And somehow
amid all the thankless cracks and shadows
perpetuating negative space
you remember to think of me
and memory is enough
With such contrived machinations
I manage to dream
We are ankle deep and laughing
in mud that squishes through our toes
I ask once only
Do you remember when I kissed you
and you sigh
and tell me I am a silly thing
and that's enough
In a riddle whose answer is _______
what is the only prohibited word?
So forget nothing
and only remember to think of me
and laugh when you do
if only once in awhile
and that will be enough
In which I shamelessly abuse the internet.
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
Originality
I'm going to talk about originality. It’s going to be tough- There is much hammering and power drilling and circular sawing right outside my window, which is forcing me to put music on, which plays hell with my concentration.
I think it’s fair to say that a person knows whether they are being original- let’s say in the process of creating something. When you set out to make something, I think it’s important to try to offer something that you perceive as new and interesting- I mean, one way to look at it is that people aren’t really going to pay too much attention to what you have to say (in the language of whatever medium with which you choose to express yourself) unless it’s interesting. There are lots of reasons that something might be interesting to someone, like for example it reminds them of something important they haven’t thought of for a long time or it’s just aesthetically pleasing to them, but I think a big one is that it needs to offer something new, some element of new. Either way it has to offer something worth thinking about.
SO what you are trying to do when you create something original is to catch and keep someone’s attention and ultimately have an impact on their life, which isn’t going to happen if the whole of what you’ve created doesn’t coalesce above the mean of filtered stimuli. What I mean by that is I think our brains get so much information all day long from everything we perceive that it naturally tries to process it all into either things it needs to figure out (meaning discover what its significance, relevance, and repercussions to it might be), or stuff that’s banal and can be glossed over because it’s significance etc. is already understood, and thus can be seen not as information in an of itself but more as a direct path or line leading to a predictable outcome. I see it as the same thing as learning a new instrument, for example. At first, all the notes you want on a piano are difficult to find because the sensations of touching the keys are new, of the way it feels to sit on the bench, of the way your muscles have to move and even the way the neurons in your brain have to fire to move those muscles in order to move from one note to the next, it’s all new. As you continue to practice those initial sensations get filtered out by your brain and you are free to coast right through them to the next new bit that takes your immediate attention, and you are getting better. You are LEARNDING. The more you practice the farther forward you can see- it’s like wearing a path through the weeds. You walk back and forth and back and forth, farther and farther, enhancing your awareness of what you want, which is on the other end of the path, until you can simply zone out and experience the bliss of communicating directly through music because everything in between is automatic. I think writing works this way, and so do all other forms of creativity.
I think that the focus on the immediate moment that comes from needing to pay attention to those first initial sensations always comes with learning new things. I think that living in the immediate moment stretches out time because it creates useful memories. I think most people feel like time passes by like a breeze because they don’t fill their lives up with enough interesting new things, and when they look back on their lives as older people they idealize their youth because things felt new then, and then they fell into a routine that their brain has just filtered out since then. It makes them feel desperate and dead. They crave these new things without knowing why. This is why people like stories and why people join the army. Our lives work the same way as learning the piano.
On the other hand another way to look at the question of originality is whether what is being done is a pastiche of something that has already had an impact or it has simply copied something interesting yet obscure in the hopes that the source will not be found out and associated, in which case it’s just a matter of the size of the audience. This point isn’t as fun to explore because so much of our impact in life depends on the quantity of the audience, which is sad because, like I read once in a Vonnegut essay, there are so many people in the world that are always going to be better than you at what you do, and because of the increased communication that results in modern technology, you are competing with all of them rather than finding a comfortable niche in your own beloved community.
One last thing I wanted to say about originality, is that everything may have already been done that way before in a given medium, but that doesn’t mean the medium can’t be reinvented or combined in new ways with other mediums.
Ta.
I think it’s fair to say that a person knows whether they are being original- let’s say in the process of creating something. When you set out to make something, I think it’s important to try to offer something that you perceive as new and interesting- I mean, one way to look at it is that people aren’t really going to pay too much attention to what you have to say (in the language of whatever medium with which you choose to express yourself) unless it’s interesting. There are lots of reasons that something might be interesting to someone, like for example it reminds them of something important they haven’t thought of for a long time or it’s just aesthetically pleasing to them, but I think a big one is that it needs to offer something new, some element of new. Either way it has to offer something worth thinking about.
SO what you are trying to do when you create something original is to catch and keep someone’s attention and ultimately have an impact on their life, which isn’t going to happen if the whole of what you’ve created doesn’t coalesce above the mean of filtered stimuli. What I mean by that is I think our brains get so much information all day long from everything we perceive that it naturally tries to process it all into either things it needs to figure out (meaning discover what its significance, relevance, and repercussions to it might be), or stuff that’s banal and can be glossed over because it’s significance etc. is already understood, and thus can be seen not as information in an of itself but more as a direct path or line leading to a predictable outcome. I see it as the same thing as learning a new instrument, for example. At first, all the notes you want on a piano are difficult to find because the sensations of touching the keys are new, of the way it feels to sit on the bench, of the way your muscles have to move and even the way the neurons in your brain have to fire to move those muscles in order to move from one note to the next, it’s all new. As you continue to practice those initial sensations get filtered out by your brain and you are free to coast right through them to the next new bit that takes your immediate attention, and you are getting better. You are LEARNDING. The more you practice the farther forward you can see- it’s like wearing a path through the weeds. You walk back and forth and back and forth, farther and farther, enhancing your awareness of what you want, which is on the other end of the path, until you can simply zone out and experience the bliss of communicating directly through music because everything in between is automatic. I think writing works this way, and so do all other forms of creativity.
I think that the focus on the immediate moment that comes from needing to pay attention to those first initial sensations always comes with learning new things. I think that living in the immediate moment stretches out time because it creates useful memories. I think most people feel like time passes by like a breeze because they don’t fill their lives up with enough interesting new things, and when they look back on their lives as older people they idealize their youth because things felt new then, and then they fell into a routine that their brain has just filtered out since then. It makes them feel desperate and dead. They crave these new things without knowing why. This is why people like stories and why people join the army. Our lives work the same way as learning the piano.
On the other hand another way to look at the question of originality is whether what is being done is a pastiche of something that has already had an impact or it has simply copied something interesting yet obscure in the hopes that the source will not be found out and associated, in which case it’s just a matter of the size of the audience. This point isn’t as fun to explore because so much of our impact in life depends on the quantity of the audience, which is sad because, like I read once in a Vonnegut essay, there are so many people in the world that are always going to be better than you at what you do, and because of the increased communication that results in modern technology, you are competing with all of them rather than finding a comfortable niche in your own beloved community.
One last thing I wanted to say about originality, is that everything may have already been done that way before in a given medium, but that doesn’t mean the medium can’t be reinvented or combined in new ways with other mediums.
