cognitive mumbo jumbo
I'm a rhetorical mess.
sandpaper goldmine
A soul collecting in the slits of the cement, dripping down into the edges of traffic. An amber puddle beneath bare feet. Veins of mercury webbed under the shell of paper soft skin, wedged between your toes. Crouched down to pick up a billfold of powdered fingernails in the alleyway. Fold it neatly into the back pocket of your blue jeans, for a tuesday afternoon. A mason jar suspended above elmer's glue lips- histamine air condensing along the curves of the glass. The liquid drip falls into the gloss of a marble eye, sliding to the edges of a psilocybin lid. A smile of green seeds, a cough of toxic insanity. You kiss the hand of pollutant kingdoms, as everyone has before you.
bored and thinking.
I can roll my mind into a paper ball, and tuck it into my pocket. Deep it will hide, and fragile it is. My emotions, my feelings, they can fit down beneath my feet. Like chewing gum, burdening the tracks of my shoe. My soul, if that's what it is, I float on it. My body, the shell I use, grips it with all intensity. It is a tormented buoy among stormy waters. My home- these waters, is what keeps me sane. safe. secluded. |
happiness is overrated.
I'm sick of self help books. If I had a penny for every time a self-styled happiness guru has pointed out that our increased riches and health have made us no happier than we were 50 years ago, I would have enough money to buy a really good pair of those Bose headphones - you know the ones that enable you to complete block out the wittering of people nearby, especially that of those who enjoining you to be happy. There is only one thing more dismal than the prospect of attending lessons in happiness and that is listening to Ken Dodd's song on the same subject. "Happiness, happiness," sang the forerunner of the current glut of happiness gurus, "The greatest gift that I possess." A song that makes me want to hit the bottle, at the very least, shoot up some Heroin. What is happiness? It is nothing but the quick climax of a naive, unrealistic twit. Suffering is much better.The experience of suffering enriches our existence. Not too much suffering, obviously, because then you would be dead and, by definition, unable to benefit from suffering. Point me out the happy man and I will point you out either egotism, selfishness, evil - or else absolute ignorance. |
cheers.
Do you remember the time that we sat and spoke for hours and had nothing to say? You laughed at me. You laughed, because I would not look up at you. You criminal. You stole my thoughts from me, and I closed my eyes. I hid from you, and this was okay. Do you remember that time we thought it was a good idea to drink together, alone, in a closed room? It was a disaster. We gripped at the sleeves that our hearts rested upon. You and your brown sweater. Our laughter emanating to those places we have forgotten, and we can no longer travel to. Do you remember the time you kissed a girl and I was insecure? I was insecure that our friendship would end. I teased you. She had poodle hair. You were so angry with me, and with every glance from your solemn face- I glowed. We stopped speaking that night. Do you remember the names we called eachother? Some with anger, some with joy, but all with love. I always did something wrong, and you never did anything right. We owned eachother, and yet we went our own ways. Do you remember the last time I spoke with you? I don't. Do you remember the last time I thought of you? You don't. Do you remember that I told you I would never forget about you? |
understanding.
I've come to believe that the valid essence of a human being can be comprised of three faces; the face that others see, the face that you see, and the face that actually exists. Some spend their lives trying to understand others, and some spend their lives trying to understand themselves. I've come to realize that I'm from the latter party, yet the transition from understanding the facet of which you've made and what lies beneath is frustrating. There is a war within me. I can't comprehend how something inside of me isn't near me, cognitively speaking. I've spent a good decade struggling to understand myself, and I believe it'is this struggle which has tainted my own perspective of what I actually am. Finally, I've come to the conclusion that all three perspectives hold true to the being, yet separately they hold no justice to the being. It is each different version of yourself that will shed light on another. |
my favorite slam poem.
I want a love like me thinking of you thinking of me thinking of you type love or me telling my friends more than I’ve ever admitted to myself about how I feel about you type love or hating how jealous you are but loving how much you want me all to yourself type love See, I want a love that makes me wait until she falls asleep then wonder if she’s dreaming about us being in love type love or who loves the other more or what she’s doing at this exact moment or slow dancing in the middle of our apartment to the music of our hearts. And check this- I wanna place those little post-it notes all around the house so she never forgets how much I love her type love and just like in high school I wanna spend hours on the phone not saying shit and then fall asleep and then wake up with her right next to me and smell her all up in my covers type love and I wanna deal with my friends making fun of me the way I made fun of them when they went through the same kind of love type love. I wanna try counting the ways I love her then lose count in the middle just so I could start all over again (I wanna breakdown the time we spend into seconds just so it sounds like we spend more time together type love) (and also like in high school) I wanna celebrate one of those one-month anniversaries even though they ain’t really anniversaries but doing it just ‘cause it makes her happy type love and I wanna fall in love with the melody the phone plays when her number's dial into it then talk to you until I lose my breath, she leaves me breathless, but with the expanding of my lungs I inhale all of her back into me. I want a love that makes me need to change my cell phone calling plan to something that allows me to talk to her longer ‘cause in all honesty, I want to avoid one of them high cell phone bill type loves and I want a love that makes me st-st-st-stutter just thinking about how strong this love is type love and I want a love that makes me want to cut off all my hair... Well maybe not all of the hair, maybe like I’d cut the split ends and trim the mustache but it would still be a symbol of how strong my love is for her. I kind of feel comfortable now so I can tell you this I even be fantasizing about walking out on a green light just dying to get hit by a car just so I could lose my memory, get transported to some third world country just to get treated and somehow meet up again with you so I could fall in love with you in a different language and see if it still feels the same type love. I want a love that’s as unexplainable as she is |
super tuesday.
