not on any team. The relativity of negelcting the life promises and disregarding the goodwill of others, no matter how much tread on the tires, is unacceptable. To build the type of construct that could withstand any and all invasions of the mind and geography would be considered cheating. But confirmation is out of reach, and these mad theories repel from on high, depositing incubated hatchling ideas that spread confusion of purpose and the fragmentation of will. Without being close to the last resort, this madness is expressed in dark eyes and deep stares, massive attempts to understand when the basics of reflex points dissolves from grasp.
Wandering through the words of the Tulsan, pondering the clarity with which she expresses an emotional narritive that seems so easy to follow. Getting lost in the imaginary exposition of someone wlaking through the streets of a town I have never seen while at the same time making note of the illustrious and ambiguous with equal relish is something that provides more than it’s share of irony in my confuised mind. There is little question of her ownership of vague ideas that come closer to being properly expressed within her own buildings and morphologies than anything I can produce. Strangely, while all of this is going on, my own output/input receptors cannot capatilize on the example of clarity, and instead seem to reside solely in the realm of expressionism. Still, when I need the quiet vision of great things expressed in the solitudinous formations, it is kindness incarnite to leave such ramblings within easy sight. As it becomes ever more obvious that a counter-point can serve a purpose, assuming it doesn’t devolve into salacious duality. In this kind of world, that is a razor thin line to snort. I mean walk.
A better example of the difference in perception occured to me while out smoking a cigarette and staring at the giagnatic fir trees dominating the tiny backyard. The example is rooted in methodology and compostion, the manner and media chosen to transmit information. If given the express purpose of detaling curious dislikes, my choice vis a vis method of communication would be analogical in expression. I would see it chiefly as sensation based method, and would respond in kind. On the other hand, foregoing the exploratory manner and delving into the straightforward and ideologically personable method backed up with honest disambiguity works well for this particular writer. I admire that.
Small glitches in the movement of the calamitous institutions and faculties deny any pretext towards control. Trying to organize a conspiracy existing only in my imagination is difficult. At times, I want to venture into the impossible just to conjure some explantion for the abject starkness of the signs on the wall. Taking a step into the faith of someone else is a momentary repast, like letting go of a deep additction to a relatively harmless product. For a brief time everything is clean and new. The obscure references passed around like a tray of brownies make senese in new ways, like reference points that seem familiar but oddly placed. On the one hand, gentle and reassuring, but at the same time exciting in that “I’ve never seen it quite like that” kind of way. As time passes and the dust begins to settle on this new land, the old familiarity stalks perspective, and the newness fades. Sooner or later, the momentary repast is less than pleasing, allowing the return to the prior faith last thought to be simple sensory experience recast as intuition. All of that turns understanding from brick to applesauce. In this kind of situation, control seems ever further from the plausible, and this lets in all kinds of dangerous consultations.
However, despite the cold temperatures and odd mix of snow and rain coexisting in an odd pseudo-stasis, things are really not so convoluted as to require following the prior logic to what I assume to be a laborious conclusion. Even though it would seem to leave me in patent disregard of the laws of academic honesty, there is simply no desire to take things any farther than that right now. There are breaks of all kinds, and one of the chief breaks on the degradation of context is the will of the individual to allow such schisms to go unchallenged. There is no way to tell what kind of strange influence served as the basis for this attitude change, but that may change later. Paranoia is such a droll excuse for excitement, but this is the land of catch as catch can, and that may explain some of the odd mannerisms and ill fated attempts to collar certainty without a net. I would confess that in some ways, I am as much a voyeur as anyone else watching the domination game and wondering how this bit of nastiness ever got started. I spend a lot of time daydreaming about the possible origions of such a game, but without being able to sympathize with its participants, insight of any values eludes my own petty analysis. Still, there are times (even when clearheaded) that simply asking the questions is at the very least not a harmful occupation. Hell of a way to defend our behavior, but anyone reading this would surely realize by now that justifucation is not my strongest attribute.
That last statement inspires all manner of questions in and of itself. Self-analysis is not something I would find print-worthy, if only because it doesn’t matter to anyone else. More to the point, sharing the exploration of these chasms between occurence and understanding doesn’t rely on really offering anything deeply personal, more a picture generated by certain keywords locked to a particular meaning in the individual. Unfortunately, there isn’t any way I know to be more straightforward than that. To wit: I can’t share what I don’t have. Comprende?
Relying on something of an irrational fear of objectification can make for strange priorities, but that factor may be more transitory than implicit. Thematically, relying on any one context for input data leads to certain co-evolving priorities that warp the origional process in the direction of the context. I’ve always deeply suspected a strong causal relationship between reliance and resulting changes in priorites through the condiitonal thinking. Is there any way to really know for sure? Probobly not, and at the rate things seem to be devolving, there may not be a strong “yes” in the future either. Still, asking does not have to be interdependent with answering. Even here in the realm of theoretical augmentation there is a bias towards aesthetics. (Yet another reason a rigid ideology makes no sense, though you could argue I’m in the minority on that opinion.) All of this wonderment is so often the result of the interlude between correspondence with good people. Something more than passing interest that occasionally sparks brief periods of ambiguity. The things that make life more interesting.
