going to martha's vineyard for christmas. ought to be fun.
going sledding today with girlfriend. ought to be perfect. would be more perfect if I were able to sleep at all tonight. just staying awake. sick. tired. how does that song go? something by jewel or some bullshit.
couldn't get the thought out of my head: "condemned to freedom." what does that mean? all I came up with was an idea for a story of three thousand words or more. starring, of course, the devil and the everyman.
the devil's got his everyman locked up in a jail. cuffs around his wrist draw blood every time he moves. bread and water only once every day. he's put into stress positions, with his arms behind his back, bent forward, chained to a chair. left that way for hours. (of course, a modern version of the hellish prison would resemble guantanamo bay.)
but the devil isn't satisfied with this jail. not cost-effective, and too expensive to be imperfect. so he sets and thinks a while as his everyman is tearing his rotator cuffs. "what," thinks the devil, "is the most perfect, inescapable prison in the universe?"
his answer: a man's heart.
one night, after passing out on a waterboarding gurney, the devil's everyman wakes up to find his arms and legs unbound and the door to his prison open. he walks outside, sheepish, unsure if this is some sort of test or trap- but no. he hears nothing outside, no sounds of life, no footsteps, not even the heavy breathing of his torturers which he'd grown to fear.
he slowly, carefully walks out of his cell, then slowly, carefully out of the prison.
why did they let him free? he asks himself. what did he do? where did they go? did they really go?
not knowing any of this, he'll instead try to think back to the reason he was first imprisoned. what had he done? surely he'd offended his jailors somehow, and surely they'd discovered their mistake, that it was only an accident, his offence, or that it had never happened at all, and, upon realising this, they'd gone, abandoned him, in case he decided to sue them for their criminal actions.
but why didn't they warn him not to seek them out if this were so? if they were barbaric enough to torture him so, surely it wouldn't be beneath them to threaten him. and it was certainly in their power to kill him, should they so decide. if they could abduct him in the first place, they could probably have him dead any day they chose to. with that sort of character and that sort of power, he expected some sort of threat, but nothing came. they just left, all of a sudden.
that was frustrating, but that wasn't the new prison. the new prison was what the devil's everyman was supposed to do now. in prison, he had something to define himself against. he was not the torturer, he was the tortured. they abducted him, they tortured him. he hated them. now that they were gone, what was he?
his definition of what life was had been so altered by his internment that he could barely recognize normalcy for what it was. indeed, he suspected that normalcy no longer existed for him- it only occurred in short gasps of his life spent outside a cloying, unnameable fear. it was a memory.
as misshapen and warped a definition as that was, the devil's everyman will soon realise that, for all its flaws, in spite of it lacking any resemblance to reality, it was a definition. it was clear- in it, there was a place for him, and a place for all other things. he has none of that now.
eventually, he'll find something to struggle with, but it won't be that thing. it'll be the search for something to struggle with. that's his prison: seeking out an adversary. looking for some new devil. when he finds one, oh, it'll be swell, he'll have his side, the devil will have his own. it'll be so clearly, cleverly defined.
in the meanwhile, what will he have? existential stasis. nothing will change, because it won't have to: he's free, after all. isn't he?
Monday, December 22, 2008
Thursday, December 18, 2008
chapter three: the worst part's almost over
the bus was late, half an hour, when it got here had to wait another hour and a half, got to northampton, tired, hungry, bored, out of tune, red, throbbing note stabbed into the chord of downtown, night was dirty, not yet snowing.
there was a guy playing steel drums. wondered how the wet snow changed his sound. muffled it. distorted it. wondered what that would be like: to be a drop of water in the bowl of a steel drum, shaking from top to bottom every time he hit the drum, wanting to freeze, being annoyed. can't stop shaking, can't begrudge the steel drum player: it's his job, and how could you hate such a mellow vibe?
never-ending amount of shit to do. shopping. studying. writing. sick of eating. hate the fact that I sleep. habits, man.
here is a finite perception of infinite judgment:
it would happen in the present. (the present being within three seconds of the event. or, sin.) it would happen in suspended animation: the present wouldn't freeze, it'd be like a clip on a loop, the same three seconds neither in motion nor in stasis, moving only as much as is needed to qualify it as both suspended and animated. the full context would be reapplied. the immediacy of the event (or sin) would exist again, independent of the passage of time or memory or exadduration or any mortal effort to undermine or understate its importance. if everything is infinite, if nothing stops, ever, if what happens in the present doesn't really cease, but just stays there, like a line of a poem, then neither should its judgment. neither should its most final analysis.
the irony here is that, if such a judgment is really objective, if such a judgment is concerned only with the binary of "what is right" and "what is wrong," only with whether or not the event (or sin) adheres to the rules, be they dictated by god or some other infinite construct our finite means struggle to comprehend, if the goal of this judgment is to separate the wheat from the chaff, reward what's right and punish what's wrong, if after this process which could and should be prolongued into infinity, if everything it judges is itself infinite, how can you deny anybody heaven? after reliving every last action, every last decision, sin, boon and inbetween, every fucking thing you've ever done, what benevelent god would throw your immortal soul in a lake after putting it through that horse shit?
oh, then, of course, comes the counter-argument that in this infinite world, time does not exist, and the whole process will occur in less than the blink of an eye (interesting, that cliche, as though the blink of an eye were the smallest colloquial unit of measurement when it comes to time. I use three seconds for two reasons: in any given culture, one line of poetry is no longer than three seconds long, and when describing an event in the immediate present, the present tense is exchanged for the past tense after a waiting period, which usually lasts for three seconds.). convenient, that whole omnipotent-and-omniscient thing.
to which I respond: yes, but that undermines our infinite souls. sure, they're freed from our finite bodies. they're both on the same level, have the same perception of time. if that's so, both are unable to judge something that neither believes to exist. what I'm arguing is that to judge everything, even the smallest of things you've done, would be a torturous process, independent of time. perhaps because it would be independent of time.
yes, that's an opinion, based on a finite understanding of what time is, and only a conjecture about what time is to the infinite. but goddamn, that would be a drag, wouldn't it? to have your soul fractured into a million little pieces, divided equally throughout your life, haggling with god over why your name should be on the list. especially if my suspicions are correct, and he doesn't have a sense of humor.
there was a guy playing steel drums. wondered how the wet snow changed his sound. muffled it. distorted it. wondered what that would be like: to be a drop of water in the bowl of a steel drum, shaking from top to bottom every time he hit the drum, wanting to freeze, being annoyed. can't stop shaking, can't begrudge the steel drum player: it's his job, and how could you hate such a mellow vibe?
never-ending amount of shit to do. shopping. studying. writing. sick of eating. hate the fact that I sleep. habits, man.
here is a finite perception of infinite judgment:
it would happen in the present. (the present being within three seconds of the event. or, sin.) it would happen in suspended animation: the present wouldn't freeze, it'd be like a clip on a loop, the same three seconds neither in motion nor in stasis, moving only as much as is needed to qualify it as both suspended and animated. the full context would be reapplied. the immediacy of the event (or sin) would exist again, independent of the passage of time or memory or exadduration or any mortal effort to undermine or understate its importance. if everything is infinite, if nothing stops, ever, if what happens in the present doesn't really cease, but just stays there, like a line of a poem, then neither should its judgment. neither should its most final analysis.
the irony here is that, if such a judgment is really objective, if such a judgment is concerned only with the binary of "what is right" and "what is wrong," only with whether or not the event (or sin) adheres to the rules, be they dictated by god or some other infinite construct our finite means struggle to comprehend, if the goal of this judgment is to separate the wheat from the chaff, reward what's right and punish what's wrong, if after this process which could and should be prolongued into infinity, if everything it judges is itself infinite, how can you deny anybody heaven? after reliving every last action, every last decision, sin, boon and inbetween, every fucking thing you've ever done, what benevelent god would throw your immortal soul in a lake after putting it through that horse shit?