I've never seen anything like it. One hundred middle-aged individuals were lined up along our small liberal arts college voting booths, yesterday. Screaming obscenities and reassuring our place in Hell. Spit protruding from their loud, open, and ignorant mouths. "YOU BABY KILLERS! YOU WHORES! YOU SINNERS! YOU MINORITIES! YOU HEATHENS!
Do people really believe that our country is doomed if a black man or a liberal woman is elected into office? Why do people only define patriotism as those who believe that every action our government takes...is the right one? What can demeaning acts of protest, violence, and hurt solve? ugh.
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s.a.d.
| Seasonal Affective Disorder, my friends. I've got it bad. BLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!!!!!!!!!!! that is all. |
Mental Catharsis via the internet.
I can reflect upon my brain. I must exist in some ineffable space beyond it. The philosopher can't understand how A and not-A can both be true. Doesn't see how "yes and no" is often the most legitimate of answers. Baffles him. Intolerant of paradox. Proud reason. In abstracto. Autonomous. Yielding to no authority outside its own bounds. It will be bound to its confusion for all time. Because it couldn't ever tolerate ambiguity. How she lived here, so will she live hereafter. Vain trusting in yourself and your own abilities to figure out life. Make strides and connections, but the totality you will never understand. Try some more. There's no solid ground for your idle meanders. Thoughts astray. They come back upon you again and again. They're always gonna come back to you. Until you believe. I apologize if you read this poop. |
Love and Solitude
| It's often said that hate is not the opposite of love, but indifference. I think this may be true on something of a particular level, but as a more general mode of being it seems that solitude is the opposite of love. In solitude we are closed in on ourselves. I live for my self. The self is the object of my energy. I live not in relation to the other--it's just Me. In solitude I refuse to give of my self, refuse to lose my self in the other but for a moment. Likewise, in solitude I refuse to accept in love some other who approaches the sphere of my self. I erect a wall to keep the other out, and I will not accept the help that the other is willing to offer me. Love is not just giving of oneself, but the willingness to be given. Such a reciprocity, a life lived in perpetual relationship, is absolutely necessary to one's happiness. We really and genuinely need each other. Love= IYou Solitude= Me | them |
aggravated ramble.
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I can't fathom the people that I once knew. The people that I know. The people that I will meet. The one's who sell their soul for a "unique image". What unique image is that? The one you spent hours upon hours searching for in magazines? The one you stole from thousands of glossy pages? Yes, that's it. You apply that domino of layered chalk across your face, with MTV playing in the mirror's reflection. You worry about your size, your shape, and who will find you attractive. You have a mind, you know? It is one of the most amazing aspects of your body. Do something special with it. Reality slapped me in the face quite a long time ago. I'm not like you anymore. I never will be.
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Musty Comics & Coffee Stained Photos
I'm sitting on a turned over bucket with my face fixated towards the television screen. Here, I'm in my parent's attic watching a four year old boy run across the screen. His dark hair, hiding his cherub-like complexion as he tosses himself across the leaved lawn. No sound is heard, accept that of "Only You", dubbed over his laughter. That was my morning. I was the only able one to sort through a mountain of memories encased in the attic, and I didn't mind it. However, my father is in this "we can only take what we need" termination mode, and it's very unappealing. The task given was to clean out the entire attic, and how much of that actually happened? Not even a little. I spent four hours sorting through old family photos, toys, marraige certificates, letters, clothing, magazines, newspapers, drawings, and videos. I didn't want to throw out any of this stuff, and I didn't understand why he felt like we needed to. So, every half hour I would kick open the stairs leading down to the kitchen, and fill up my mug with coffee. My father, I guess, could hear me tumbling into the kitchen so he would come and meet me, "How's it going?" "Geez, Dad! It's going great. I'm cleaning so well, you won't even recognize the attic. I've been so busy, and I just came down for a drink." I was lying, terribly. I could have just told him that I decided not to toss anything out, and that I really felt that I would even carry it all in large garbage bags to the new home, by myself. But I just didn't, as if that was going to help. Two hours later, my parents were wondering what I was up to. And at this exact moment in time, I'm laying in a box of post 1950's clothing reading a newspaper. I hear the stairs fall. I stop breathing. I hear my parents climbing up the stairs. I start panicking. I'm looking around, and I realize that this is the day that I die. My father's head peaks around the corner, and this look of anger consumes his face. I've never heard so many synonyms for the word 'lazy' before. So, picture this: A race to see who can grab the most of what is scattered in the room. I'm ripping up everything in sight to prevent it's destruction, as my father is tossing things down the stairwell. I'm guessing for a bonfire. My mother is standing in the corner of the attic, waving her arms and yelling. It was a humorous sight, now that I think about it. I have five photo albums shoved inside of my shirt, my aunt's lime green peacoat around my neck, a feather hat, a set of GI Joes', my grandfather's uniform shoes, and a box of letters. My father sees me sprinting towards the doorway, and as I'm looking behind me...all I can see are these two hands reaching towards my face. Well, I trip and slide down the small, wooden, stairway...basically the pea coat is choking me, or my father holding it (still standing up in the attic). I lost the peacoat, but I still have all of this other stuff (which is now secured in my bedroom).
I sat upstairs watching my father out the window. Then, I watched my beloved belongings, engulfed in a four foot flame.
That was my afternoon. |