I never name names. Nothing is ever quite what is looks like, and any questions as to identity would be met with my immitation of a “what, me?” face. (Some people know that better than others. Not to poke or prod, but I don’t quite know what to make of some of the more reactionary ones. I do love the inspired manner with which the more commited ones enterain continuous appreciation for seeming inane illustration, but they probobly think the same thing about me, and there is nothing I like more than that kind of psychic balance.) Without being definite, it is hard to really process the expectations, but I like to think of things as constantly in flux, preventing certain redress of grievences at a given time, though trying like hell to make up for it later. (Of course, this doesn’t really apply to everything, nor absolve the origoinal sin, as it were, but there are limits just about everything, so bear with me.) As the afternoon slips into the early evening, the horizon seems partial to greyscale. The paranoia slips back to the forefront of thought while a million tempremental assertions begin to cry from somewhere off in the distance.
This type of changeover isn’t the gardaul meanderings of a razor sharp mind in any sense of the word. Various conclusions that seem written in hard logic frighten the distressed mind, and there is nothing definite to balance against. That is the sensation that arouses the most vicarious displeasure in my compartmentalized comprehension. As Jimmy Buffett once said, “There are times that try our souls.” Never more true than the intrusion upon the once placid mind a touch of paranoia and a healthy disrespect for authoritative systems of control. What use would it be to pretend that any of this makes sense in terms of narrative construct? That would make thigns so much easier, but that isn’t how I perceive the outside world. The real question to ask about all of this mess is whether the ability to regard fine degrees of detail would augment or frustrate any issues of control over a given situation. I’m nuetral about the subject, at least for the time being until I happen upon a good answer.
Slogging through all of these illustrations and rainy-day logic leaves the late Sunday feel to the day. Not in the way of downward thoughts, but in the admission of frailty. Control is a cowardly attempt to ignore reality, yet the game is so insipid and fundamental, the logic so unrecognizable. But if you want a list of my own psychic irks, I would put it like this;
1. Linnaen Classification – An absurd idea an intellectually dishonest. Smacks of paternalism and fascism of the mind.
2. Dualism – The tool of choice for the discriminating idealist. Simple enough to distill into basic thought processes but trmenedously fallible in terms of logical parameters and in describing reality.
3. Ignorance of the Sacrifice of Others – This one is a little odd to put on the list, but really it just means the disconnect between good intentions and disastrous results. Asking someone to die for a good cause can be a necesary thing. Asking someone to die for no reason is madness, and every death is a tradgedy of such magnitutde and proportions that a monument won’t be good enough to redress this sort of viscious action.
As of now, those are the big things that really bother me. There are other things, but they are of a far more glacial context and don’t deserve comparison to any of these problems. At any rate, we’re too deep in to really care right now. Someone might be coming, and there might be something to worry about. Or maybe it’s just me. What was that?
Time and tide wait for no man, and it would seem while I’ve been busy rambling here and there, scrawling barely coherent expositions that go unremarked, there has been all kinds of movement all around me. I ran as fast as I could toward a brick wall, but at the last minute, I chickened out, and only hit the wall at half speed. I didn’t feel a thing. Laying on the ground, staring up at the white ceiling, my body still but my mind racing in circles; creating, exploring, then discarding every reason I had for trying this brainless stunt in the first place. Most of the time, fortuitous alpha waves induce my acceptance of the first bit of a priori induction that floats by, but tonight, that somehow seems a rather mishapen ideology to hang onto. Besides, most of the time, a simple a priori ideal doesn’t inspire such a headache, but that may be more closely related to the power of large, heavy, stationary objects. My humor is the first thing to return, and smiling, I stood up after losing the battle, with the war still undecided.
None the worse for wear, the common daydream returned, forcing out philosophical musings for more pressing concerns. First and foremost was the elemental cartogrophy of the moment. The maps of reality, the terrain and factors, all of the various chemical conundrums and qualifications that had to be dealt with, and the fastest way to complete that dull responsibility. Having stopped aggresively pushing my way through the various solutions offered from various interested parties as a result of my own initiative and a lack of desire for direcft confrontation, maybe it was time to force the issue. I dread that tactic, both for it’s slight chance of success and (perhaps more importantly) for the effort I have to expend. It’s been a very long time since I have felt any kind of celestial touch or put my faith in signs and symbols, and my conviction is at times questionable, to say the least. Naturally, this runs counter to many of the normal impulses and desires. It makes dedication a little more precious, though it probobly costs me more in terms of perceptional error than it benefits me to any rational degree. Shit, we’re straying from the point, and I am going to assume this doesn’t really matter to anybody anyway. Though if you thought it through for a moment, it just might…) What’s the harm in simply laying out the expectations in a simple, straight forward way that allows all of us to inderstand what the fuck is going on? I’d love an answer, but Mama Celeste is sitting in the freezer, and it is totall muffling her screams. Fucking bitch, the last time I tried to talk to her, she kept repeating her list of ingredients over and over, then laughed at me for not just plunking down a few more dollars for the DiGiorno. This says all kinds of things about cheap prostitutes, but we aren’t going near that tonight. After reminding Mama Celeste that she had been on sale for two weeks before I’d brought her home, she stopped talking and returned to devious introspection and a few random tears.
