june 30, 2002

eighty is the wind chill

last day of june. spirits have roiled about this month, occasionally reaching a clarified medium -- something about actuality.

running through history, it's amazing to me that anyone learns anything for long. i keep making the same mistakes -- sure, they're wearing different garb, but they're all essentially the same. the root of it : longing.

since early childhood, all action & reaction has been framed by longing. but for what? sometimes i tease myself into thinking that i know what it is i crave, other times i gauge the longing as a need i could never satiate and, therefore, cannot find adequate qualification for life/existence/continuance.

realistically, however, life will always be filled by longing. i cannot imagine one can be truly contented for too long.

peculiar which experiences grab you. while rolling around in my head, writing the last few sentences, i recall a trip to calgary in july of 2000. it was a short trip, only five days or so, and at one point i met some friends of the friend i was visiting. they had just purchased an old farmhouse, now located in the middle of the city, and were receiving the keys that very day. we went over to celebrate with them on this occasion, and i remember walking through the house's creaking boards, listening to the elated new owners cataloging their likes & dislikes -- which they would improve and which they would discard. my mind tripped through the house's history -- who had lived here? what had they seen? who had they loved, and why had they moved on?

every so often, seemingly at random, i think of this couple whom i knew for no more than an hour of my life, but have become partial representations of an idea : young, industrious, motivated, coupled -- waxed legs, goatees, sun-glinted hair, tennis skirts. just shy of thirty, looking forward to procreation. my wonder is plain curiosity : what are they up to, how have their lives changed, is everything developing to their expectation? what joy, fear, wonder, sadness have they experienced since we met for only moments?

one set of a thousand ghosts, memories of people i've encountered for perhaps just minutes, yet whom i recall and ponder. what of the bicycling parisian gent, whose canine companion stood up on hind-leg in the front fruit basket, barking their arrival? or the young fisherman on the beara peninsula, his laughter connecting everyone in the room?

truly, i spend most of my time pondering. there may be something happening at the same time, but most likely i'm not really paying attention. an activity like watching films is merely just a spring board for extrapolation & what i think about isn't all that amazing, i suppose, mostly just about how everything fits together, how meaning is applied, the usual. wondering how many others are wondering right at that moment.

dire fire. like gold bouillon -- rarity at the root of all value.

june 28, 2002

"i'll take you down the only road i've ever been down"

the essence of experience is almost always singularity. relating this to others is where all the good shit starts. connection. acceptance. respect.

oh yeah -- trust.

lord knows, my greatest hits have not been that great -- especially in regard to hooking up with others : friendships, romantic relationships, whatever. it does feel that the more i fuck up & the more i learn, the more enjoyable i become -- slowly figuring out who i am, and going through the necessary shit to come to terms with it.

instead of listing a grand set of attributes i'd like to become, i'm learning who i am and how to appreciate its distinctiveness.

there is an individual, perhaps he could be considered my best friend, who has been integral in this slow discovery. throughout the past few years, he's let me rant and rave, bitch and complain, wonder and express. . . . let me open myself up without fear of anything at all -- pushing me, perhaps unbeknownst even to him, to take those first real steps toward trust : in myself & others.

for this, i will always be indebted to him.

it is absolutely true that we are better people because of whom we love & care for. in my most recent entry, i kicked around the idea of the nature of emotion, and whilst i do believe love & adoration is born of a keenness of feeling -- needing to consistently feel the way they make us feel -- it is not sustained in such a manner.

what about unconditional love -- is it something truly attainable, outside of the parent/child relationship? is it something we should attempt to embody? is love without condition able to provide the prodding necessary to the development of the individual spirits on all sides of the relationship equation?

truly, down in who i am, i do want to learn this, how to commit to someone completely, without fear.

soon come.

june 26, 2002

este scrapbook : condensation

in addition to this publicly displayed journal, i consistently record random minutes in a myriad of blank books located in semi-ingenious locations -- nothing chronological, really, just whatever is closest when i feel the need to transcribe. this evening i'm in the mood to place these in this record -- if only to keep some sense of continuity amidst the scatter.