oh, then, of course, comes the counter-argument that in this infinite world, time does not exist, and the whole process will occur in less than the blink of an eye (interesting, that cliche, as though the blink of an eye were the smallest colloquial unit of measurement when it comes to time. I use three seconds for two reasons: in any given culture, one line of poetry is no longer than three seconds long, and when describing an event in the immediate present, the present tense is exchanged for the past tense after a waiting period, which usually lasts for three seconds.). convenient, that whole omnipotent-and-omniscient thing.
to which I respond: yes, but that undermines our infinite souls. sure, they're freed from our finite bodies. they're both on the same level, have the same perception of time. if that's so, both are unable to judge something that neither believes to exist. what I'm arguing is that to judge everything, even the smallest of things you've done, would be a torturous process, independent of time. perhaps because it would be independent of time.
yes, that's an opinion, based on a finite understanding of what time is, and only a conjecture about what time is to the infinite. but goddamn, that would be a drag, wouldn't it? to have your soul fractured into a million little pieces, divided equally throughout your life, haggling with god over why your name should be on the list. especially if my suspicions are correct, and he doesn't have a sense of humor.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
chapter two: meanwhile, one year and one day in the future
here is an inventory of my blog:
- I've gotten views from most continents.
- I've gotten views from a collection of Western European countries, including Great Britain.
- I've written at length about Steve Wilkos, Jonestown, David Foster Wallace, The 99, sleep deprivation, Hillary Clinton, Jay Severin, Lou Dobbs, omelettes, excercise, school, writing and faith. - What's the twist, you ask? Oh, Sam, I'd love to know what all this buildup was for. What have I been reading for? What truth have you been dying to reveal, all along?
brace yourself, home slices. here it is. I'm going to indent this, so you'll have to scroll down. way down. if you want in on this particular bit of enlightened tomfoolery.
ready? ok. seriously? no jokes. this is serious time.
I'm really indenting now.
seriously.
don't you feel silly! here, you thought I was making it all up, but no! word for fucking word! go, look it up. I guarantee you. I should know, shouldn't I?
- I've gotten views from most continents.
- I've gotten views from a collection of Western European countries, including Great Britain.
- I've written at length about Steve Wilkos, Jonestown, David Foster Wallace, The 99, sleep deprivation, Hillary Clinton, Jay Severin, Lou Dobbs, omelettes, excercise, school, writing and faith. - What's the twist, you ask? Oh, Sam, I'd love to know what all this buildup was for. What have I been reading for? What truth have you been dying to reveal, all along?
brace yourself, home slices. here it is. I'm going to indent this, so you'll have to scroll down. way down. if you want in on this particular bit of enlightened tomfoolery.
ready? ok. seriously? no jokes. this is serious time.
I'm really indenting now.
seriously.
it was all about this guy.
don't you feel silly! here, you thought I was making it all up, but no! word for fucking word! go, look it up. I guarantee you. I should know, shouldn't I?
Sunday, December 7, 2008
chapter one: wear dark, wear layers
the theme for this week's english class was henry james, who was bisexual.
here is what I would like to know. here is what I would love: for somebody to explain to me- maybe an english professor- maybe even a classics or geo-sci professor, at this point I find it hard to distinguish- I would like them to explain how, why, to what extent, and exactly which areas of my liberal education are directly affected by henry james's bisexuality.
that would be fantastic.
in the meanwhile, it only makes sense to ignore all other things said about henry james, this week, at least, while the theme of the class is "henry james: a bisexual person from a hundred years ago." and I know, absence of presence is not presence of absence. I'm not saying it's unimportant. I'm saying I don't know why it's important. the two statements are not the same.
fast forward to next week's fine selection, "raymond carver: a tough guy exterior masking a lifelong obsession with having sex with the rectums of men." followed by "franz kafka: the metamorphosis was really a later draft wherein the word 'penis' was replaced by 'beetle.'"
do I want to blame it on freud? yes. yes I do. how convenient would that be? to pin every logical fallacy of the twentieth century on sigmund freud. he fucked up one generation, didn't he? well, jesus, obviously he must've influenced eugenics in some sinister way. no wonder roe v. wade was founded on such a bullshit compromise! look at the interpretation of dreams, it's right there!
here is my thesis: a biographical interpretation of a text devalues it of any importance or pertinence to the society it critiques. if understood primarily as a symptom of the author's psyche, a text becomes too personal to mean anything past that. it's a lazy way to read, the only goal of which is to say, "hmm, that's interesting." nothing more is even attempted.
there's a paper I'm in no hurry to write.
here is what I would like to know. here is what I would love: for somebody to explain to me- maybe an english professor- maybe even a classics or geo-sci professor, at this point I find it hard to distinguish- I would like them to explain how, why, to what extent, and exactly which areas of my liberal education are directly affected by henry james's bisexuality.
that would be fantastic.
in the meanwhile, it only makes sense to ignore all other things said about henry james, this week, at least, while the theme of the class is "henry james: a bisexual person from a hundred years ago." and I know, absence of presence is not presence of absence. I'm not saying it's unimportant. I'm saying I don't know why it's important. the two statements are not the same.
fast forward to next week's fine selection, "raymond carver: a tough guy exterior masking a lifelong obsession with having sex with the rectums of men." followed by "franz kafka: the metamorphosis was really a later draft wherein the word 'penis' was replaced by 'beetle.'"
do I want to blame it on freud? yes. yes I do. how convenient would that be? to pin every logical fallacy of the twentieth century on sigmund freud. he fucked up one generation, didn't he? well, jesus, obviously he must've influenced eugenics in some sinister way. no wonder roe v. wade was founded on such a bullshit compromise! look at the interpretation of dreams, it's right there!
here is my thesis: a biographical interpretation of a text devalues it of any importance or pertinence to the society it critiques. if understood primarily as a symptom of the author's psyche, a text becomes too personal to mean anything past that. it's a lazy way to read, the only goal of which is to say, "hmm, that's interesting." nothing more is even attempted.
there's a paper I'm in no hurry to write.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
chapter five: round two
sam: Oh, hi!
sam: hello there! how are you?
sam: quite well. yourself?
sam: impeccable!
sam: really?
sam: yes, impeccable. do you happen to know what that means?
sam: impeccable?
sam: yes, I'm sure it has to be something positive.
sam: it does sound like a nice thing to call yourself.
sam: give it a whirl, why don't you?
sam: really?
sam: well, what better word is there to say about yourself?
sam: than impeccable?
sam: yes, go on.
sam: alright. today was impeccable. I hope tomorrow is like that.
sam: see! doesn't that feel good?
sam: impeccable!
sam: yes, yes, truly.
sam: have you heard the news?
sam: I've heard plenty of news, yes.
sam: there's always so much.
sam: indeed. I wonder if they'll ever run out.
sam: who?
sam: oh, the people who make the news. they're very busy, you know
sam: yes, an industrious lot.
sam: you know, I was considering a career in communications.
sam: you've been speaking English your entire life, haven't you?
sam: yes, yes, but in media, I mean
sam: really?
sam: it's quite interesting, don't you think?
sam: oh, it's not fair to call a thing interesting!
sam: do you think so?
sam: of course! everything is interesting.
sam: yes, you have a point.
sam: to call one thing interesting is to ignore everything else, which might be just as interesting, and worthy of mention.
sam: even in the same sentence!
sam: indeed.
sam: not that I hold it against you, of course.
sam: of course not!
sam: that would be decidedly unimpeccable.
sam: banish the thought!
sam: but continue, I apologize for sidetracking you.
sam: not to worry, digression is the source of wit, isn't it?
sam: exactly! what were you saying?