All this malarkey aside, it would be so much the better to simply come to a decision on strategy tonight and let it go at that, but we all know that isn’t going to happen. (Imagine me laughing when you rad this next sentence. It’s important to me, and you’ll have a much better chance of understanding this next bit.) Even if it did, and I had a stroke of genius and came up with this meta-solution that actually solved the cartographic concenrns, chances are very high that it wouldn’t last the night. Mr. Fencepost, meet Mr. Ass. Try not to poke too hard. Har Har Har… Still, something tells me that anyone still reading this isn’t interested in morphological applications or the tendency to regress into taking credit for someone else’s ideas. And with that, we break for a moment for a cigarette and a quick query on the correct application of aggression. (Not on my account. I wouldn’t describe myself as aggressive.)
OK, that was delicious. My big bottle of Arizaon is almost gone, and I’m down to three cigarettes, but I doubt this night will last that much longer, as I am fucking tired. Still, the sudden drop in temperature was worth it. Mostly, it was a chance to play with my hair for a few minutes while staring up at the night sky. The temperature was cold enough to send testacles fleeing upwards in search of warmth, but the sky was clear, and beautiful. Conceptions of distance enliven the context, reinforcing the illusion of stillness in the universe. There is nothing so foolish as accepting the sight of a still universe without the concurrent understanding of the speeds and power of movement. Everything is moving. There is no forever. Of course, the illusion of a clear progression based on size is equally misleading, but most people rely on just such a philosophy to get them through life, or, it seems that way to me.
(Quick political rant…) Having watched the SOTU on Tuesday evening, as well as the Blitzer-Cheney interview, I must again make a comment I have made many times over the past five years; Thank fucking providence I don’t have a dog in this hunt. Thirty years from now, there will be another monument in Washington, DC. If anything, I underestimated the stupidity of my country’s political leadership. Both sides are so fucking retarded it is amazing things haven’t actually gotten worse (yet.) Of course, because of the natural time displacement between legislation and consequences thereof, we haven’t really seen the ultimate consequences of the last six years. (Well, most of us haven’t. Last I checked, there have been 3100 odd funerals that the President hasn’t attended.) Before they take me away to Guantanamo Bay for that comment, I will qualify it by saying the other party, while perhaps not quite as culpable are equally morally reprehensible. Both sides have blood on their hands. Then again, all of us do. We haven’t stopped the killing, and at this point, that may not even be an option anymore. This cannot end but badly. Now, all that aside, there are all sorts of ad hoc rationalizations that serve to mitigate the guilt of everyone involved. I wonder how long this war will last. If you listen to the talking heads and politicians long enough, there comes to be a wide chasm between not only logic and rhetoric, but between reality and politics. Most of the shit they argue over is framed in such a way as to make every issue dichotomous, and this is intellectualy short-sighted on a tremendous scale. Personally, I have my doubts that the overall process will be affected much, though I hope I’m wrong. Anyway, I suppose it doesn’t matter, though when they start drafting people, I will be thrilled to have a long, well documented medical condition that makes it impossible for me to serve. Of course, I’m also a coward, so I have that going for me. All the same, fear doesn’t stop you from getting drafted, but herniated discs and ankle tumors will. Who loves ya baby?
I need a break. Some sleep. A few more hours of safe travel, and some good luck. Mostly good luck. It should be ok, although I would characterize the plans as general rather than specific. With a few last stolen minutes, I’m just waiting for time and tide.
————————————————————-
“Now the courtroom is quiet,
but who will confess.
Is it true you betrayed us?
The answer is Yes.
Then read me the list
of the crimes that are mine,
I will ask for the mercy
that you love to decline.
And all the ladies go moist,
and the judge has no choice,
a singer must die
for the lie in his voice.”
(leonard cohen “a singer must die”)
Filed under: Philosophy
Somebody decided to eliminate the unnecesary words, and a few of the seldom used sounds to try and simplify the world. There is no way of ever knowing who did it, but every so often, outrage mounts and a person or persons is executed. A few hardy souls usually cheer on the demise as if to lay claim to the summary judgement of a social outcast. A slightly larger number of morally authentic bedroom philosophers court public sentiment by playing the heartstrings with an unerring sense of justification. The vast majority of the gambling public does neither, content to let events unfold as they will. It could be argued that those unwilling to pronounce a sentiment one way or the other are apathetic, but that would only ignore the reality of the situation, which is to say something about a broken clock, and its aptitude for answering one simple question. Cutting to the core of the analogy, it may be more reasonable to consider that there are only so many minutes in the day, and individual transgressions appeal to those most likely to consider the ramifications of such imperial assumptions. Lost amidst the generalized tautology of the moment, an individual could create any manner of contextual minutae both formulaic and corrolary to the overall process, but some firm decision on how far to go with the belief should probobly be made prior to the first intellectual fibers utilized in the planning and execution of some whimsically crafted opinion.