~ ~ ~

it is usually in the morning, while battling with the alarm clock & challenging my subconscious to yet another round of roulette, that i find the most plausible reasons & rationalizations for my existence. amidst the excruciating smoothness of daily drudgery, i can never pinpoint in comparable exactness why it is so incredibly important that i am alive. but somewhere betwixt the cascading fuzziness of half-re-hashed dreamtime fare and the pounding constancy of the alarm call beats the very heart of my purpose: but, unfortunately, i can never quite recall afterward. just a dusty postcard hinting at accomplishment, mailed posthaste from the back of my mind as it begins to descend my spinal column & disappear in my various organs for safe keeping through the day. . . . or a treacherously mocking aftertaste, bittersweet only in its unyielding lack of distinct flavor. i would say this is what a super hero sworn to secrecy must experience quite regularly, but that would imply that i had a rather detailed idea of what it is, in fact, i'm supposed to be doing. a more apt description might be that of jekyll & hyde -- cataclysmic hangovers hinting at some mysterious bad shit i'd gotten up into the night before. having no manner to record such persephonic endeavors, i have only the wrinkles in the bedsheets to read as a linen i-ching, explaining, in great detail, my past/present/future with a doubling of cloth. to aid in this decoding, i have purchased all silk sheets.

~ ~ ~

all this to say that i woke up this morning, again, with the naggingly refreshing feeling that i was on my way to something special, but was rather rudely interrupted by the most mundane of activities: living. certainly, there are those fools that coo in a childish singsong that "life is what you make it" but any rodent with an even average iq will attest to the fact that it truly is "life is how it makes you." the illusion of control is perhaps the cruelest aspect of any philosophical aspiration. by truly believing in the "security" control may provide, one has ultimately given up all power. all this & i haven't even had any fucking coffee yet. admittedly, this is a glowing excuse, primarily since i do not drink caffeine on a regular basis & can truly pawn any nonsensical ramble off on a long-standing lack of jitterbug juice in my system. it's convenient.

~ ~ ~

it is sometimes shocking how well the corners of one's life can fit together. briefly.

~ ~ ~

it is 1:25 a.m. i am lazily gripped by the queer feeling that these years of my life actually fit together rather sloppily -- worn edges & wrinkled sides bent from too many moves. once packing tea mugs -- four times books & magazines. . . .only once with towels. i made a joke the other evening to a friend that my blessing & curse is an almost photographic memory of those who have touched my development in some manner -- that i place them & their moments of distinction in a special box inside my memory. these can be both positive & negative experiences -- i don't pick & choose. i know only that it made an impact due to its presence in my general recollection. all types of realizations and adventures have a home here -- and there is most definitely room at the inn. one such moment is a memory of myself walking down my childhood lane, my ballet case filled with panties & secured by the shoe strings of roller-skates; an umbrella in hand & the fierce determination to "run away." or there is the first time a boy shoved his inexpert hand down my shirt, groping me, shocking me -- did anyone ever really think of me like that? do they still? ranging from the tiny to the enormous, seconds cataclysmic yet well-organized, an overall scrapbook of stolen boats & pot smoke. maintaining these snippets & sagas is second nature to me, an ongoing novella scribbling itself on the bathroom walls & fast food napkins in my mind. it is a gift, a disservice -- perhaps it could be classified as holding a grudge.

~ ~ ~

i am terrified. i feel like i'm losing my sense of touch. with all the mayhem going on & the outrageous vibe -- humans preparing to annihilate each other on the front lines -- i really feel insane. i need to get a grip on myself -- it's starting to crumble in the worst way possible. i'm spreading a negativity that doesn't need to exist. the outcome of everything is always unknown, it's always uncertain. being afraid is nothing. no need. what can i do? what will center me again? make a list -- a to-do list? how random & ridiculous is that? my teeth hurt. i feel like i'm rotting all over. last night i dreamt of anita & none of them remembered me, but she gave me a hug and tried to console me anyway. small pieces of my psyche alluding that i need to get my shit together. this terror i feel everyday needs to be channeled into something useful. otherwise i will be paralyzed.

~ ~ ~

wherever you are, i'll show up. but let me send a few postcards first.

~ ~ ~

i was, perhaps naively, touched by a bit of television i just viewed. it spoke of heaven and how harsh this world is. it made me think about the present & take stock of who/what i am. i am still so unfocused, unintegrated. all random parts of me battling for air time, lending the soul to a feeling of incomplete, irritating drive. i am always so anxious. it's devastating in its exhilaration. i have a drive framed by a lack of confidence -- and surely this must account for the doubt, the neediness, the nervousness. tracked through my journals, i most often worry a hole through the people i care for. but i often wonder if i perhaps do not care for anyone at all. i seem to care for only how they make me feel. isn't that how the human cares, though? when another being elicits a feeling in us that we like or enjoy -- long enough for us to treasure it and worry always that it will somehow go away forever? or is this how i understand love and concern because i am a narcissist? i have always had an ego, from the earliest memories -- i have always had pride. there was nothing more painful -- still isn't -- than to feel someone has underestimated or undervalued my worth -- and any of its various components. this is my method of decompressing, of listening for the tiniest of sounds to break through the quiet caused by the mayhem charging in my head, of ignoring the things that irritate me and allowing my imagination to drive, full throttle & choking on cliché, ahead.