Ta.
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
Wide Awake
I had a headache but I kept on shoveling. The wood was good, I could feel the tiny rocks in the soil scraping.
My plan was to quit after one day. There was no way I was going to dig graves every day. But just this one, and then I wouldn’t show up tomorrow. Jobs were easy to find.
The sun was hidden and it was chilly, I’d planned it that way. I like the fall the best. It’s when people come home. I’d pictured myself standing under a huge willow tree, all alone for a few hours, working up a sweat in a windbreaker with dead leaves blowing all around. I don’t know why my imagination was that specific, but that’s what I ended up with so I guess it was like a premonition.
My trainer was a black man named Earl. He was 57, and tall, and he talked so quietly I could barely hear him over the sound of the trucks on the highway. Actually it was more like he was muttering to himself the whole time he was there, and only raised his voice slightly when it was important for me to hear him. I found myself opening my eyes really wide when he talked, for some reason.
He seemed to figure I grasped the general concept, and just sort of stood slightly behind me after he handed me a shovel and watched. He pointed out a couple of things, like where to stick my foot on the shovel, and how to keep the sides nice and straight. He sort of pointed with his whole arm, leaving his hand closed. I got the impression that his hands probably hurt him from all that digging. It was a big cemetery.
He left after about two feet, which was good. The plastic zip-lock bag was uncomfortable under the back of my shirt. It made me sweat against the bulk of the gun, and my skin kept catching a chill every time the wind billowed up. He told me to come and get him once it was up to my shoulders or so. “An don’ go too deep,” he said. “You cain’t get out then.”
“Alright,” I said.
Three feet down and I was filthy, but I expected that. My gloves were filled with brown clay and dirt. It smelled strongly like rotten eggs. Every few chucks I’d lean against the side of the grave and sort of sink in a bit. It occurred to me that this would be a good place to lie down and watch the sky, because the earth was so soft and no one could see I wasn’t working. I suddenly remembered that I used to like to do that a lot, lie down and just stare up for hours. But of course that was a stupid idea. Instead of lying down I would shove myself back onto my legs with both elbows and pull the shovel out of the side where I’d stabbed it, and start chucking some more.
After about five feet I had to stop because my headache was really getting harsh. I flicked off the gloves and pinched my eyes into my skull, then pinched the soft spot in between my thumb and forefinger to ease the pain. First the left with the right, then the right with the left after a minute or so. It was okay while I was doing it, but as soon as I would let up the pain would come rushing back into my brain, like my blood was full of tiny stones. It was hard to take. I opened my eyes and closed them again, but there isn’t much difference between the two different worlds, as far as pain goes. You’re stuck with what you’ve got when your eyes are open, and when they’re closed you can only see what you can’t have.
I decided to hurry up and dig the rest of the grave. As it was I could just barely see over the side, and if I stood directly in its center I could touch both sides with my elbows. I started to dig faster, really boring the shovel into the ground. I pulled up enormous clumps of mud and clay and swept them over my head. They swished into the grass. Swing, chuck, sling. Swing, chuck, sling.
Pretty soon the grave was so deep that the bottom was too dark to see my boots. Or they were covered with dirt, I couldn’t tell. In any case there was no way anyone who might happen to walk by could see what I was doing unless they stood right at its edge. I laid the shovel aside, pulled the zip-lock bag out and slipped the gun out, along with my draft card and a flat wad of sterile gauze. The pain in my head was making it difficult for me to focus my eyes, and I dropped the draft card into the darkness at my feet. But that was fine. I’d planned on burning it but I thought that since I was down there I might as well just bury it, and anyway this way I wouldn’t have to fumble with any lighter. I clawed some dirt way from the walls and stamped it down over the card until I couldn’t hear it crinkling anymore.
The gun was an old blue steel .38 snub-nosed my brother gave me before he went overseas. He’d bought one for himself just like it. I told him it was a stupid idea but he thought it would be cool to bring his own gun for some reason. He even went to church one day and had the deacon bless a chamber of bullets. Can you imagine? A deacon blessing bullets.
I gripped the .38 in my left hand and pressed the muzzle against the lowest knuckle of my index finger on the inside of my right hand. My trigger finger. I pressed it into the side of the grave as deep as it would go, and the weight on the pressure-point eased my headache again. “I am wide awake,” I said. It was important for me to say this.
I fired, and shoved my face into the mud of my brother’s grave to stifle the scream I couldn’t hold back, tasting oily earth.
My plan was to quit after one day. There was no way I was going to dig graves every day. But just this one, and then I wouldn’t show up tomorrow. Jobs were easy to find.
The sun was hidden and it was chilly, I’d planned it that way. I like the fall the best. It’s when people come home. I’d pictured myself standing under a huge willow tree, all alone for a few hours, working up a sweat in a windbreaker with dead leaves blowing all around. I don’t know why my imagination was that specific, but that’s what I ended up with so I guess it was like a premonition.
My trainer was a black man named Earl. He was 57, and tall, and he talked so quietly I could barely hear him over the sound of the trucks on the highway. Actually it was more like he was muttering to himself the whole time he was there, and only raised his voice slightly when it was important for me to hear him. I found myself opening my eyes really wide when he talked, for some reason.
He seemed to figure I grasped the general concept, and just sort of stood slightly behind me after he handed me a shovel and watched. He pointed out a couple of things, like where to stick my foot on the shovel, and how to keep the sides nice and straight. He sort of pointed with his whole arm, leaving his hand closed. I got the impression that his hands probably hurt him from all that digging. It was a big cemetery.
He left after about two feet, which was good. The plastic zip-lock bag was uncomfortable under the back of my shirt. It made me sweat against the bulk of the gun, and my skin kept catching a chill every time the wind billowed up. He told me to come and get him once it was up to my shoulders or so. “An don’ go too deep,” he said. “You cain’t get out then.”
“Alright,” I said.
Three feet down and I was filthy, but I expected that. My gloves were filled with brown clay and dirt. It smelled strongly like rotten eggs. Every few chucks I’d lean against the side of the grave and sort of sink in a bit. It occurred to me that this would be a good place to lie down and watch the sky, because the earth was so soft and no one could see I wasn’t working. I suddenly remembered that I used to like to do that a lot, lie down and just stare up for hours. But of course that was a stupid idea. Instead of lying down I would shove myself back onto my legs with both elbows and pull the shovel out of the side where I’d stabbed it, and start chucking some more.
After about five feet I had to stop because my headache was really getting harsh. I flicked off the gloves and pinched my eyes into my skull, then pinched the soft spot in between my thumb and forefinger to ease the pain. First the left with the right, then the right with the left after a minute or so. It was okay while I was doing it, but as soon as I would let up the pain would come rushing back into my brain, like my blood was full of tiny stones. It was hard to take. I opened my eyes and closed them again, but there isn’t much difference between the two different worlds, as far as pain goes. You’re stuck with what you’ve got when your eyes are open, and when they’re closed you can only see what you can’t have.