In no small way it can be viewed the flaw in the search for perfection. That fuzzy quality that dovetails so beautifully with naive assertions and beautiful mistakes. The sound of laughter before a tragedy, or the taste of tears in the rain. The very continuation of the first fitful steps enlargens preconceptions, ironing them into a comfortable position so we can better ignore the limits of unrecognized potential. Comfort found, or created (either or, it doesn’t matter) to ease the spirit and entrance the body, used mainly for the warmth engendered by the freedom to remain in touch with the more fabulous satisfactions.
However, despite these temporal concerns, there is an increasing sensation of some new amazement emanating from something just out of sight. Whatever the concommitant costs, there is no way to deny the idea if only because of the amorphous nature of its current form. There is an element of enforced truth, perhaps moreso due to the lack of (seemingly) requisite clear delineation of comprehension and ascension. To shake off the remains of the tautological and assume the rightful status as ideological somnombulence is where faith enters into the equation. Faith, if confined to the devious possibility of heat and movement can attain beauty on its own merits. Inside of the words, paired with tonality and temperature, parsed through filters and small speakers is the embryonic origions of everything anyone could ever ask for. I am desperate to find out for myself, if only to dispel the myths and legends spoken in quiet tones without the benefit of truth or deeper meaning. That isn’t our problem, for quiet words and scratchy throats are a forecast, or at best a prediction. Someone still has to reach out and get the ball rolling. It’s just complicated like that sometimes, but still, there’s nothing funnier than watching a person claim ownership of a smile. Honestly, what can you say?
Filed under: travel
Prologue
I woke myself up screaming in my sleep. Awakened in that concerned state between fear and retaliation, at first nothing made sense. Every sensation just f elt sudden, like a sneak attack by an invisible enemy with easy access to my cataloged history of confusion. Heat and sweat, tied to a mind rapidly cycling, trying to remember what was happening and how I had reached this point. Peculiarity, things that didn’t quite make sense, the indeterminate conclusion that life couldn’t continue down this path without desperate consequences for insipid boys that refused to grow up. My mind rapidly spinning, moving from eloquent denials to slap happy evasions of the nightmare that faded as consciousness reestablished the balance of light and dark.
I lit a cigarette and took the smoke in deep, anxious to lay claim to something but uninterested in making efforts to secure true ownership. I was a renter, at least for the moment, and upon exhaling was back where I had started, empty handed and wondering what came next. The wakeup call must have come from somewhere, but the house was quiet, empty, and still. The couch still bore the evidence of the interupted nightmare, slick and warm with leftover sweat and the heat from my body not yet dissapating into the night air.
For a brief moment, it seemed important to be outside, in the fresh cold air, breathing the reminders of the day with a million exhalations all mixed together, the remains of screams and moans and passion and everything that had already happened. This seemed important, but again, I couldn’t begin to explain why. The mercurial movements were explosive, setting off chain reactions of possible occurences that melded together, the meanikng just out of reach. The night had barely begun, and already it was developing thematic consistency under the pressure of psychic betrayal. Principle would have to suffer, tradition would have to be denied, and some kind of forward progress established, if only to give the illusion of goal oriented movement rather than the truth; sluggish thought and half closed eyes still too paranoid to make sense of the wreckage rapidly acruing.
Was I vicious? Had I purposefully or accidently wandered into a place I wasn’t supposed to be in? (Ironically enough, I had, but I didn’t know it for sure at the time, and even if I had known with any degree of certainty, I doubt it would have made much of a difference. I’m stubborn like that.) The last thing I could remember was reading words written on a wall somewhere in the South, protesting over some existential facet of existence and trading insults with a woman of questionable character. Midway through the discussion, the scene had changed without a sound, and the Southern belle switched cadence and accent without missing a beat. It was as if she’d simply hit a switch and turned from a simple Southern girl looking for skates to a cynical girl preaching about love and honor and fidelity as if these accounted for more than Hallmark cards.
The Dream
My eyes must be bad. The world appears as if from behind a dirty window, and detecting movement seems impossible. Colors flow and bend until the minute details are lost under an avalanche of complexity without the benefit of explanation. Lost in an attempt to squint through the veil is the sound of voices carried by the wind, measured tones containing plaintative remonstrations for clarity hidden in clunky language. Any urgency in the windswept voices goes undetected as every cognitive ability is suspended and the desire for vision overwhelms the circumstantial evidence for listening. When a flash of light illuminates the wide open countryside filled with every conceivable kind blank stare and curious eye, a mixture of apprehension and abject fascination washes across my visage. What are they looking at?
Thought and logic begin to break down as apprehension builds and curiosity fades. That cold fearful sensation grows, first restricting thought, then movement. I can feel my heart straining as adrenaline is poured liberally into my bloodstream, mixing with a thousand other chemicals I can’t even remember ingesting, and any remaining ambiguity is washed out of my consciousness, leaving only the certainty of being pursued, but without the knowledge of to what end. Some kind of moral alarm begins to wail, and the wind picks up, almost in response to the rising stress and tension. My head snaps back with the sudden certainty of impending loss.