sam: I'm having trouble remembering.
sam: was it something about media?
sam: yes, media! I was thinking of taking up a career in communications.
sam: really?
sam: as a lifestyle, yes.
sam: what would that entail?
sam: well, I'd have to learn about radio, television, the internet, print, magazines, books, articles, quarterlies, pamphlets, all sorts of things.
sam: my, that sounds complicated!
sam: yes, hence the interest.
sam: what a deceptively titled subject, communications.
sam: I doubt it's anything subversive.
sam: oh no. that would be quite sinister.
sam: to trick students into taking courses based entirely on the title of the major!
sam: I hope it's not anything like that.
sam: it's extremely unlikely, I think.
sam: and you'd have to be quite convinceable to stick with such a career course, based only on the word "communications."
sam: so convinceable that you ought to major in communications!
sam: ah! how clever!
sam: thank you.
sam: you're in rare form today.
sam: yes, thank you. I hope I haven't offended anybody.
sam: oh, not at all. I'm not a communications major.
sam: I thought you said you were?
sam: no, I'm only considering it. it's one of many options.
sam: options are good, aren't they?
sam: yes, I quite agree.
sam: best to have as many choices open to you as possible, isn't it?
sam: absolutely!
sam: without a doubt!
sam: it's easier to avoid having a bad time that way.
sam: oh, I do dislike that.
sam: do you?
sam: intensely!
sam: having a bad time, you mean?
sam: oh, yes. there's nothing so irritating.
sam: like what, for example?
sam: well, for example, walking uphill, or up stairs. it's quite tiring. had I the option of standing on a conveyor belt, or taking a chairlift, or an elevator, I would gladly do that.
sam: I bet that's a rare occurence, though.
sam: taking a chairlift?
sam: yes.
sam: you're correct in that. as with riding an elevator.
sam: I suppose it would be easier if you were handicapped.
sam: how so?
sam: then you wouldn't have to bother with stairs anymore. or hills. you'd not have to worry about scaling anything with a grade larger than thirty degrees.
sam: is that so?
sam: yes, anything steeper and you'd have an aide.
sam: like a dog?
sam: maybe, or a person.
sam: I'd much rather have a dog. I'd hate to hold a person back like that.
sam: a dog's easier to emote with, anyways.
sam: not that I have anything against people, though
sam: of course not!
sam: I'd just feel as though I were constantly holding him or her back.
sam: being a nuisance?
sam: yes, I couldn't endure that.
sam: well, you know, you'd be paying this person.
sam: I suppose that would make up for most of it.
sam: and they'd find another handicapped person to help, if not you.
sam: yes, you're right. they're trained professionals. it's a job to them.
sam: but I imagine it wouldn't be a nice feeling, knowing you're somebody's job.
sam: I'm sure it wouldn't be too impersonal, considering the circumstances.
sam: of being handicapped?
sam: yes. I reckon it's a very sensitive and complicated relationship, what forms between a handicapped person and his or her aide. They probably have classes on it.
sam: or they should!
sam: indeed!
sam: because truly, what can you know about human kindness without an understanding of that?
sam: of what?
sam: the relationship between handicapped people and their aides.
sam: not only of that, but of the whole situation.
sam: yes, you're right. you'd have to know about each of their parents, the source of the handicapp, where the aide went to school, for how long, etc.
sam: anything short would be a disservice.
sam: an unaccurate account of things.
sam: do you think there's really something elemental there?
sam: elemantal how?
sam: I mean with those relationships.
sam: yes, but do you mean essential to, what did you say?
sam: an understanding...
sam: oh, yes. well. I'm not sure if it's essential, but if it's an important enough story, I'd be satisfied with that.
sam: with it being important?
sam: yes.
sam: but not essential.
sam: well, yes. I'd be happy with that.
sam: what's the difference?
sam: I don't think anybody can tell, to be frank.
sam: I'm sure it's very hard to discern.
sam: I bet there's a course in that, too.
sam: certainly!
sam: hello there! how are you?
sam: quite well. yourself?
sam: impeccable!
sam: really?
sam: yes, impeccable. do you happen to know what that means?
sam: impeccable?
sam: yes, I'm sure it has to be something positive.
sam: it does sound like a nice thing to call yourself.
sam: give it a whirl, why don't you?
sam: really?
sam: well, what better word is there to say about yourself?
sam: than impeccable?
sam: yes, go on.
sam: alright. today was impeccable. I hope tomorrow is like that.
sam: see! doesn't that feel good?
sam: impeccable!
sam: yes, yes, truly.
sam: have you heard the news?
sam: I've heard plenty of news, yes.
sam: there's always so much.
sam: indeed. I wonder if they'll ever run out.
sam: who?
sam: oh, the people who make the news. they're very busy, you know
sam: yes, an industrious lot.
sam: you know, I was considering a career in communications.
sam: you've been speaking English your entire life, haven't you?
sam: yes, yes, but in media, I mean
sam: really?
sam: it's quite interesting, don't you think?
sam: oh, it's not fair to call a thing interesting!
sam: do you think so?
sam: of course! everything is interesting.
sam: yes, you have a point.
sam: to call one thing interesting is to ignore everything else, which might be just as interesting, and worthy of mention.
sam: even in the same sentence!
sam: indeed.
sam: not that I hold it against you, of course.
sam: of course not!
sam: that would be decidedly unimpeccable.
sam: banish the thought!
sam: but continue, I apologize for sidetracking you.
sam: not to worry, digression is the source of wit, isn't it?
sam: exactly! what were you saying?
sam: I'm having trouble remembering.
sam: was it something about media?
sam: yes, media! I was thinking of taking up a career in communications.
sam: really?
sam: as a lifestyle, yes.
sam: what would that entail?
sam: well, I'd have to learn about radio, television, the internet, print, magazines, books, articles, quarterlies, pamphlets, all sorts of things.
sam: my, that sounds complicated!
sam: yes, hence the interest.
sam: what a deceptively titled subject, communications.
sam: I doubt it's anything subversive.
sam: oh no. that would be quite sinister.
sam: to trick students into taking courses based entirely on the title of the major!
sam: I hope it's not anything like that.
sam: it's extremely unlikely, I think.
sam: and you'd have to be quite convinceable to stick with such a career course, based only on the word "communications."
sam: so convinceable that you ought to major in communications!
sam: ah! how clever!
sam: thank you.
sam: you're in rare form today.
sam: yes, thank you. I hope I haven't offended anybody.
sam: oh, not at all. I'm not a communications major.
sam: I thought you said you were?
sam: no, I'm only considering it. it's one of many options.
sam: options are good, aren't they?
sam: yes, I quite agree.
sam: best to have as many choices open to you as possible, isn't it?
sam: absolutely!
sam: without a doubt!
sam: it's easier to avoid having a bad time that way.
sam: oh, I do dislike that.
sam: do you?
sam: intensely!
sam: having a bad time, you mean?
sam: oh, yes. there's nothing so irritating.
sam: like what, for example?
sam: well, for example, walking uphill, or up stairs. it's quite tiring. had I the option of standing on a conveyor belt, or taking a chairlift, or an elevator, I would gladly do that.
sam: I bet that's a rare occurence, though.
sam: taking a chairlift?
sam: yes.
sam: you're correct in that. as with riding an elevator.
sam: I suppose it would be easier if you were handicapped.
sam: how so?
sam: then you wouldn't have to bother with stairs anymore. or hills. you'd not have to worry about scaling anything with a grade larger than thirty degrees.
sam: is that so?
sam: yes, anything steeper and you'd have an aide.
sam: like a dog?
sam: maybe, or a person.
sam: I'd much rather have a dog. I'd hate to hold a person back like that.
sam: a dog's easier to emote with, anyways.
sam: not that I have anything against people, though
sam: of course not!