I decided to hurry up and dig the rest of the grave. As it was I could just barely see over the side, and if I stood directly in its center I could touch both sides with my elbows. I started to dig faster, really boring the shovel into the ground. I pulled up enormous clumps of mud and clay and swept them over my head. They swished into the grass. Swing, chuck, sling. Swing, chuck, sling.
Pretty soon the grave was so deep that the bottom was too dark to see my boots. Or they were covered with dirt, I couldn’t tell. In any case there was no way anyone who might happen to walk by could see what I was doing unless they stood right at its edge. I laid the shovel aside, pulled the zip-lock bag out and slipped the gun out, along with my draft card and a flat wad of sterile gauze. The pain in my head was making it difficult for me to focus my eyes, and I dropped the draft card into the darkness at my feet. But that was fine. I’d planned on burning it but I thought that since I was down there I might as well just bury it, and anyway this way I wouldn’t have to fumble with any lighter. I clawed some dirt way from the walls and stamped it down over the card until I couldn’t hear it crinkling anymore.
The gun was an old blue steel .38 snub-nosed my brother gave me before he went overseas. He’d bought one for himself just like it. I told him it was a stupid idea but he thought it would be cool to bring his own gun for some reason. He even went to church one day and had the deacon bless a chamber of bullets. Can you imagine? A deacon blessing bullets.
I gripped the .38 in my left hand and pressed the muzzle against the lowest knuckle of my index finger on the inside of my right hand. My trigger finger. I pressed it into the side of the grave as deep as it would go, and the weight on the pressure-point eased my headache again. “I am wide awake,” I said. It was important for me to say this.
I fired, and shoved my face into the mud of my brother’s grave to stifle the scream I couldn’t hold back, tasting oily earth.
Saturday, August 20, 2005
In Arizona
I should have written in this thing like thirty five times since I got here, because there has been many unusual things. Many unsual things, not the least of which being hanging out with my three brothers at my brother Brett's place, who owns many automatic weapons. Eric has just informed me that he only has one, and it is not automatic. "I have a revolver. .357 Magnum. Snubnose." Andrew is sulking in the bedroom, even though I haven't seen him for 5 years, because Eric called him an alcoholic, after refusing to give him a Jager Bomb.
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
Mistake
I'm currently about an hour and a half into watching The Man In the Iron Mask, starring two Leonardo DiCaprios, which is a movie I've always been curious about for some reason I can't remember. I think I have another hour and a half to go. The verdict so far: AWFUL PIECE OF SHIT.
Sample dialogue: "To love you is treason, but not to love you is treason against my heart."
Once again: AWFUL PIECE OF ROTTEN GARBAGE.
Sample dialogue: "To love you is treason, but not to love you is treason against my heart."
Once again: AWFUL PIECE OF ROTTEN GARBAGE.
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
The Better Part of the Dream
NOW IT'S NIGHTTIME, and the city is totally flooded out, and I have my cat, Mr. Chillynose, with me as I wade through streets of downtown Chicago in neck-deep water, following a long procession of people trying to escape the city. It's tough trying to navigate through all that water amongst so many people while trying to keep my cat above its surface, but I manage to collect together this mass of floating animals. First there is a huge turtle, which cranes its snakelike neck back to eyeball me and opens its mouth in protest when I put Mr. Chillynose on his back, but he can't really do much about it. The turtle sinks into the water because Mr. Chillynose is such a fatass, and his white fur gets a bit wet before I have a chance to prop up the turtle with my hands on the edges of its shell underwater, and his fur clumps together and spikes out like a hedgehog. He keeps meowing and looking with his bugged out yellow eyes for some way to get out of this, but every time he turns his paw slips a bit or something splashes near him and catches his attention, and all I can do is try to figure out a way to keep this stupid turtle propped up and still move forward with the procession of people while he keeps going "meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow..." So like I said, there was a mass of floating animals, and the humungous turtle was first, and second was this whale. A very small whale, about the size of the turtle, which I manage to wedge under the turtle to help keep it afloat, and now we've got propulsion, and things are starting to look pretty good, and the next thing I know there is this big floating mass of black fur right next to me, on my right side, which I can't tell what it is- it might be a huge dog but it's the size of a bear. I'm starting to feel like I'm going to have to start saving everything I can, like all the other little escaping helpless people and animals. Then I see this really tiny green snake, about the size of a gummy worm, floating in the dark water and I rescue it and stick it into the fur of the bear, only its been bitten in half, which is wierd because it's still alive but whatever.
And then this redneck comes up to my animal boat and snarls at me, trying to intimidate me and lay claim to my sweet situation, but there is no way I'm giving it up, especially because of Mr. Chillynose. But he won't go away, he's one of those dumbasses with no imagination and no sense of humor except for they laugh when other people get hurt or humiliated, and then this other redneck comes over and actually tries to redirect the course of my animal boat and that sets me off- I go at the first redneck- we're about ten feet away from each other and we sort of charge as best as we can in the deep water. I've never attacked anyone like this so I'm thinking on my feet, I decide quickly to do the most damage in the easiest way possible to this fucker, and he goes to punch me in the face but my face is in his face, and I bite this big chunk out of the bridge of his nose. I back away and his blood is squirting out pretty severely, like shooting maybe five feet out in front of him, and boy is he PISSED now. He purposely points his nose at me and squirts his blood in my eyes, and I almost panic for a second but then I remember how smart I am and I dunk myself under the water and swim at him and somehow manage to force him under the front end of this car that this young couple is driving, underwater, like I really wedge him up between the tires and the street, and then I swim around to the drivers side window and I put the car in 'drive' and it rolls over this guy, bumping up and down twice, and the guy driving underwater and his girlfriend notice don't seem to mind much.
AND THE LAST BIT BEFORE I WOKE UP had me swim out from behind the moving car and hoist myself up onto this sort of a landing at the top of a stairway in front of a highrise office building to get a good view of the procession so I can find out where my animal raft has gone with Mr. Chillynose, but I see this young girl, in her early twenties at the most, lying on a gurney with her arms at her sides as water spashes and sloshes up onto her face, which causes her to squint and snort and spit continuously. She is very pretty, with a round face and big eyes and dark brown hair and flush cheeks, and she's wearing an outfit made with various shades of green. I ask her what the heck she thinks she's doing lying there on this gurney thing- I get the impression that she's not hurt in any way, but she's just trying to wait it out. Her rigid body seems to reflect stoic character. But all she says is "Help me," in a really small and helpless voice, but she's sort of smiling at the time so I'm confused, but tell her sure, and decide to drag her out to my little raft once I find it. Then I notice her eyes are really wierd, like she's an alien from outer space- no pupil or iris or white eyball, bit just a single shiny orb, olive-drab in color. I start to wonder if maybe it isn't a good idea to bring her along.