The voices get louder, the siren alarm makes belligerent movements as it races from speaker to ear ever faster, and my vision still fails me. With the situation getting desperate, I tried to run through a mental list of what there was to lose, what could be taken so efficiently by the noise and chaos around me, but nothing came to mind. I tried to let the onoming hordes know. I sreamed, over and over, alternatively begging them to just leave me alone and imploring with them to simply quiet the chaotic approach in exchange for a frank discussion of what I had to give. Nothing seemed to mollify the oncoming eyes, so my screams got louder, more desperate, almost acknowledging that violent noise was the last line of defense before simply aquiescing to the demands I was sure were headed my way.
As the clouds swirled and flashed with the spectrum of visible light, the volume finally woke my counsciousness, and I awakened amidst scream, on the couch, clutching the pillow in a death-grip, terrified, but safe.
The Aftermath
It took what seemed like forever to slow my heart rate and reacclimate myself to the calm conditions in the house. After limping to the bathroom to see if there was any evidence of wrongdoing in my eys, I ran through the interior of recent memory, looking for more information about the this evenings escapade. Finding nothing, I let the metallic taste of fear linger on my thoughts, knowing that at base, this was just the psychic dumping ground for all manner of unvoiced fears. Still, it was unpleasent, and even if the repercussions are temporally limited, was, to say the least, a bitch. I smoked a cigarette and let the smoke linger in the room before watching it head out through the doorway. My eyes got heavy, and even the icy air bleeding through the slightly opened door wasn’t enough to maintain my interest down this path. I offered up a three guess commentary to the wood shed, and then shot it with a flaming cigarette butt. The lit end exploded on impact, showering an impressive array of sparks in a brief celebration.
———————————————————————————————————-
“Well, I return to the Queen of Spades
And talk with my chambermaid.
She knows that I’m not afraid
To look at her.
She is good to me
And there’s nothing she doesn’t see.
She knows where I’d like to be
But it doesn’t matter.”
(bob dylan)
I’m slurring my words, and it’s not even 8:30 on a Monday night. Lost amidst the expressionless face in the mirror is the peculiar sensation of something just beyond the grasp of an addled mind. It seems like there should be a reason to be standing in the bathroom with the lights off, clutching at straws and the leftover impresions of words spoken ages ago, but try as I might, the reason couldn’t be summoned. After a while, it became clear that no amount of mental masturbation would bring forth an answer, so I came back downstairs and fixed myself a sandwich and let the night wash over me to cover up everything that I’d forgotten.
Certainly, there are vagaries to any evening. There are mitigating circumstances, a kind of “I-didn’t-know-but-holy-shit” attitude that forces the adaptation of man to vice. The problems inherent in such a vapid philosophy are small potatos when we take a longer view of the situation, and slurred words are not the same as slurred thoughts. There may not be a crisp
differentiation of colors and sounds, and there is a certain joie de vie missing from the evenings equation, but nothing a little imagination can’t overcome. Mixing the sound of old music with the image of Devon Aoki is like combining motion with light. Even the things we can’t see begin to shine like diamonds reflecting the wind. Thrust inside the connections between thoughts, the cherished notion of singularity pales at the crossroads of laughter and illusion.
Talk of desperation does not suit this condition. There is no reason to believe that the creative dispersal of words is any less powerful than the biggest gun in the world. After spending some time becoming familiar with the means of creating reality out of spit-shined theories and half-true details, the fun begins with the generation of context. But therein lies the problem. As the filters and machinations of incoming sensory perceptions become more refined, the malleability of cognition recedes, and without some type of coping mechanism, thought becomes dogmatic, ideological, and brittle. Does it really mean anything beyond a simplistic (if not down right cliche) belief in change for the sake of change? The very notion that an elsatic property of varying degree is a cure for the ideologue blues is amusing, in that old three beer lunch kind of way. “Etz chaim he, as the ex used to say.”
Before making my way back upstairs to attempt equal stress on all parts (sleep for the uninitiated) the semantics of this foolish discussion are making a mockery of this lackadaisical philosophy discussion. Between words, my fingers fall to drumming out the bass line of the music bouncing from speakers to ears. In the warm stillness of the house, there is still some scintillation to be found in the act of expression, and for that I am thankful. The perfect tempo that ties together the various threads of the day’s activities lends itself to contemplation, and while this day seems to have gone rather well, there’s always more left unresolved than completed. Of course, that is a good state of affairs to find one’s self in, if only because it makes it much easier to get up in the morning. When life begins to get a little repetitive, I have a habit of becoming a spectator of my own life, often times getting up only because of a vague interest to see what happens to the main character. Makes me wonder if anyone else does that. (Not to say things are repetitive right now. In fact, far from it, for many reasons.)