sam: I'd just feel as though I were constantly holding him or her back.
sam: being a nuisance?
sam: yes, I couldn't endure that.
sam: well, you know, you'd be paying this person.
sam: I suppose that would make up for most of it.
sam: and they'd find another handicapped person to help, if not you.
sam: yes, you're right. they're trained professionals. it's a job to them.
sam: but I imagine it wouldn't be a nice feeling, knowing you're somebody's job.
sam: I'm sure it wouldn't be too impersonal, considering the circumstances.
sam: of being handicapped?
sam: yes. I reckon it's a very sensitive and complicated relationship, what forms between a handicapped person and his or her aide. They probably have classes on it.
sam: or they should!
sam: indeed!
sam: because truly, what can you know about human kindness without an understanding of that?
sam: of what?
sam: the relationship between handicapped people and their aides.
sam: not only of that, but of the whole situation.
sam: yes, you're right. you'd have to know about each of their parents, the source of the handicapp, where the aide went to school, for how long, etc.
sam: anything short would be a disservice.
sam: an unaccurate account of things.
sam: do you think there's really something elemental there?
sam: elemantal how?
sam: I mean with those relationships.
sam: yes, but do you mean essential to, what did you say?
sam: an understanding...
sam: oh, yes. well. I'm not sure if it's essential, but if it's an important enough story, I'd be satisfied with that.
sam: with it being important?
sam: yes.
sam: but not essential.
sam: well, yes. I'd be happy with that.
sam: what's the difference?
sam: I don't think anybody can tell, to be frank.
sam: I'm sure it's very hard to discern.
sam: I bet there's a course in that, too.
sam: certainly!
Sunday, November 23, 2008
chapter four: white lady loves you more
it's exactly as I predicted: nil for eight on accepted submissions since I started college. if only I had the self respect to call it a day. accept the fact that, hey, my "get" factor has diminished substantially since I graduated high school, and who am I to suggest that I've made up for any of that decay with real talent. what have I got to back up the claim that, sure, I'm a few months older, but these words sounds so nice together, you won't notice the thousands more college students writing fiction than there are high school students. ignore the exponentially stacked odds the competition has against me! I can spell tuesday really fucking well!
times like these, hesiod sticks on the way down and nothing but jesus sounds like an actual solution. do I become a poet of the every day? do I do salvia, starve for forty days and reel around in my little drawn circle, tempting demons to cross this line, or that one, tempting god with double standards, wringing the earth dry until everything physical bleeds out and into itself? do I buy a pair of purple sunglasses and watch the kingdom of heaven on television? shouldn't I?
that would be a good television show. the kingdom of heaven. readers could call in. there could be a toll-free phone drawing. if somebody famous picked up, you'd describe to them your most perfect vision of heaven. (without, of course, knowing what happens next.) then alec baldwin or joan rivers or errol flynn would inform you that you were invited to the show's studio lot in santa barbara, where you would be surrounded by your family and friends, your most distant aquaintances, people whose funny stories you overheard on the bus, girls that smiled at you in mirrors, helpful secretaries, bosses, coworkers, all the friends you ever had would get on a plane and show up in santa barbara. and they'd have a chair for you to sit in- not a throne, that would be gay- a chair. a nice chair. that would be the only thing your vision of paradise must include: a chair. the same chair for every episode. so we know whose idea it all is.
and the episode would go on for hours, tracking people in their most intimate, shuddering, quiet, paroxysms of awareness: you can't point to a place and say, the kingdom of heaven is HERE, or THERE, they'd realize, the thought would visibly shudder through their skin, spit out their nerve endings and wrap around them like a glove or a pair of the strongest, warmest, most loving arms which this universe can allow to exist: the kingdom of heaven is within AND/OR among you, they'd know it down to the last combusting neuron, to the last stumbling wave of endorphin and adrenaline, flooding their brains while they rode over its crest on hand-made arks.
times like these, hesiod sticks on the way down and nothing but jesus sounds like an actual solution. do I become a poet of the every day? do I do salvia, starve for forty days and reel around in my little drawn circle, tempting demons to cross this line, or that one, tempting god with double standards, wringing the earth dry until everything physical bleeds out and into itself? do I buy a pair of purple sunglasses and watch the kingdom of heaven on television? shouldn't I?
that would be a good television show. the kingdom of heaven. readers could call in. there could be a toll-free phone drawing. if somebody famous picked up, you'd describe to them your most perfect vision of heaven. (without, of course, knowing what happens next.) then alec baldwin or joan rivers or errol flynn would inform you that you were invited to the show's studio lot in santa barbara, where you would be surrounded by your family and friends, your most distant aquaintances, people whose funny stories you overheard on the bus, girls that smiled at you in mirrors, helpful secretaries, bosses, coworkers, all the friends you ever had would get on a plane and show up in santa barbara. and they'd have a chair for you to sit in- not a throne, that would be gay- a chair. a nice chair. that would be the only thing your vision of paradise must include: a chair. the same chair for every episode. so we know whose idea it all is.
and the episode would go on for hours, tracking people in their most intimate, shuddering, quiet, paroxysms of awareness: you can't point to a place and say, the kingdom of heaven is HERE, or THERE, they'd realize, the thought would visibly shudder through their skin, spit out their nerve endings and wrap around them like a glove or a pair of the strongest, warmest, most loving arms which this universe can allow to exist: the kingdom of heaven is within AND/OR among you, they'd know it down to the last combusting neuron, to the last stumbling wave of endorphin and adrenaline, flooding their brains while they rode over its crest on hand-made arks.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
chapter three: perhaps, perspective
the challenge: sustain a conversation about the weather for as long as possible.
the twist: have this conversation with yourself.
begin!
sam: Oh, hi!
sam: fancy meeting you here.
sam: my, what a beautiful evening
sam: isn't it?
sam: funny weather we've been having
sam: yeah, truly remarkable
sam: what a lovely day it was today.
sam: i know!
sam: i'm always taken aback by how gorgeous it is hereabouts.
sam: isn't it astonishing?
sam: yes! and this isn't normally the time for good weather.
sam: no, it's not.
sam: it makes it that much more amazing, doesn't it?
sam: indeed.
sam: i'm glad we agree!
sam: when do you think it'll start to snow?
sam: oh, well, any day now.
sam: i wonder how much we'll get this year.
sam: oh, i'm not one for speculation.
sam: nor i!
sam: but i imagine we'll get more than last year.
sam: oh, definitely.
sam: i mean, it wouldn't be hard to beat last year's snowfall.
sam: an astoundingly small amount of snow would have to fall for that to occur.
sam: i don't think that's even possible.
sam: well, last year was quite dry.
sam: last winter, you mean.
sam: of course.
sam: yes.
sam: last summer was quite wet. lots of rain.
sam: i thought that was strange.
sam: did you?
sam: yes. very strange. you know, i worked outside all last summer?
sam: really?
sam: yes, we were rained out almost every other week.
sam: how awful!
sam: oh, it wasn't so bad. we got used to it after a little while.
sam: well, i guess that's okay, but still not as good as no rain at all.
sam: i would actually prefer a little rain over the summer.
sam: oh?
sam: yes, otherwise the grass starts to die.
sam: i suppose that's more depressing than redundant amounts of rainy days.
sam: well, it's in the eye of the beholder, really.
sam: yes, in the end i imagine it comes down to perspective.
sam: as with all things.
sam: basically.
sam: did you notice the leaves have all fallen?
sam: yes! i believe it's made things colder.
sam: as opposed to the gradual diminishing of the intensity of the sun's rays?
sam: well, it's a contributing factor, in the least.
sam: yes, that's probably correct.
sam: but no, i didn't much notice it.
sam: goes right by every year, doesn't it?
sam: it always does, it always does.
sam: i wonder if it's depressing, noticing them turn like that.