And then this redneck comes up to my animal boat and snarls at me, trying to intimidate me and lay claim to my sweet situation, but there is no way I'm giving it up, especially because of Mr. Chillynose. But he won't go away, he's one of those dumbasses with no imagination and no sense of humor except for they laugh when other people get hurt or humiliated, and then this other redneck comes over and actually tries to redirect the course of my animal boat and that sets me off- I go at the first redneck- we're about ten feet away from each other and we sort of charge as best as we can in the deep water. I've never attacked anyone like this so I'm thinking on my feet, I decide quickly to do the most damage in the easiest way possible to this fucker, and he goes to punch me in the face but my face is in his face, and I bite this big chunk out of the bridge of his nose. I back away and his blood is squirting out pretty severely, like shooting maybe five feet out in front of him, and boy is he PISSED now. He purposely points his nose at me and squirts his blood in my eyes, and I almost panic for a second but then I remember how smart I am and I dunk myself under the water and swim at him and somehow manage to force him under the front end of this car that this young couple is driving, underwater, like I really wedge him up between the tires and the street, and then I swim around to the drivers side window and I put the car in 'drive' and it rolls over this guy, bumping up and down twice, and the guy driving underwater and his girlfriend notice don't seem to mind much.
AND THE LAST BIT BEFORE I WOKE UP had me swim out from behind the moving car and hoist myself up onto this sort of a landing at the top of a stairway in front of a highrise office building to get a good view of the procession so I can find out where my animal raft has gone with Mr. Chillynose, but I see this young girl, in her early twenties at the most, lying on a gurney with her arms at her sides as water spashes and sloshes up onto her face, which causes her to squint and snort and spit continuously. She is very pretty, with a round face and big eyes and dark brown hair and flush cheeks, and she's wearing an outfit made with various shades of green. I ask her what the heck she thinks she's doing lying there on this gurney thing- I get the impression that she's not hurt in any way, but she's just trying to wait it out. Her rigid body seems to reflect stoic character. But all she says is "Help me," in a really small and helpless voice, but she's sort of smiling at the time so I'm confused, but tell her sure, and decide to drag her out to my little raft once I find it. Then I notice her eyes are really wierd, like she's an alien from outer space- no pupil or iris or white eyball, bit just a single shiny orb, olive-drab in color. I start to wonder if maybe it isn't a good idea to bring her along.
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
Rock Practice
I just got back home from my rock practice in Humboldt Park where I play rock guitar to rock beats. My drummer, this guy Jason, is a bike messenger, so by the time we play during the week at around 8pm he's totally exhausted and is often reluctant to try things that require that extra amount of energy; and my bassist Kevin, whose place it is, has to get up every morning at the butt-crack of dawn and go do heating and air conditioning. So we end up taking lots of breaks, and not getting much done, which is a bummer for me because I have the easiest job on the planet which I can pretty much stroll into whenever I feel like it. I work at the Library putting books away or something.
Even so, the music we're doing is really good, which is kind of a problem because it's like just good enough for me to keep devoting time and energy to it, time which in my mind is directly donated from pushing the writing thing. Or maybe it's not the time I'm thinking of that's the issue, but the fact that I am justifying my existence with the casual creative process of writing the songs and am thus less driven to create works of literary genius. I just knew this was going to happen.
I was in a band for a long time, in my early twenties, and it was like no matter what I did with my life that was irresponsible or tragic I had The Band, and all of my self respect was wrapped up in it, and I devoted all of my hopes and dreams to it. And when it crashed out I was driven to go back to school and take up writing, which is something I've always always always wanted, and I thought This is all me, nobody else to rely on, I sink or swim on my own fuckin terms, yeah.
The thing is, I know I have to PICK something and get really, REEEALY good at it, not just keep floating on various creative endeavors for which I have a natural knack. I remember reading something in a Vonnegut essay where he said that communication with the rest of the world is so extreme that you have to compete with everybody on the whole planet- like you could be King Gymkata of the Pole Vault in your small community but it doesn't mean squat when compared to the best of the best of the you get the picture.
I like to sometimes contrast this line of thinking with a pet paradigm of mine, which is that it's a mistake to crave respect on too large a scale, and that it's admirable to adopt a smallish, incestuous community in which everybody's creativity feeds on each other and carve out a place for yourself there... I'm thinking of course of Chicago. My friend Megan is like this: she is always out there giving herself to people who care what she is doing.
When you love to do too many things, though, it's kind of hard to pick. I see myself as turning into this aging bohemian type who takes potshots at writing and filmaking and music, and who's name fades from one of those particular community's consciousnesses by the time he gets around to following up on whatever. It certainly doesn't lend itself to bringing in the dough...
Video games don't help, either. Stay away from those things, if you don't already. 70 and a half hours logged for Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic for the Xbox. Ouch.
Even so, the music we're doing is really good, which is kind of a problem because it's like just good enough for me to keep devoting time and energy to it, time which in my mind is directly donated from pushing the writing thing. Or maybe it's not the time I'm thinking of that's the issue, but the fact that I am justifying my existence with the casual creative process of writing the songs and am thus less driven to create works of literary genius. I just knew this was going to happen.
I was in a band for a long time, in my early twenties, and it was like no matter what I did with my life that was irresponsible or tragic I had The Band, and all of my self respect was wrapped up in it, and I devoted all of my hopes and dreams to it. And when it crashed out I was driven to go back to school and take up writing, which is something I've always always always wanted, and I thought This is all me, nobody else to rely on, I sink or swim on my own fuckin terms, yeah.
The thing is, I know I have to PICK something and get really, REEEALY good at it, not just keep floating on various creative endeavors for which I have a natural knack. I remember reading something in a Vonnegut essay where he said that communication with the rest of the world is so extreme that you have to compete with everybody on the whole planet- like you could be King Gymkata of the Pole Vault in your small community but it doesn't mean squat when compared to the best of the best of the you get the picture.
I like to sometimes contrast this line of thinking with a pet paradigm of mine, which is that it's a mistake to crave respect on too large a scale, and that it's admirable to adopt a smallish, incestuous community in which everybody's creativity feeds on each other and carve out a place for yourself there... I'm thinking of course of Chicago. My friend Megan is like this: she is always out there giving herself to people who care what she is doing.
When you love to do too many things, though, it's kind of hard to pick. I see myself as turning into this aging bohemian type who takes potshots at writing and filmaking and music, and who's name fades from one of those particular community's consciousnesses by the time he gets around to following up on whatever. It certainly doesn't lend itself to bringing in the dough...