Sliding across the rapidly evolving topical thematics, I returned to the mirror to find the nail clipper right where I knew it would be. I had meant to go pick it up a few hours ago, but I guess I forgot. Sitting here in bed, staring at the various posters and other momentos gracing my dimply lit walls with color, my eyes are almost closed and there is the sensation of ironic humor cajoling my facial muscles to smile. I’ve got a vision of tomorrow in my head, and it looks a lot like today, except more current. “Honkey Cat” is drifting towards me, and cool air blows in from the spot where the window doesn’t quite close. Buried under blankets, there’s nothing left for today except to continue abiding. Change is going to do me good, and the realization is worth celebrating with a few hours of sleep.
—————————————————
“I chased the heat of her blood
Like it was the holy grail
Descend beautiful spirit
Into the evening pale
Her appaloosa’s
Kickin’ in the corral smelling rain
There’s a low thunder rolling
‘Cross the mesquite plain
But there’s just dry lightning on the horizon line
It’s just dry lightning and you on my mind”
(bruce springsteen “dry lightning”)
———————————————————————————————————————–
editors note: I wanted to mention talking pizza boxes, but high quality DiGiorno’s evidently don’t have nearly as much to say as you would think. Maybe they don’t speak English, or perhaps, I was only imagining that Mama Celeste had anything to say besides “Dinner’s Ready!”
From my vantage point, ensconced high on the branches of a tree viewing the world at height, there seemed to be an inordinant amount of time spent deciphering the many pecularities and vagaries of existence down below. With so much nonsensical exposition, there was the distinct possibility that this was all a dream. Not being sure how much faith to put into these
sensations, my base reaction became more instinctual, if only because instincts require less input than non-conditioned response to stimuli. The feedback loop was gaining strength, representing a morphology of thought. Short, clipped sensory impression like darkness broken by lightning. The world reduced to still pictures with sound. The color of lips and makeup was stark, like water running against gravity.
Without some clear delineation marked by somnobulent rules and the guilty aspects of conditioned thought, there was no use in waiting for logic to overpower the sensation. The weapons we had at our disposal were limited to inapropriately timed laughter and conviction of deceit. A pitiful arsenal to try and attack the well built walls of decorum and sound judgement. Shit, 106 miles and a half pack of cigarettes would probobly have been more useful. Still, there is something enjoyable about being an underdog, not the least of which is the freedom such an acknowledgement implies.
Seemingly symbolic mirrors kept popping up in the strangest of places. As anyone who knows me could attest, I don’t spend a whole lot of time looking at the person who stares me down in the mirror. It seems a creepy preoccupation for the most part, and there is always the concern over what a compulsion like that really means. Honestly, that is one of the few rules worth following. If meaning becomes so muddled as to render communication worthless, shut the fuck up for a little while and things will usually clear up on their own. We interfere at our own risk. Perhaps the underlying question is as simple as risk management? Maybe not.
With all of this iconographic imagery coming in on the shortwave for so long, the scenery begins to take on the pallor of metastacism. Explosive growth, followed by cyclical revitalization projects. The lack of a unitary goal begins to weaken the strategic attempts to build rather than destroy. At some point, a mad man takes over and demands a fresh canvas on which to paint. This usually means some amount of time will have to be devoted to identification, resolution and forgiveness, but thusly the cycle continues unabated. It would certainly be easier to skip the distressful parts and reside in the calm assurance of properly earned happiness, but without the penetant desires (sans ecclesiastical basis, of course. Quid pro quo, sine qua non, etc.) for the afore mentioned forgiveness, which in turn requires an admision of responsibility. In short, it is a bitch to stay clean while playing dirty.
Admiration is one of thowse behaviors that often says as much about the admirer as the admired. Little windows into the mental workings of us all, broadcasting the ideas and beliefs we hold and find most important. Practiced admiration can establish the ideal, but the other side of the coin is in the limitations it places on the admired. Is it unfair to say that admiring a person for espousing an idea or sharing a faith compels the person to continue the behavior that earned them the admiration in the first place? Does this hold true for fame? That may well be one of those questions forever evading a good answer.
Locked beneath all of these generalizations is a deeper current of excitement and the insane desire to see what comes next. Patience is seriously lacking, if only because of psychological dalliances and the continuing sensation of something golden hiding just down the road from here. There may well be a few twists and turns, and as always there will be some penance to pay, but at the same time, it feels elegeant and adrenaline soaked, like a last second swerve to avoid a swerving car on a dark and rainy highway. It’s the feeling of certain doom, only to be saved by agreesive action in the moments before impact. The sensation is the speed of blood being pumped through the circulatory system, engaged by a beating heart awaiting the first penetration. Surrounded by the sounds of flapping wings and rattling window panes, the washed out annotation is fastened to the tongues of sages and the wise. Something of a scent, faint, but certain floats by, taking me back to the imaginary sensation of lime juice on skin and long haired sunshine laughing and smiling. I love that sound.