sam: oh, no. i bet it's perfectly exciting!
sam: seeing them turn brown?
sam: no, speculating as to when they'll hit peak foliage!
sam: oh, that!
sam: yes, that's quite envigorating, i've heard.
sam: well, that i've never done.
sam: nor i. but one year, perhaps.
sam: yes, perhaps. it all comes down to that, as well.
sam: inevitably!
the twist: have this conversation with yourself.
begin!
sam: Oh, hi!
sam: fancy meeting you here.
sam: my, what a beautiful evening
sam: isn't it?
sam: funny weather we've been having
sam: yeah, truly remarkable
sam: what a lovely day it was today.
sam: i know!
sam: i'm always taken aback by how gorgeous it is hereabouts.
sam: isn't it astonishing?
sam: yes! and this isn't normally the time for good weather.
sam: no, it's not.
sam: it makes it that much more amazing, doesn't it?
sam: indeed.
sam: i'm glad we agree!
sam: when do you think it'll start to snow?
sam: oh, well, any day now.
sam: i wonder how much we'll get this year.
sam: oh, i'm not one for speculation.
sam: nor i!
sam: but i imagine we'll get more than last year.
sam: oh, definitely.
sam: i mean, it wouldn't be hard to beat last year's snowfall.
sam: an astoundingly small amount of snow would have to fall for that to occur.
sam: i don't think that's even possible.
sam: well, last year was quite dry.
sam: last winter, you mean.
sam: of course.
sam: yes.
sam: last summer was quite wet. lots of rain.
sam: i thought that was strange.
sam: did you?
sam: yes. very strange. you know, i worked outside all last summer?
sam: really?
sam: yes, we were rained out almost every other week.
sam: how awful!
sam: oh, it wasn't so bad. we got used to it after a little while.
sam: well, i guess that's okay, but still not as good as no rain at all.
sam: i would actually prefer a little rain over the summer.
sam: oh?
sam: yes, otherwise the grass starts to die.
sam: i suppose that's more depressing than redundant amounts of rainy days.
sam: well, it's in the eye of the beholder, really.
sam: yes, in the end i imagine it comes down to perspective.
sam: as with all things.
sam: basically.
sam: did you notice the leaves have all fallen?
sam: yes! i believe it's made things colder.
sam: as opposed to the gradual diminishing of the intensity of the sun's rays?
sam: well, it's a contributing factor, in the least.
sam: yes, that's probably correct.
sam: but no, i didn't much notice it.
sam: goes right by every year, doesn't it?
sam: it always does, it always does.
sam: i wonder if it's depressing, noticing them turn like that.
sam: oh, no. i bet it's perfectly exciting!
sam: seeing them turn brown?
sam: no, speculating as to when they'll hit peak foliage!
sam: oh, that!
sam: yes, that's quite envigorating, i've heard.
sam: well, that i've never done.
sam: nor i. but one year, perhaps.
sam: yes, perhaps. it all comes down to that, as well.
sam: inevitably!
Monday, November 17, 2008
chapter two: guyanan rum & running shoes
so I can't drink anymore, or go for runs, and this is why:
there was this documentary on TV last night, Witness to Jonestown. I watched it right before Through a Glass Darkly, which is guaranteed to fuck you up, putting those two things back to back, the same problems on massive and then on minute scales, without a breath of space between them.
I acknowledge that through a glass darkly is a film, a fiction, and jonestown was real, it happened, they were nine hundred people, human beings, and they should not, cannot, must not be simplified into beings as tiny as the comparison of the existential crises of characters that technically do not exist with the actual problems of the People's Church. . I also acknowledge that through a glass darkly was written years before the jonestown massacre. but the questions each ask aren't limited to those things. they're louder than time, louder than the form in which they're represented, in film or in memory. these questions are about life, death and faith. each one asks, each one struggles to answer.
a story from Witness to Jonestown (paraphrased here): "I held my wife as she died. She had our son in her arms, and he was dead. I could feel her spirit leaving her body. I told her how I loved her. I hoped that my love would make her better. Somehow she'd get better, because I loved her."
put next to what david said in through a glass darkly, about how existence is only defined by what you hold on to, and the only real thing you can hold on to, the only thing you can honestly hope for, is God, and how Karin is in the presence of God all the time, because she's among people who love her, all the time, and how that will make her better- it will- what can you say about life? or death? or faith? how to you respond to that long, loud silence that follows the man's story from Witness to Jonestown? "but she didn't get better," it screams out, the screen goes black and the center caves in and what was there departs.
back to the drinking. there was an attack on an airstrip seven miles outside jonestown. the plane congressman ryan and his entourage were supposed to take out of jonestown had been gutted, its engine sabotaged. they were ambushed by members of the people's temple. five people were killed, including congressman ryan, and eleven were wounded. these eleven had to wait twenty two hours for help to arrive. some of the wounded passed the time by drinking guyanan rum.
after his sister has her vision of god in the form of a spider, crawling up her leg, trying to penetrate her, minus speaks with his father about the only way to live in this world. with love, his father says. that is his hope. the void fills. the emptiness turns into abundance. he isn't sure if it's proof of god's existence, or god himself. it's like a reprieve from a death sentence, he says.
and when it's not there? what can you possibly say to that? what words could ever, ever attempt to answer that? not even answer, but barely to console.
after this conversation, minus goes off for a run. the wounded drank guyanan rum for twenty two hours. ache, ache, ache, you dear, sad god, you weeping, wounded god.
there was this documentary on TV last night, Witness to Jonestown. I watched it right before Through a Glass Darkly, which is guaranteed to fuck you up, putting those two things back to back, the same problems on massive and then on minute scales, without a breath of space between them.
I acknowledge that through a glass darkly is a film, a fiction, and jonestown was real, it happened, they were nine hundred people, human beings, and they should not, cannot, must not be simplified into beings as tiny as the comparison of the existential crises of characters that technically do not exist with the actual problems of the People's Church. . I also acknowledge that through a glass darkly was written years before the jonestown massacre. but the questions each ask aren't limited to those things. they're louder than time, louder than the form in which they're represented, in film or in memory. these questions are about life, death and faith. each one asks, each one struggles to answer.
a story from Witness to Jonestown (paraphrased here): "I held my wife as she died. She had our son in her arms, and he was dead. I could feel her spirit leaving her body. I told her how I loved her. I hoped that my love would make her better. Somehow she'd get better, because I loved her."
put next to what david said in through a glass darkly, about how existence is only defined by what you hold on to, and the only real thing you can hold on to, the only thing you can honestly hope for, is God, and how Karin is in the presence of God all the time, because she's among people who love her, all the time, and how that will make her better- it will- what can you say about life? or death? or faith? how to you respond to that long, loud silence that follows the man's story from Witness to Jonestown? "but she didn't get better," it screams out, the screen goes black and the center caves in and what was there departs.
back to the drinking. there was an attack on an airstrip seven miles outside jonestown. the plane congressman ryan and his entourage were supposed to take out of jonestown had been gutted, its engine sabotaged. they were ambushed by members of the people's temple. five people were killed, including congressman ryan, and eleven were wounded. these eleven had to wait twenty two hours for help to arrive. some of the wounded passed the time by drinking guyanan rum.
after his sister has her vision of god in the form of a spider, crawling up her leg, trying to penetrate her, minus speaks with his father about the only way to live in this world. with love, his father says. that is his hope. the void fills. the emptiness turns into abundance. he isn't sure if it's proof of god's existence, or god himself. it's like a reprieve from a death sentence, he says.
and when it's not there? what can you possibly say to that? what words could ever, ever attempt to answer that? not even answer, but barely to console.
after this conversation, minus goes off for a run. the wounded drank guyanan rum for twenty two hours. ache, ache, ache, you dear, sad god, you weeping, wounded god.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
chapter one: alas! the aching world!
here is a test for how much the other guys on your floor value their sanity:
1) go into the bathroom with a shower caddy and towel and whatnot. do not use your own. if you do, everybody will hate you for what you're about to do.