Video games don't help, either. Stay away from those things, if you don't already. 70 and a half hours logged for Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic for the Xbox. Ouch.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
Yesterday
Hi Anna Banana
I'm having a nice day- I woke up nice and early four times until it was about 11am, then I got up and noticed it was thundering and raining out and decided right away that I was going to read for awhile on your porch, and I watched the mama sparrow feed the kids, and when she took off to get more grub(s) after she was satisfied the big ugly monkeyman wasn't going to munch her squealing brats daddy flew up from somewhere to make sure, too. I couldn't help but to notice that the sky was nice and dark just south but clearing up to the west, so I kept looking up from my book to check the progress of the dissipating storm, wishing I'd gotten up a little earlier because I could tell I had maybe twenty minutes tops before the rain stopped, and before I knew it, it did Just as I finshed reading the one and only graphic sex scene in the book between the only two characters in the book who might actually love each other. I could see Wave 2 was on its way but there was no way I was going to wait around for it, so I scooped up the keys you left for me on the counter, grabbed the bike and zoomed on up the the bike path, feeling lazy and fat and tired but happy that the sun was still hidden. Halfway to work the drizzle set in again and, and by the time I got downtown it was really coming down but I didn't mind at all, except that I wished I'd thought to bring my contacts over to your place last night but thinking's been a slow process for me lately for some reason. Waiting at the light on Jackson a couple in their mid-thirties crept up behind me and the man said "Excuse me, but do you live here?" and I looked around me and said You mean in Chicago? "Yes." Yeah, I do. He said "Do you know where the Hancock Observatory is?" and I said "Probably at the top of the Hancock Building" and the woman laughed and I noticed she was sort of pretty, with dark hair cut in a bob slicked against her face under the rain, and the man smirked under his banana republic baseball hat and said "Yeah, I know, but can you tell me where the Hancock building is?" and I pointed at it, it was the biggest building in the skyline from where I was standing except for the building that looks exactly like the late World Trade Center buildings in New York, but then felt unsure, and looked around south to make sure there wasn't a building that obviously prooved me wrong, but I left my arm pointed at it and when I looked back I told him There it is and told him to walk up Michigan till he got to Water Tower Place at Chicago St. They both said thanks and as I rode away to Columbia in the rain I tried to sum up the character of Chicago people as seen by outsiders looking for directions, and I thought If everyone's like me then they're generally friendly and want to help, if only to reiterate to themselves how well they know their city, but they can't resist poking a little fun at foreigners with jokes at their expense, and if the foreigners have a good sense of humor about the whole thing then everybody comes out feeling good about the encounter.
Love,
Pato
I'm having a nice day- I woke up nice and early four times until it was about 11am, then I got up and noticed it was thundering and raining out and decided right away that I was going to read for awhile on your porch, and I watched the mama sparrow feed the kids, and when she took off to get more grub(s) after she was satisfied the big ugly monkeyman wasn't going to munch her squealing brats daddy flew up from somewhere to make sure, too. I couldn't help but to notice that the sky was nice and dark just south but clearing up to the west, so I kept looking up from my book to check the progress of the dissipating storm, wishing I'd gotten up a little earlier because I could tell I had maybe twenty minutes tops before the rain stopped, and before I knew it, it did Just as I finshed reading the one and only graphic sex scene in the book between the only two characters in the book who might actually love each other. I could see Wave 2 was on its way but there was no way I was going to wait around for it, so I scooped up the keys you left for me on the counter, grabbed the bike and zoomed on up the the bike path, feeling lazy and fat and tired but happy that the sun was still hidden. Halfway to work the drizzle set in again and, and by the time I got downtown it was really coming down but I didn't mind at all, except that I wished I'd thought to bring my contacts over to your place last night but thinking's been a slow process for me lately for some reason. Waiting at the light on Jackson a couple in their mid-thirties crept up behind me and the man said "Excuse me, but do you live here?" and I looked around me and said You mean in Chicago? "Yes." Yeah, I do. He said "Do you know where the Hancock Observatory is?" and I said "Probably at the top of the Hancock Building" and the woman laughed and I noticed she was sort of pretty, with dark hair cut in a bob slicked against her face under the rain, and the man smirked under his banana republic baseball hat and said "Yeah, I know, but can you tell me where the Hancock building is?" and I pointed at it, it was the biggest building in the skyline from where I was standing except for the building that looks exactly like the late World Trade Center buildings in New York, but then felt unsure, and looked around south to make sure there wasn't a building that obviously prooved me wrong, but I left my arm pointed at it and when I looked back I told him There it is and told him to walk up Michigan till he got to Water Tower Place at Chicago St. They both said thanks and as I rode away to Columbia in the rain I tried to sum up the character of Chicago people as seen by outsiders looking for directions, and I thought If everyone's like me then they're generally friendly and want to help, if only to reiterate to themselves how well they know their city, but they can't resist poking a little fun at foreigners with jokes at their expense, and if the foreigners have a good sense of humor about the whole thing then everybody comes out feeling good about the encounter.
Love,
Pato
The Following Are Lies
I WROTE LOTS OF BLOG ENTRIES, ONE EVERY DAY THIS SUMMER, I SWEAR, BUT THEY ALL GOT LOST SOMEHOW, I DON'T KNOW WHAT HAPPENED!
I DO NOT PLAY TOO MANY VIDEO GAMES.
I HAVE PLENTY OF ENERGY TO SINK INTO BOTH THE BAND AND THE PASSION FOR WRITING!
I DO NOT HAVE CONFUSED AMBITIONS.
MY LOVE HATE RELATIONSHIP WITH ALCOHOL IS NOT CAUSING ME TO LOSE SELF RESPECT.
I DO NOT PLAY TOO MANY VIDEO GAMES.
I HAVE PLENTY OF ENERGY TO SINK INTO BOTH THE BAND AND THE PASSION FOR WRITING!
I DO NOT HAVE CONFUSED AMBITIONS.
MY LOVE HATE RELATIONSHIP WITH ALCOHOL IS NOT CAUSING ME TO LOSE SELF RESPECT.
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
Telemarketing pt 2
At first I went after the quirkiest jobs I could find. I figured at the time why the hell not, and in those early stages of the job search you feel like you have the luxury to be picky. There was this opening in the Blue Man Group's band. The Blue Man Group is a popular performance art show that originated in New York, featuring a rotating cast of three stony faced, silent bald guys dressed in black, whose heads and hands are painted gleaming, cobalt blue. Their show was interspersed with live music performances by the Blue Man Band.
The Blue Man Band needed and electronic zither player. I'd seen them once for free because a friend had been working as an usher at the theater. I closed my eyes and pictured the band playing in the loft above the stage, in the dark, illuminated only by black lights hidden from view. Two pairs of neon orange drumsticks arced over lime green voodoo skullfaces; shadowy demons whose glowing metallic bones strummed on oddly shaped yield-sign-yellow guitars writhed to rhythms somehow both moody and up-beat. Esoteric electrical devices bleeping and blooping along the perimeter. Nowhere in my memory could I locate something that might be called a 'zither.' I figured they made it up, and so my chances of playing it were just as good as anyone else's.