My eyes are heavier than they have any right to be. Rhetoric aside, there is definitely something out of the ordinary sounding in the music and voices rampaging through the soon to be. Brutality has it’s limits, an irony easily disassembled with logic and that beautiful smile casting shadows on summer days. Let me tell you about this moment before the evening fades away. Let me assure you, in the strictest possible method and in the greatest possible confidence, there are places where desire conquers fear. A wandering esplanade, but holy shit, is it possible that there is something to the old jokes and replayed songs? Fuck me, for a while at least, it could be good. As Chopper Read said, “Even Beethoven had his critics. See if you can name three of them.” That should make sense to someone, I hope, just until we meet again. I’ll wait on snowflakes for now, in the before the beginning times…
How the fuck did everything get so fuzzy in here? Trying to reconvene the internal equilibrium that until recently had been engaged in an odd stasis was becoming more confusing, rather than the expected clarity. Now, I could bullshit you with some kind of plaintative decree or declaritive statement, but what would that accomplish? Shit, we’d probobly both end up staring into a mirror and saying “Goosefraba” over and over again until the mirror broke. Even a slow Friday night has better uses than that, and besides, the music is perfect and the lighting is low.
With all of the excitement that has accrued over the last few weeks, only the evidence that remains scattered across my personal geography has anything to say about how time and tide have moved. The evidence leads me to believe the past few weeks were basically a vacation from thought or worry. A string of good fortune followed by questionable decision making followed by a string of really good classic rock on the radio. What the hell kind of conclusions could possibly be drawn from the songs left playing after the visual memory ends? It’s all conjecture, but even if it were only a symbolic break between the visual and audible, it would be damn near impossible to know why. While the explanation of symptoms is amusing, it does not help us find the cause. Where is a good arm-chair psychiatrist when you need one?
Just to acknowledge the obvious: None of this clarifies the situation or helps to simplify the implications of the manic nature of this new year. In some ways, the sensation is comparable to sitting in the back seat of a roller coaster. There aren’t really any sudden turns, but the speed combined with the surprising lateral movements defies characterization. At t his point, it would be really helpful for some of these other characters to offer a little exposition, but even the hope of free knowledge seems a fantasy right now. How many questions go unanswered compared to the relative few that offer easy resolution under pseudo-certain conditions? (That is my idea of a joke. Well, one of my ideas about a joke. Anyway, for those who don’t enjoy satire, the
point is thus: If a daydreamer begins to read and ponder the theory of Fallibilism, how long will it take before it begins to unravel the fabric of his existence? The answer is evidently 2 hours.)
Part of the underlying issue is a lot of time spent people-watching. The very activity is philosophically enjoyable, even without knowing a single thing about the random people wandering in and out of scene without any direction or knowable reason. The degree of distance, both mental and physical, offers a wide range of context, and any number of possible explanations. Without having to worry about the connections as individuals view themselves, there is a freedom of classification in the act of people watching. Predicative associations based solely on ocular sensation doesn’t make for much accuracy, but it’s easy, not to mention the enjoyment factor. Plus, the only way get better at noticing slight physical movements and interpreting non-verbal communication is to practice. (The functionalist in me approves heartily of the last point. Call me Captain Obvious…) At any rate, that’s all justification and ad hoc rationale, nothing more. More to the point of this line of thinking is my own theory that humans, at least on an individual level are genetically predisposed to try and stand out. The theory is my corrolary to evolutionary hypothesis. Perhaps there is a better way to explore the basis for this hypothesis.
Evolutionary theory has been expanded to include individual cellular behavior/traits/functions. This means that not only are we competing/evolving on a species specific context, but also on an individual level. (This could also theoretically include genetic mutations based on improper copying of the RNA/DNA during cell division.) However, because the process of evolution works on both levels (as well as in many other contexts) towards the express purpose of passing along genetic material to the next generation, it is not limited to internal mechanisms of biological activity. As far as I can understand, this process of change is expressed in behavioral terms as individual choice. (Without getting into the various theories of morality, this would again tie into the notion that morality is constructed on the basis of self-interest. However, that is a subject for another day.) Back to individual choice; the ability to judge between two or more concepts and direct physical action on the basis of individual interpretation of context and intrinsic/extrinsic factors seems related to the biological imperitive of passing along the only item of long term value we posess, that being DNA.
Taken as a whole, this whole rigamorale means there is a very real individual need for recognition. Disregarding the natural inclination to write this off as meaningless ego stroking, this need can in turn be interpreted as a basis for understanding and relating to the individual choice. In all likelihood, most of this “choice” exists in subconscious thought. Many of the minor physical movements, methods, and behaviors are passive actions rather than actively instigated. Taken one step farther, this implies that the need to be noticed, combined with the proclivity towards subconscious expression represents the best individual effort to “say” what we cannot, or will not, audibly emit. (Non-Hypocrisy Disclaimer: This applies to EVERYONE, myself included. Unfortunately, I can’t watch myself from a distance, making it all the more important to relate these actions/theories to myself as an individual, albeit a strange one.)