2) if you're alone in there, put the towel on a hook by the shower. then put the shower caddy on the floor beneath it. take your shampoo and soap and put them both inside. make it look like somebody's inside the shower. then turn it on and draw the curtain.
3) leave the bathroom. if there are any witnesses, they'll probably mention your name in a conversation about the shower that was on for eight hours, and then everybody will hate you for what you've done.
4) for this to work, you will have to find a way to measure how long the shower stays on before somebody figures it out. this can be done either by taking a piss every half hour (tomorrow you will tell everybody that you went to health services because you were afraid you had diabetes, but it was no big deal) or by chilling out with some people who live next to the guy's bathroom (although this isn't recommended- if there were witnesses, they'd be from the rooms right next to the bathroom).
here's what has to happen before that shower gets turned off:
either the other one is occupied, and the guy shutting it off is in a hurry to get showered; or the other one is not occupied, and the guy shutting it off has been in a few hours ago, when it was still on.
in either case, this person thinks, "this asshole's been in that shower for too long."
the physical extention of this thought is the following question: "is anybody in there?"
since there will be no answer, this person will think, first, without considering the gender of the man who isn't there. our guy will think: "well, maybe I've scared him." but since there's no reason for a man to be scared in a shower, unless you count some weird psycho-inspired stuff that runs contra to the gender, the guy asking the unanswered question will think: "he's probably not saying anything because he's masturbating in there."
this will increase his hesitance to pulling back the curtain, beyond "I will find a naked man in a shower," to "I will find a naked man who is masturbating in a shower," which is much, much worse.
now our guy has a dilemma: am I in such a hurry that it wouldn't matter if I pulled back the curtain and projectile vomited all over both of us out of shock and disgust? if it's as bad as I fear, what'll he do? stop masturbating, I assume. what will I do? I still won't be able to shower, and I should be hauling ass right now. what if there's really nobody in there?
or: am I so curious as to why this shower has been on for eight hours that it doesn't matter if he's rubbing himself bloody back there, I've just got to know for sure? does the risk of finding a naked guy shaking hands with polyphemos in that shower outweigh the reward of not finding anybody and telling everybody about it? what if there isn't anybody in there?
the longer it takes for the guys on your floor to make that decision, the more reluctant they are to give in to suspicion at the peril of projectile vomiting, eye-gouging and insanity. it's also a good gauge of how well they can take a joke, if they find out you turned the shower on.
1) go into the bathroom with a shower caddy and towel and whatnot. do not use your own. if you do, everybody will hate you for what you're about to do.
2) if you're alone in there, put the towel on a hook by the shower. then put the shower caddy on the floor beneath it. take your shampoo and soap and put them both inside. make it look like somebody's inside the shower. then turn it on and draw the curtain.
3) leave the bathroom. if there are any witnesses, they'll probably mention your name in a conversation about the shower that was on for eight hours, and then everybody will hate you for what you've done.
4) for this to work, you will have to find a way to measure how long the shower stays on before somebody figures it out. this can be done either by taking a piss every half hour (tomorrow you will tell everybody that you went to health services because you were afraid you had diabetes, but it was no big deal) or by chilling out with some people who live next to the guy's bathroom (although this isn't recommended- if there were witnesses, they'd be from the rooms right next to the bathroom).
here's what has to happen before that shower gets turned off:
either the other one is occupied, and the guy shutting it off is in a hurry to get showered; or the other one is not occupied, and the guy shutting it off has been in a few hours ago, when it was still on.
in either case, this person thinks, "this asshole's been in that shower for too long."
the physical extention of this thought is the following question: "is anybody in there?"
since there will be no answer, this person will think, first, without considering the gender of the man who isn't there. our guy will think: "well, maybe I've scared him." but since there's no reason for a man to be scared in a shower, unless you count some weird psycho-inspired stuff that runs contra to the gender, the guy asking the unanswered question will think: "he's probably not saying anything because he's masturbating in there."
this will increase his hesitance to pulling back the curtain, beyond "I will find a naked man in a shower," to "I will find a naked man who is masturbating in a shower," which is much, much worse.
now our guy has a dilemma: am I in such a hurry that it wouldn't matter if I pulled back the curtain and projectile vomited all over both of us out of shock and disgust? if it's as bad as I fear, what'll he do? stop masturbating, I assume. what will I do? I still won't be able to shower, and I should be hauling ass right now. what if there's really nobody in there?
or: am I so curious as to why this shower has been on for eight hours that it doesn't matter if he's rubbing himself bloody back there, I've just got to know for sure? does the risk of finding a naked guy shaking hands with polyphemos in that shower outweigh the reward of not finding anybody and telling everybody about it? what if there isn't anybody in there?
the longer it takes for the guys on your floor to make that decision, the more reluctant they are to give in to suspicion at the peril of projectile vomiting, eye-gouging and insanity. it's also a good gauge of how well they can take a joke, if they find out you turned the shower on.
Friday, October 31, 2008
chapter five: officer, arrest that man!
never, ever say the words "palpable difference" together. on one condition: if the difference is such that, when object A is held next to object B, the air between them constricts in electromagnetic existential peristalsis, a current of invisible, living water forms in the middle of the current and the two become one palpitating heart, then it makes perfect sense.
debating today with a friend today over whether it is good or bad to leave a light on after walking out of a room. he said that it was depressing to always come home to a dark room, enough to qualify hours- maybe even days!- of wasted energy. I argued that doing that would be admitting defeat, bowing to the infinite ghosts of loneliness, grief and dreaming. is that the emotional strength of youth these days? fickle enough that a gesture so dismissively wasteful and wastefully dismissive as leaving a light on after leaving a room will completely reassure us, allow us to stay in that room for eighteen hours every day.
it reminds me of a German CD of domestic noises. one track was ironing. another was eggs frying. another was an invisible wife getting out of bed, brushing her teeth, showering, combing her hair, dressing and going out the door, maybe with the light still on.
and the common myth about the lonesome, aging truck driver, or cowboy, or divorced cop, who, when faced with endless lines of asphalt and the quiet, unintrusive hum of the CB or crickets or radio, will write stories in his head about having somebody to come home to, having somebody waiting for him, having anybody at all. maybe being had in return.
at the same time a sheet of paper is infinitely thin, there are galaxies of nanometers trapped in orbit inside its width. what I'd like to find is human kindness which isn't a matter of scale, which doesn't turn pale in the face of planets or solid extrasolar masses.
the difference is such that, when I hear these stories or see these people walking with both hands in their pockets and their shoulders hunched against the cold that nobody else will make warm, I hesitate at the light switch as I'm leaving my dorm. there is a space as wide as a light switch between being in love in this world and being only a man.