This is the letter I sent to them, along with my resume, which detailed the long list of call center jobs trailing behind me:
My name is Patrick van Slee and I'm a very good musician. I have no idea what an "electronic zither" is, but I want to play it for your band. I like to play in the dark under a black light, so that won't be a problem. Give me a call, and you won't be disappointed.
The Blue Man Band needed and electronic zither player. I'd seen them once for free because a friend had been working as an usher at the theater. I closed my eyes and pictured the band playing in the loft above the stage, in the dark, illuminated only by black lights hidden from view. Two pairs of neon orange drumsticks arced over lime green voodoo skullfaces; shadowy demons whose glowing metallic bones strummed on oddly shaped yield-sign-yellow guitars writhed to rhythms somehow both moody and up-beat. Esoteric electrical devices bleeping and blooping along the perimeter. Nowhere in my memory could I locate something that might be called a 'zither.' I figured they made it up, and so my chances of playing it were just as good as anyone else's.
This is the letter I sent to them, along with my resume, which detailed the long list of call center jobs trailing behind me:
My name is Patrick van Slee and I'm a very good musician. I have no idea what an "electronic zither" is, but I want to play it for your band. I like to play in the dark under a black light, so that won't be a problem. Give me a call, and you won't be disappointed.
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
The Unified Theory of Everything
There used to be a time
When everwhere around me
I saw mystery
And at night,
When I dreamed,
I was like a spellbound detective
Sorting through clues
That manifested themselves to me as impossible landscapes
Of vivid color
And sensation.
But that was before I figured out
The Unified Theory of Everything
And now
I see
The motivation
Behind everything that happens to me
And the dry logic
Soaks up the mystery
Without solving it
Even now,
As I write this,
I'm performing a sort of experiment;
But like a baby
That touches its own reflection
In a still pool of water,
I distort
That which I seek to understand
By the sham attempt
When everwhere around me
I saw mystery
And at night,
When I dreamed,
I was like a spellbound detective
Sorting through clues
That manifested themselves to me as impossible landscapes
Of vivid color
And sensation.
But that was before I figured out
The Unified Theory of Everything
And now
I see
The motivation
Behind everything that happens to me
And the dry logic
Soaks up the mystery
Without solving it
Even now,
As I write this,
I'm performing a sort of experiment;
But like a baby
That touches its own reflection
In a still pool of water,
I distort
That which I seek to understand
By the sham attempt
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
Telemarketing pt 1
SO it was a couple of summers ago and I was just out of my first semester back into college. I'd worked for SBC for a couple of years up until then and I had some money saved up, so I hadn't had to work during the spring semester. But now I needed a JOB.
I poured through the classifieds in the Chicago Reader. Most of the listings offered what the job market always seems to have available- serving jobs for new food service places, legal assistants, and gobs of call centers for in- and out-bound telemarketing.
I hate call centers, in fact swore I would avoid them like moldy sausage for the rest of my life. I can't stand talking on the phone, for one thing. And those places have a way of turning everything you do while you're on the clock into a percentage value that can mathematically be translated into their profit equations, because you are jacked into their telephone computer system at all times. Thus can they monitor every single minute of your day with a guy surrounded by computer screens who sends you pop-up messages to go an have a chat with the manager. Things like going off-script, forgetting to say the company name multiple times, and even leaving your workstation to go take a piss become a number representing profit loss. I once had a supervisor sneak after me and follow me into the bathroom.
I poured through the classifieds in the Chicago Reader. Most of the listings offered what the job market always seems to have available- serving jobs for new food service places, legal assistants, and gobs of call centers for in- and out-bound telemarketing.
I hate call centers, in fact swore I would avoid them like moldy sausage for the rest of my life. I can't stand talking on the phone, for one thing. And those places have a way of turning everything you do while you're on the clock into a percentage value that can mathematically be translated into their profit equations, because you are jacked into their telephone computer system at all times. Thus can they monitor every single minute of your day with a guy surrounded by computer screens who sends you pop-up messages to go an have a chat with the manager. Things like going off-script, forgetting to say the company name multiple times, and even leaving your workstation to go take a piss become a number representing profit loss. I once had a supervisor sneak after me and follow me into the bathroom.
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
Dream Ageein
It was cool, I was hanging from this window, trying to figure out how I was going to escape from these army guys who were chasing after me. I look down and the face of the building is brown marble, doesn't look like I can get a foothold- there are lots of angles and crevices but they look just a bit too sheer for me to sneak my foot in. Just then a man in a white shirt and a black tie finds me and closes the window without saying anything, confident that I've chosen my own form of execution. I dangle there for awhile, look down again, start to get scared, but then decide to slide down as gently as I can when I notice that the building tilts in an unusual way- I spit to make sure, to get a sense of the angel of the building with respect to the vertical pull of gravity, but the wind makes my spit arc as it falls, which tells me squat. I slide down anyway and whatta y'know! There is a very comfortable balcony conveniently located just below my feet somehow, and I drop myself into and smile. It's a wide balcony made of old, grey, weathered stone, cold to the touch because it's in the shade, pocked and pitted from acid rain and spotted with black dots of mold. There are thick columns that I can walk around, situated like crowded statues. I walk around them, marveling at the contrast of comfort between hanging around on this neat balcony and hanging on for dear life, dangling from a window. I'm feeling pretty safe here, guessing that the man and his army people are through with me, but then just as I think this to myself I remember just how thorough professional soldier-type people are, and I start to worry that they know about this sweet spot of mine... And then a whole bunch of these army guys come pouring through this big sliding glass door out onto the balcony and I try to hide behind one of the columns, even sort of walking around it to obscure myself from them as they walk closer but there are way too many of them, and I give myself up, walk out of cover with my hands up. One of the army guys points this huge machine gun at me right away but i'm like "No, Look!" with my hands, emphasizing that I've given myself up, and he looks really angry but I see he's not going to shoot me after all, which I don't really understand because didn't they just want me dead? I mean, the whole shutting the window thing, leaving me to plummet thirty stories to my death? But the Tie Guy isn't there, and the army guy with the machine gun walks around me and the other army guys sort of file back in through the sliding glass door again, really slowly. And the the machine gun guy puts his arm around my neck from behind and fumbles around with something, probably those plastic zip cuffs, and I sort of take this very deliberate step backwards and hook him around his neck and right arm and grab his right hand and point the machine gun at the other army men with my free arm, and I make him pull the trigger, shooting all of the army guys as they try to run back out onto the balcony. They come charging in like maniacs but my aim is straight and I shoot them all to death while my army guy struggles for control of the gun.