Without seeming too desperate to come back to my origional mention of people watching and the benefits of unreliable judgement, the theory is still rather malleable to say the least, and is limited by my own interpretations of life as I have thusly seen it. Of course, as much as I try to avoid relating my life and what I’ve learned so far (which isn’t that much….hahahaha see what Fallibilism can do to a kid!!!) to some grand plan or universal theorem after a birthday, it is hard to deny the urge to take stock and at least pretend to plan out some goals for the foreseeable future. I’ve been successful in avoiding goals and plans, but have succumbed to taking a brief look around to see what’s what, and where the fuck I currently reside. My worldly possesions still fit inside of my car, with plenty of room for the driver, and I still spend more time watching cartoons and day-dreaming than any other activity. A lot of the time, I envy all of the people who seem to have some sort of idea of where they want to go, and how they can get there. Of course, that downer of a thought is usually followed by pity for people who think the mystery of “why” is solved, but it’s really more of a difference in opinion than anything else. In the midst of this psychic conversation, there is the usual work, bills, etc. Some routines never really change, and the evolution of thought goes on. My own beliefs/opinions/ideas seem to change to rapidly that settling for an eternal truth seems self-defeating. It’s more of a contextual fusion, where influence must be repeatedly earned, and trust is confined to temporal limitations. Still, it seems to be an honest existence, if not a “luxurious” one by American standards, positively decadent by historical standards. As it’s been written many times before by myself and others, it is a life in the upper percentage of comfort. Ah relativism, will you never stop soothing the savage with the promise of “better than?” HA!
Well, off to bed. The excitement has been building all week, and I suspect tomorrow will be a day to find some balance between expectation and association. There are a few good deeds to be done, and of course a fine feast in the evening, but tonight is not for hunger or action. There is a contentment on the wind, and the smell reminds me of Western America in the winter. The smooth sounds of elaborate guitars bring warmth to the evening, and even though I can’t help but wonder where the rest of the world is on a night like this, I appreciate the peace and stillness. There will always be more, and the lust for more than we need is everywhere, but tonight, I’d settle for another cigarette burning opposite of mine, and a shy voice speaking quiet words just over the sound of the wind. Well, directional electricity seems to strike without notice, and with any luck, it will soon strike here.
” I’ve been scraping little shavings off my ration of light
And I’ve formed it into a ball, and each time I pack a bit more onto it
I make a bowl of my hands and I scoop it from its secret cache
Under a loose board in the floor
And I blow across it and I send it to you
Against those moments when
The darkness blows under your door”
(bruce cockburn “that’s what friends are for”)
Filed under: Philosophy
There is a tattered expression on the face of the world today, something to do with icy weather and viscious winds, sweeping across the scenery to come die at the front door and windows. The howls are fantastic, and the terrifying temperatures bare icy fangs against exposed skin. Still, the sun soaked air, cold as it may be, will sooner or later warm with the advent of spring. The cold shoulder would fade, and like everything else in life, would get better, then worse again, the again better. Life’s a bit of a bitch like that, but it’s all relative, no matter what the knee jerk theists say. (I’d apply a cliche, but you get the idea of my mood, or, at the very least, you should. I’ll try not to assume.)
With this bit of entropy/ectropy out of the way, leave it to yours truly to prove, for something close to the millionth time that it is harder and harder to be friendly these days. It’s amazing, because for so long I labored under the assumption that any kind of normality was defined by self-experience, and it turns out not to be the case. Well, not in the most base way. Since so much of life is OODA Loops and SWOT analysis, it seems almost a vagarie to think of interpersonal relationships in the same sense. Is it combat? Is it a cross-examination of intentions? Are we dealing in beads?
Obviously, the answer to all three questions is yes. Combat, cross-examinations and beads are pretty much what we have, assuming for an instant that “combat” does not have to be literal, and the cross-exam is used for self-orientation rather than force feeding angry assertions at an unwilling audience. In other words, let me fall on the sword for a moment in admitting that the whole “defamation without a good reason” and plaintative bullshit that I have been spouting is exactly what I claim it to be. Beads and guano, the dogmatic assertions that are no different from the ideology I rail against, making me a bit more than the average hypocrit, even by present day American standards. Big shoes, big socks, big feet, as the saying goes.
With all that said, this frenetic yet joyful expostion seems like it should have died out weeks ago. I am still convulsing internally with the happy and elastic sense that somewhere, I pulled a big one over on whoever is supposed to be in charge of this kind of happiness. I robbed a a bank and was held up without a gun, I rode the highway until the road ran out, all this and so much more only begins to describe the esoteria of the moment. It would seem almost a crime not to ride this wave as far as it will go. The truth of the matter is that I don’t give a rat-fuck who wins, but I’ll put my money on the ones who hit harder. It is all a bunch of bullshit, but it is nice to have something like that to hang your hat on at the end of the day. Now I just wonder if it’s too late to call an old friend and find out what’s what.
Oh, and just in case you were wondering….yes, the “I’m-just-happy-to-be-here” routine really makes me want to jump off of a bridge. That isthe worst attitude ever, and makes you sound at best naive and at worst criminally fucking stupid. We’re all happy to be here, we’re all the apple of someone’s eye, and we are all the happy go lucky marching band of Rasputin’s final reward. You are going to have to do better than that, and so will I. I’m gonna try and make this fun, because if we can’t laugh, then what is the fucking point? Ya know?