~ ~ ~

playing hooky. egg on my face, but i put it there. i am in a state of inconsolability. i used to be much more fun than i am now -- and i think that's how i got this way. sans direction. 25 and still so terrified of connection -- yet craving/needing it so much. wonder. living life via protein shakes and energy bars. hiccuping state of mind. who would i be if i could let it all go?

~ ~ ~

laces fluttering down faded fumbled faces crumbling irises use your mother in law crepe paper inexplicably dejected & saved a milk carton scream opened up like every living thing

~ ~ ~

the steel of the sky is unforgiving on this early february sunday. i am twenty-six, yet i feel tied to an anchor of adolescence -- i have the ability to grasp & toil, yet i am filled with a perfect diastase for "meaning." seems my determination has wrought an overall disbelief in everything.

~ ~ ~

june 24, 2002

"if you're alone, it must be you that wants to be apart"

seams splitting, no?

blisters & caresses?

hammered silver solitude -- each day collects a catalogue of minor graces, occasionally synching with a bucking inner peace. i cannot put my finger on it, but something is burning through this lazy veneer of apathy & depression.

did i write before that i felt like i was mourning something? hello dead horse, come hither. i have been minorly successful in mediating this existential angst by avidly identifying it and demanding that my reaction to such self-indulgence be quite the opposite. when all i want to do is lay in bed & read all day long, i force myself to leave town.

certainly, such moments should be savored -- but all the more the fewer they become.

lest i should actually become self-educated via random reading material, i'm making it a point to commune with my fellow humans -- bullshit, flail in sea with dogs, attempt to conjure powerful emotions like rivalry & passion by engaging in meaningless board games which hint at skill and intellectual prowess.

yesterday, my younger brother played one of our old songs, slight of soul, and i realized i'd forgotten what a beautiful song it is. definitely, there are bits that are youngish and sort of unsophisticated, but that's almost it's charm -- at least for me, anyway. it was written when he was 16 and i was 19 and it keens so powerfully, despite its sometimes glib lyric design. i should attempt to digitize & post it here, in my tiny scrapbook.

but now it's nearing midnight -- i should be dreaming again.

june 20, 2002

elliot smith reverb

deeply, i feel all of it rushing in, and, como grabbing at straws, it is incorporated in whatever localized definition of whispering is most accessible at the moment -- up next, _ _ _ _ _ .

the crunch of water chestnuts. . . . i want to feel some integration. there is beauty in my daily toil -- clipping my imagination coupons, hoping to score an incredibly sweet deal.

once -- so long ago i can't even recall, nor place it in detail or circumstance -- i think i walked into a psychic door jamb and the bruise has only just healed. i'm fucking sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick of thinking i have to convince anyone of anything anymore. what drives me to do this? why do i feel so unworthy?

i wish there was a more eloquent way of expressing that i'm never enough in my own estimation, therefore i'll never be anything in anyone else's. that's the point, though, right? that i need to really, serenely, transmute this eagerness for approval/validation by an external commentator into the blanket acceptance of myself.

when i was a child, i would get so frustrated, so full of anger that i would flail on my collection of stuffed animals -- or pinch myself to concentrate on the affliction and nothing else.

strange to think this has been a constant. . . . . . of my nature. saddening to think of it as insolvable.

there are chord structures like this, angeles, which illicit tempered emotion every time.

scrapbook :

june 17, 2002

untitled

i fucking worship this.

june 12, 2002

celsius conversion

sometimes, while flossing my teeth, i will recall frenetic moments from my childhood in which i stood before the "downstairs bathroom" mirror and analyzed the strangely mutating features of my face. now, when i look in the mirror, i see the girl i was before everything started to change.

michael jackson's rock with you is filling the scene up right. lights out, heat vibrating off the pavement, cat calling, and mystic humidity working me up into a fine sweat.