Friday, May 06, 2005
I just ate a free cheeseburger
Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum yum Yum
Monday, March 28, 2005
In the NY Times today
"In all, 118 foreigners from 32 countries are on death rows in the United States."
Monday, February 21, 2005
My Dream Pt. 4
There is a loud blast, and a fwoosh!, accompanied by the sweet, chemical smell of turpentine. Before I turn to see where the sound had come from, I notice that the from the ground plumes of oily, black smoke curl up towards the sky, and there are thousands of tiny fires peppering the landscape.
"It was those people," says a low, gravelly voice, and I know that it is the balloon itself that has spoken to me. "They fell like bombs to the earth, and now everyone burns." I turn around.
Sean is standing in the center of the wooden compartment, which as near as I can tell is roughly the size of my bathroom. His head is shaven and his face is dotted red with acne. His eyebrows are thick and black, and his eyes seem to have a sound of their own as I remember his voice clearly. He smiles at me and then looks upwards through the hole in the balloon and pulls on a long brass chain with links two inches thick, releasing a gust of whitish-blue flame with another fwoosh!
I knew it was a misunderstanding, I think. People like Sean didn't die. And people like me didn't- I knew it was all a mistake. I'm so happy. I'm so relieved.
"Why did you not go into the mountain?" the voice of the baloon says to me again. "You were supposed to."
"I tried," I say. My answer is half-hearted, obligitory. I am much more interested in talking to my friend.
"Hey, fucker," I say to him, giving him a punch in the ribs. "Where have you been?"
Sean says nothing, but he smiles that dry old smile of his that always preceded his obnoxious laugh, the laugh that sometimes would also precede an even more obnoxious scream. I used to wonder what was in that scream that made it so forgivable, how it was that Sean was able to wear his punk-rock-styled obstreperousness well. After he died, and all that amazing energy exploded into all of us, changing us, I came to understand that it was that his body, tough as it was, was unable to contain the abundant lifeforce he generated, and when from time to time he let it blow out through his superhuman vocal cords we all got to see just for a minute what it was to be Sean, and it felt good.
"It was those people," says a low, gravelly voice, and I know that it is the balloon itself that has spoken to me. "They fell like bombs to the earth, and now everyone burns." I turn around.
Sean is standing in the center of the wooden compartment, which as near as I can tell is roughly the size of my bathroom. His head is shaven and his face is dotted red with acne. His eyebrows are thick and black, and his eyes seem to have a sound of their own as I remember his voice clearly. He smiles at me and then looks upwards through the hole in the balloon and pulls on a long brass chain with links two inches thick, releasing a gust of whitish-blue flame with another fwoosh!
I knew it was a misunderstanding, I think. People like Sean didn't die. And people like me didn't- I knew it was all a mistake. I'm so happy. I'm so relieved.
"Why did you not go into the mountain?" the voice of the baloon says to me again. "You were supposed to."
"I tried," I say. My answer is half-hearted, obligitory. I am much more interested in talking to my friend.
"Hey, fucker," I say to him, giving him a punch in the ribs. "Where have you been?"
Sean says nothing, but he smiles that dry old smile of his that always preceded his obnoxious laugh, the laugh that sometimes would also precede an even more obnoxious scream. I used to wonder what was in that scream that made it so forgivable, how it was that Sean was able to wear his punk-rock-styled obstreperousness well. After he died, and all that amazing energy exploded into all of us, changing us, I came to understand that it was that his body, tough as it was, was unable to contain the abundant lifeforce he generated, and when from time to time he let it blow out through his superhuman vocal cords we all got to see just for a minute what it was to be Sean, and it felt good.
My Dream Pt. 3
I sink through the blackness immediately, the water rushing so quickly past my ears that I feel as though it digs a channel through them, eroding my brain and pouring out the back of my skull like a jet stream. Instinctively squeezing my legs against my chest with clenched fists and tight arms I seem to offer no buoyancy to the water, and sink deep and deeper, leaving the raft and the sunlight and the unexplored mountain far behind me. I expect to feel at any second the sharp tearing of my body against the rusted, twisted junk that I know litters all levels of the water. I expect to hear a fleeting crack and see an explosion of light behind my shut eyes just before I die.
But it is when I shut my eyes that I understand that this was never water at all, and through my eyelids I see that I am falling through the grey sky high above an intricate network of roads and cultivated farmland. I can barely suppress a scream as the sense of vertigo overtakes me, but the thrill of mortal severity my situation injects into my bones is wonderful, and I feel alive and clear-headed for what seems like the first time since my childhood.
All around me many others are falling as well, and I know that they each have something they are trying to tell me, if only they could manage to direct the course of their descent to coincide with mine. As they zoom by, limbs flailing, I catch bits and pieces of their message that they scream to me over the wind that howls in my ears. "...wwwASN'T ANYTHING YOU COULDA DOonne..." shouts a blond, middle aged woman wearing denim overalls. Her face is twisted into a mask of violent glee as she calls to me, her hair flickering above her, and her voice cuts off abruptly as she whips away from my field of vision. A fat man, also grinning maniacally, swoops toward me, his neck bent awkwardly as he tries to catch my eyes from slightly below. Streaks of blood course over his shiny, bald head, trailing from his nose and ears, and beneath the wiry stubble on his face his skin looks grey and dead. He opens his flapping jowls and I hear "...nnnoOBODY SEES IT THAT WAY But yoou..."
All the while we race toward the earth, and more of the landscape before me looks green and alive. The people spin by more quickly, each one seemingly more ecstatic than the last, though I feel their frustration at their inability to move close enough to me so that we may fall together and talk. Soon their fleeting voices blend into a wall of noise that ripples my attention, and then finally it becomes a single, wailing siren as if from a distant ambulance sweeping over the city where I live. No earthly sound has every caused me so much unrest as the type of siren that now penetrates into my dreamworld; it sticks in my brain like bacon grease. The sound disappears after only what seems to be a few seconds, fortunately, and I open my eyes to find that they are gone, and I realize that I am no longer falling, but standing in a small, wooden compartment, floating in a hot air balloon, still far, far above the earth. And someone is in there with me.
But it is when I shut my eyes that I understand that this was never water at all, and through my eyelids I see that I am falling through the grey sky high above an intricate network of roads and cultivated farmland. I can barely suppress a scream as the sense of vertigo overtakes me, but the thrill of mortal severity my situation injects into my bones is wonderful, and I feel alive and clear-headed for what seems like the first time since my childhood.