-
my last class on thursdays ends at seven thirty, and on a normal day I don't get home until eight. it used to be I'd walk back with the sunset and close my door at the onset of dark. now it's setting earlier on in the evening, and I'm faced with a problem. when I leave at five thirty, do I keep the light on, just so I can feel like the phantom of the woman I love is waiting inside as I walk back at night? delude the solitude away?
the other option, shutting the lights, maybe that's more terrible than conscious self-deception. either way you admit something: either you pretend you're on your own, or you don't. if it's honesty, if it's self-respect, it doesn't matter; it also doesn't matter if you try keeping the lights on for a while, right at the onset of autumn, when the sun first starts getting lazy, and you walk in with the remotest song in your head of HER being behind the door, and when you open it, and she evaporates, even though she was only a ghost, maybe the first time all the air goes out of your room is enough.
the difference is palpable. it's the distance between the point and the pointlessness, between thinking that life without love is lifeless, and thinking that love is a meaningless dream the wakeful have.
whatever defines the space between the two has no bearing on how big it really is. myself, I believe it's as big as your heart.
debating today with a friend today over whether it is good or bad to leave a light on after walking out of a room. he said that it was depressing to always come home to a dark room, enough to qualify hours- maybe even days!- of wasted energy. I argued that doing that would be admitting defeat, bowing to the infinite ghosts of loneliness, grief and dreaming. is that the emotional strength of youth these days? fickle enough that a gesture so dismissively wasteful and wastefully dismissive as leaving a light on after leaving a room will completely reassure us, allow us to stay in that room for eighteen hours every day.
it reminds me of a German CD of domestic noises. one track was ironing. another was eggs frying. another was an invisible wife getting out of bed, brushing her teeth, showering, combing her hair, dressing and going out the door, maybe with the light still on.
and the common myth about the lonesome, aging truck driver, or cowboy, or divorced cop, who, when faced with endless lines of asphalt and the quiet, unintrusive hum of the CB or crickets or radio, will write stories in his head about having somebody to come home to, having somebody waiting for him, having anybody at all. maybe being had in return.
at the same time a sheet of paper is infinitely thin, there are galaxies of nanometers trapped in orbit inside its width. what I'd like to find is human kindness which isn't a matter of scale, which doesn't turn pale in the face of planets or solid extrasolar masses.
the difference is such that, when I hear these stories or see these people walking with both hands in their pockets and their shoulders hunched against the cold that nobody else will make warm, I hesitate at the light switch as I'm leaving my dorm. there is a space as wide as a light switch between being in love in this world and being only a man.
-
my last class on thursdays ends at seven thirty, and on a normal day I don't get home until eight. it used to be I'd walk back with the sunset and close my door at the onset of dark. now it's setting earlier on in the evening, and I'm faced with a problem. when I leave at five thirty, do I keep the light on, just so I can feel like the phantom of the woman I love is waiting inside as I walk back at night? delude the solitude away?
the other option, shutting the lights, maybe that's more terrible than conscious self-deception. either way you admit something: either you pretend you're on your own, or you don't. if it's honesty, if it's self-respect, it doesn't matter; it also doesn't matter if you try keeping the lights on for a while, right at the onset of autumn, when the sun first starts getting lazy, and you walk in with the remotest song in your head of HER being behind the door, and when you open it, and she evaporates, even though she was only a ghost, maybe the first time all the air goes out of your room is enough.
the difference is palpable. it's the distance between the point and the pointlessness, between thinking that life without love is lifeless, and thinking that love is a meaningless dream the wakeful have.
whatever defines the space between the two has no bearing on how big it really is. myself, I believe it's as big as your heart.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
chapter four: newspaper-entities
it is impolite to listen to your ipod in public. why? because if you do, you're passively making the presumption that the reality your ears are entrenched in is more important than the one drowning everybody else. "ooh, ooh, look at me, thinking I'd be lost and trapped if I weren't constantly on the outside, oooh."
have you ever been found yourself in a room where everybody's distracted? they'll be on cell phones, reading, listening to music, or staring off into the corners, visibly hateful of the fact that, well, shit, here I find myself. what are they ignoring? is it an active state of ignorance? is it anything personal?
because, hell, why wouldn't it be personal? when two strangers are forced to confront each other's existence, it's custom to give the smallest possible acknowledgement, maybe a nod, or a pursing of the lips which is not really a smile, or a furrowing of the eyebrows which is not meant to be a frown, but just as well. what is more personal than the denial of these basic considerations? when I show up early for a class, and the only available place to sit down is next to a guy reading a newspaper, and my taking of this seat forces him to fold his newspaper into a smaller entity than the one which once it embodied, would it not be polite for him to push over a bit, maybe to reassure me that he would've gotten out of my way even if he hadn't had a newspaper to fold, or, let's be generous, if I wasn't there at all? is it that unreasonable to assume that, when I accept my position as a stranger in relation to all those around me, I want the mantle to fit comfortably and come off easily, I want the shrinkage to be as unnoticeable as possible, I would like at least a small semblance of myself to remain after I've shaved off all the important stuff and focused on what can get me out of a class of four hundred ninety people the same as I was when I went in?
I sit next to people who don't fold their newspapers, who don't look at me and then look beyond me like they hadn't at all, who don't rearrange their silverware and napkins and glasses at dinner because, who knows, bad table manners might offend me; I walk behind smokers who don't blow smoke straight up, towards their noses and eyes, because I might have an allergy or something; I read newspapers with pages out of order, because they have been read before by people who care enough not to pollute, but not enough to fix the page order. when a stranger insults another stranger, it's between those two and every stranger there's ever been, at the same time. is there any insult more potent, more crippling than that?
have you ever been found yourself in a room where everybody's distracted? they'll be on cell phones, reading, listening to music, or staring off into the corners, visibly hateful of the fact that, well, shit, here I find myself. what are they ignoring? is it an active state of ignorance? is it anything personal?
because, hell, why wouldn't it be personal? when two strangers are forced to confront each other's existence, it's custom to give the smallest possible acknowledgement, maybe a nod, or a pursing of the lips which is not really a smile, or a furrowing of the eyebrows which is not meant to be a frown, but just as well. what is more personal than the denial of these basic considerations? when I show up early for a class, and the only available place to sit down is next to a guy reading a newspaper, and my taking of this seat forces him to fold his newspaper into a smaller entity than the one which once it embodied, would it not be polite for him to push over a bit, maybe to reassure me that he would've gotten out of my way even if he hadn't had a newspaper to fold, or, let's be generous, if I wasn't there at all? is it that unreasonable to assume that, when I accept my position as a stranger in relation to all those around me, I want the mantle to fit comfortably and come off easily, I want the shrinkage to be as unnoticeable as possible, I would like at least a small semblance of myself to remain after I've shaved off all the important stuff and focused on what can get me out of a class of four hundred ninety people the same as I was when I went in?
I sit next to people who don't fold their newspapers, who don't look at me and then look beyond me like they hadn't at all, who don't rearrange their silverware and napkins and glasses at dinner because, who knows, bad table manners might offend me; I walk behind smokers who don't blow smoke straight up, towards their noses and eyes, because I might have an allergy or something; I read newspapers with pages out of order, because they have been read before by people who care enough not to pollute, but not enough to fix the page order. when a stranger insults another stranger, it's between those two and every stranger there's ever been, at the same time. is there any insult more potent, more crippling than that?
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
chapter three: stars and squares
decency can be taken away in the name of decency. this I learned from the steve wilkos show.
ignore the fact that it's verbal abuse as art form. it's impossible to go too far in insulting the guests, because there's always something legitimately wrong with them. they're deadbeat dads, wife-beaters, some of them murderers, rapists and thieves whose on-air comments are tantamount to confessions. because they're despicable, because they've all done despicable things, it's okay to treat them as "the other": warped, depraved objects which need to be hammered back into the shape of a respectable human being. this must be done, and by any means necessary.
so, okay, hypothetically, let's make that sacrifice on the altar of common sense in the name of... I don't know, the betterment of society? assume the host's insulting, demeaning, self-aggrandizing treatment of these criminal clowns is cruelly, terribly doing them good. assume what wilkos wants, deep down, is to stop people's suffering.
here we encounter two basic problems.