"you're a beautiful woman"
"i don't feel beautiful -- just tired"

occasionally i read the online journals of friends, who i see every day, and provides a wonderful insight into the images/thoughts/wide-open which is bouncing around their brains every minute. there's some symmetry there.

okay, so i know i've been depressed. maybe it's chemical, maybe it's self-indulgent -- regardless, acknowledging it's presence and influence makes me feel like i'm half way to getting off this rollercoaster. . . . feels like the identification alone has lent to an overall commitment to stretching my emotional socks.

why do i still feel like i'm annoying everyone else most of the time? will i ever leave that behind?

from one of the sweetest sweets on the planet -- "as a $7.50 an hour microwave chef one day a week, i have to tell you i'm a little concerned."

june 10, 2002

last one in

had the pleasure of finally viewing y tu mama tambien last night -- what a wonderful film! it had come highly recommended by several friends -- the most humorous of which was from a co-worker who warned me that it was "almost soft core porn." she said, "be careful who you watch it with!"

sidebar :

the illustrious kinicat, in the wild

(delightful.)

june 9, 2002

bottles full of flowers

photochopping photos of arizona, reminds of gaudi :

sun without burn.

headed into the doctor a few more times this week, and although they were able to rule out all possible nasties, they weren't able to figure out exactly what the fuck is up. next stop: physical therapy.

so. . . . i'm feeling pretty smooth, despite the dull ache running through my muscles. it's a luscious day outside.

b found this link whilst i was in new york, and i keep forgetting to post it up here -- some fodder regarding copyright bullshit : did you know that skipping commercials is thievery? of note in this piece is a comment, made by robert heinlein, which much more eloquently states my perspective on this whole, "we must fight the progress of technology" point of view --

There has grown up in the minds of certain groups in this country the notion that because a man or a corporation has made a profit out of the public for a number of years , the government and the courts are charged with the duty of guaranteeing such profit in the future, even in the face of changing circumstances and contrary public interest. This strange doctrine is not supported by statute nor common law. Neither individuals nor corporations have any right to come into court and ask that the clock of history be stopped ,or turned back, for their private benefit. -- "Life-Line"

i've read about some of the action artists within the music industry are taking to reinvent the way in which they are compensated for their art, and truly, these are the individuals who need to determine how and what will be suitable recognition for their thoughts/ideas/creation. perhaps it is naive of me to feel this way, but it's true that if these technological advances continue to develop and provide an amazing level of access to everyone, the established modes of art-cum-commerce will crumble. is this necessarily a negative? i fantasize that it will foster a new breed of artist -- one that is less caught up in what their art is "saying."

/me soapbox.

june 4, 2002

v . 2 . 0

june 4, 2002

beneath the moon/under the sun

june 3, 2002

the coral island

it is delicious to be caught in minute musical detail -- tiny riff, off-kilter beat, radiating clefs in/out/around the solar plexus. kinetic -- unclad. . . .

what is the nature of creativity?

i've read several pieces by music critics parroting a recently deceased artist's claim that he shot smack because it "worked for him" -- it was the inspiration that eventually took on a life of it's own (his). i am reminded of a medley of history's most celebrated artists, you know the hit list, inducing the muse into action by grabbing at alteration -- how the very interpretation of creativity has so often consisted of glorified experiences with quasi-dimensions, produced in our mind's eye when all the brain cells have gone out to play.

somehow, it just feels cheaper that way.

it reminds me of adam, who once said that he envisioned his mind as a computer and all matter of psychotropic drugs were merely rotating varieties of software.

but it all feels exceedingly observed anyway, my senses continually overloaded so that my mind must hide behind the surreal -- is it possible to keen from the presence of it all, yet lament the inability to actually connect?

when i speak to my mother about my recent overwhelming sense of apathy -- not boredom, i swear! -- she references her own lifelong battle with restlessness, and her father before her. perhaps we are gypsies at heart, and our anger/frustration/sadness has been wrought upon ourselves by our inability to sacrifice the definitions of "secure" and "responsible" for the clearly unknown that we love. ah, the romance of the vagabond -- if it was truly lovely, i'd be in on it in a minute.

how to keep it all together, mi amor?

at work, days pass as non-sequential moments pasted into form with dried coffee rings and beading water glasses; my mind is careless and the toil is without merit.

my left leg has been aching for a few weeks now, but got significantly worse this afternoon. i hoofed it up to the doc & she couldn't adequately explain the dull ache, the feeling of tautness, the shimmering of cold from my hip to my toes. tomorrow i head in for an ultrasound on the leg, and i must admit, the idea of it alone is terrifying.