All around me many others are falling as well, and I know that they each have something they are trying to tell me, if only they could manage to direct the course of their descent to coincide with mine. As they zoom by, limbs flailing, I catch bits and pieces of their message that they scream to me over the wind that howls in my ears. "...wwwASN'T ANYTHING YOU COULDA DOonne..." shouts a blond, middle aged woman wearing denim overalls. Her face is twisted into a mask of violent glee as she calls to me, her hair flickering above her, and her voice cuts off abruptly as she whips away from my field of vision. A fat man, also grinning maniacally, swoops toward me, his neck bent awkwardly as he tries to catch my eyes from slightly below. Streaks of blood course over his shiny, bald head, trailing from his nose and ears, and beneath the wiry stubble on his face his skin looks grey and dead. He opens his flapping jowls and I hear "...nnnoOBODY SEES IT THAT WAY But yoou..."
All the while we race toward the earth, and more of the landscape before me looks green and alive. The people spin by more quickly, each one seemingly more ecstatic than the last, though I feel their frustration at their inability to move close enough to me so that we may fall together and talk. Soon their fleeting voices blend into a wall of noise that ripples my attention, and then finally it becomes a single, wailing siren as if from a distant ambulance sweeping over the city where I live. No earthly sound has every caused me so much unrest as the type of siren that now penetrates into my dreamworld; it sticks in my brain like bacon grease. The sound disappears after only what seems to be a few seconds, fortunately, and I open my eyes to find that they are gone, and I realize that I am no longer falling, but standing in a small, wooden compartment, floating in a hot air balloon, still far, far above the earth. And someone is in there with me.
Thursday, February 17, 2005
My Dream Pt. 2
The rock peninsula does not appear to be drawing any closer, though I am certain that a good deal of time has passed, and the swampwater churns gently as I am driven steadily ahead. As I realize this I find myself standing at the foremost edge of the raft. The displaced water slaps the wood, chills my bare feet. I look down at my toes curling over the edge and find that from this vantage point the water appears again to be dark and cold. I am suddenly aware of the thick, ominous space that spans between the bottom of my feet and the swamp's murky, unimaginable depths. It imposes itself on me, and I feel heavy, drawn into it. The blackness of it permeates throughout the limits of my awareness, eclipsing the warmth and lightness the ubiquitous sunlight of the open day had inspired. What I feel as I peer into it is not fear but a sense of desperation in the face of its strength and inevitability, though as I stare beyond my own warped, inscrutable reflection I am conscious of the paranoia and irrationality that bubbles over it.
Anxious to disembark, I lean forward, toward the stoic mountain, convinced that by doing so the speediness of the raft will be somehow increased. There are often moments in my day-to-day life in which my own brain betrays me by imagining in vivid, horrific detail the most tragic sequence of immediate events possible. Sinisterly, this internal tourette's usually deals with someone whose well-being I care for much more than my own. Sometimes it is as simple as playing out the immediate alternate future of a near miss, such as seeing my cat, Obie, suffering terribly, gasping for life with a crushed and ruined body after I have unsuccessfully avoided stepping on him. Other times, however... A CTA train rushing toward me as I stand waiting at the platform with my Anna... A moment in which if I were to push her only slightly she would...
Because I can not control these sickening images I see this as the darkest evil within myself, and it seems to me to be a curse that can hurt me at any time. A curse that intends to terrify me that one day I will succumb to the impulse in an instant of insanity that will destroy my life and the life of someone I care for forever.
It is this same curse to which I attribute the tendency of my dreamworld to take its cues from my immediate fears. In the instant in which I see the possibility of plunging into the dark water I find myself smacking its surface.
Anxious to disembark, I lean forward, toward the stoic mountain, convinced that by doing so the speediness of the raft will be somehow increased. There are often moments in my day-to-day life in which my own brain betrays me by imagining in vivid, horrific detail the most tragic sequence of immediate events possible. Sinisterly, this internal tourette's usually deals with someone whose well-being I care for much more than my own. Sometimes it is as simple as playing out the immediate alternate future of a near miss, such as seeing my cat, Obie, suffering terribly, gasping for life with a crushed and ruined body after I have unsuccessfully avoided stepping on him. Other times, however... A CTA train rushing toward me as I stand waiting at the platform with my Anna... A moment in which if I were to push her only slightly she would...
Because I can not control these sickening images I see this as the darkest evil within myself, and it seems to me to be a curse that can hurt me at any time. A curse that intends to terrify me that one day I will succumb to the impulse in an instant of insanity that will destroy my life and the life of someone I care for forever.
It is this same curse to which I attribute the tendency of my dreamworld to take its cues from my immediate fears. In the instant in which I see the possibility of plunging into the dark water I find myself smacking its surface.
Saturday, February 12, 2005
My Dream Pt. 1
I am standing on the waterline of a swamp. Behind me is a sheer, rocky, volcanic cliff wall that stretches off to my left, to the east, as far into the distance as I am aware. Around me the boulders are fused together and enormous, and their shadows are dark. The water immediately before me is black and still, but sweeping away from me it blends first into a deep, pine green, then grows more vibrant until it coagulates into an algaeic lime so rich it glows through the underbrush. As I scan the area of the swamp I see it ripple at the base of many thick clumps of tall, dry grass that waves in the breeze.
I find myself navigating a wooden raft between the weeds and around small islands that support gnarled, stunted trees. Though I am unaware of the specific position of the sun, it seems now to me that it is simultaneously early morning, midafternoon, and late evening. It is hot, and the heat strikes me suddenly. I remember the cool rocks at the shoreline, I almost miss the shade the cliff face provided.
The weeds have become sparse, and the raft now seems to move under its own power toward the pinnacle of a jagged peninsula just west of where I had been standing. It is there, I know, that I will find a cave, and a tunnel, and something like an ancient temple or pyramid buried beneath the volcanic mountain, which I will explore. I have the sense that this is a route that I have taken many times before; a secret route that I have often used to make my way from place to place. I am filled with a childlike thrill. I am happy.
As I float through the swamp images come to me of other places I have visited via this path. I see faces of cheerful people who wait for me there, of whose existence no one is aware but me. I miss them.
I find myself navigating a wooden raft between the weeds and around small islands that support gnarled, stunted trees. Though I am unaware of the specific position of the sun, it seems now to me that it is simultaneously early morning, midafternoon, and late evening. It is hot, and the heat strikes me suddenly. I remember the cool rocks at the shoreline, I almost miss the shade the cliff face provided.
The weeds have become sparse, and the raft now seems to move under its own power toward the pinnacle of a jagged peninsula just west of where I had been standing. It is there, I know, that I will find a cave, and a tunnel, and something like an ancient temple or pyramid buried beneath the volcanic mountain, which I will explore. I have the sense that this is a route that I have taken many times before; a secret route that I have often used to make my way from place to place. I am filled with a childlike thrill. I am happy.
As I float through the swamp images come to me of other places I have visited via this path. I see faces of cheerful people who wait for me there, of whose existence no one is aware but me. I miss them.
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