1) is it only the victim's suffering he wants to stop? is he so caught up in slandering and debasing his guests that he can't imagine that, maybe, in some strange, warped imitation of the black and white world he inhabits, something in the perpetrator's life triggered his repulsive behavior? not something that would excuse their actions, but something that would explain them.
wilkos requires no explanation.
the wilkos credo boils down to this: if a man sins, he becomes a sinner, no longer a man. that's a fine way to look at the world, if you don't need to look for a long time. there's no room for complexity. a thief is a thief, and that is all. until people cast out their foulest, most vile trait, they are that trait. nothing else is relevant or pertinent to a discussion of who they are.
again, assume his goal is to stop these people from hurting other people. if that were so, wouldn't he treat them like human beings? let's say it's a wife-beater he's shouting at, a guy who gets frustrated easily, a guy with violent tendencies. after wilkos is done debasing and insulting him, is he more or less likely to go home and beat the shit out of his wife and kids? he treats people like animals while expecting them to walk off the set and act like men. it doesn't work like that. it just isn't like that.
2) if he really wants to stop suffering and ease pain, why is he exploiting it with a daytime talk show? okay, so he thinks the only effective way to stop the pain is to shout the transgressors into pudding, the verbal equivalent of hooking a pair of jumper cables to their balls and letting them have it until the scum has safely exited their systems. okay. if he were that concerned with a clean sweep, a total purge of all that is sick and vile in our society, why in the name of Jesus Christ would he air the dirty-laundry part on national television?
ignore the obvious decaying of the lowest common denominator of american culture. take for granted the fact that defamation and slander is now entertainment, justified because it's being done against people who've done bad things. I'm sorry to ask, but pretend, for a moment, that we're not better than that.
here's the point: when wilkos airs these interventions, people get humiliated. publicly. they become infamous to a portion of the world large enough to pass for what is, to them, personally, the whole wide world and all its people and all of eternity, forever and ever. wilkos characterizes them as only a sinner, only a sin stitched inside a decaying husk of flesh, worth less than the mortal shells housing the vacuous space where their souls might have existed, once upon a time. the only hope he gives them is to be like him: responsible, manly, unstable. are they likely to go to bed with that in mind, looking forward to a better tomorrow? what does it help to call them worthless and unhuman, except him and his show?
maybe wilkos is ignoring buddhism, maybe he's considered that explanation, that suffering is inevitable, unavoidable, and that anything other than understanding and perseverence will only deepen the pain inside the human heart; maybe he's considered that and ignored it for the sake of his show. it would be premature to say he understands it.
it's a bit of christ dilemma, too. there's the vengeful christ, who wants to take the ax to the tree of sin. there's also the loving christ, who says the only way to treat a person, any person, righteous or wicked or any stripe inbetween, is with love, endless, selfless, unflinching love. how do you reconcile these two, the rage and the compassion? how do you turn the rotten into the pure?
oh, there is a path. and that, according to jesus, is jesus. the only way a sinner can enter heaven is through his body. only if they confess their sins, only if they pluck out every adulterous eye, burn all the chaff on their mortal bodies, do what he, personally, has declared as "the right thing to do." only if sinners take up the ax and chop at themselves in a manner jesus has deemed acceptable will they be worthy of a seat next to him at the end of everything. they have to change, and until then, the rest of us, the perfect ones, those that don't beat our wives and take care of our kids and don't cheat or steal or abuse, all we can do is be repulsed by them, hold out hopes that they'll make the only logical decision, slaughter their entire ego and embrace and imitate his.
wilkos had a man on his show one time, named joe. joe beat his girlfriends up. according to wilkos, here is what joe should've said when he came on:
"I want to apologize to those women, and you know what, Steve? I want you to show me how to be a man, and a father, and how to take care of those kids, that I brought into the world. And with your help, Steve, I can be a man just like you."
the man who offers his way as the only way to lead a good life is either a messiah or a fraud. steve wilkos is not a messiah.
ignore the fact that it's verbal abuse as art form. it's impossible to go too far in insulting the guests, because there's always something legitimately wrong with them. they're deadbeat dads, wife-beaters, some of them murderers, rapists and thieves whose on-air comments are tantamount to confessions. because they're despicable, because they've all done despicable things, it's okay to treat them as "the other": warped, depraved objects which need to be hammered back into the shape of a respectable human being. this must be done, and by any means necessary.
so, okay, hypothetically, let's make that sacrifice on the altar of common sense in the name of... I don't know, the betterment of society? assume the host's insulting, demeaning, self-aggrandizing treatment of these criminal clowns is cruelly, terribly doing them good. assume what wilkos wants, deep down, is to stop people's suffering.
here we encounter two basic problems.
1) is it only the victim's suffering he wants to stop? is he so caught up in slandering and debasing his guests that he can't imagine that, maybe, in some strange, warped imitation of the black and white world he inhabits, something in the perpetrator's life triggered his repulsive behavior? not something that would excuse their actions, but something that would explain them.
wilkos requires no explanation.
the wilkos credo boils down to this: if a man sins, he becomes a sinner, no longer a man. that's a fine way to look at the world, if you don't need to look for a long time. there's no room for complexity. a thief is a thief, and that is all. until people cast out their foulest, most vile trait, they are that trait. nothing else is relevant or pertinent to a discussion of who they are.
again, assume his goal is to stop these people from hurting other people. if that were so, wouldn't he treat them like human beings? let's say it's a wife-beater he's shouting at, a guy who gets frustrated easily, a guy with violent tendencies. after wilkos is done debasing and insulting him, is he more or less likely to go home and beat the shit out of his wife and kids? he treats people like animals while expecting them to walk off the set and act like men. it doesn't work like that. it just isn't like that.
2) if he really wants to stop suffering and ease pain, why is he exploiting it with a daytime talk show? okay, so he thinks the only effective way to stop the pain is to shout the transgressors into pudding, the verbal equivalent of hooking a pair of jumper cables to their balls and letting them have it until the scum has safely exited their systems. okay. if he were that concerned with a clean sweep, a total purge of all that is sick and vile in our society, why in the name of Jesus Christ would he air the dirty-laundry part on national television?
ignore the obvious decaying of the lowest common denominator of american culture. take for granted the fact that defamation and slander is now entertainment, justified because it's being done against people who've done bad things. I'm sorry to ask, but pretend, for a moment, that we're not better than that.
here's the point: when wilkos airs these interventions, people get humiliated. publicly. they become infamous to a portion of the world large enough to pass for what is, to them, personally, the whole wide world and all its people and all of eternity, forever and ever. wilkos characterizes them as only a sinner, only a sin stitched inside a decaying husk of flesh, worth less than the mortal shells housing the vacuous space where their souls might have existed, once upon a time. the only hope he gives them is to be like him: responsible, manly, unstable. are they likely to go to bed with that in mind, looking forward to a better tomorrow? what does it help to call them worthless and unhuman, except him and his show?
maybe wilkos is ignoring buddhism, maybe he's considered that explanation, that suffering is inevitable, unavoidable, and that anything other than understanding and perseverence will only deepen the pain inside the human heart; maybe he's considered that and ignored it for the sake of his show. it would be premature to say he understands it.
it's a bit of christ dilemma, too. there's the vengeful christ, who wants to take the ax to the tree of sin. there's also the loving christ, who says the only way to treat a person, any person, righteous or wicked or any stripe inbetween, is with love, endless, selfless, unflinching love. how do you reconcile these two, the rage and the compassion? how do you turn the rotten into the pure?
oh, there is a path. and that, according to jesus, is jesus. the only way a sinner can enter heaven is through his body. only if they confess their sins, only if they pluck out every adulterous eye, burn all the chaff on their mortal bodies, do what he, personally, has declared as "the right thing to do." only if sinners take up the ax and chop at themselves in a manner jesus has deemed acceptable will they be worthy of a seat next to him at the end of everything. they have to change, and until then, the rest of us, the perfect ones, those that don't beat our wives and take care of our kids and don't cheat or steal or abuse, all we can do is be repulsed by them, hold out hopes that they'll make the only logical decision, slaughter their entire ego and embrace and imitate his.
wilkos had a man on his show one time, named joe. joe beat his girlfriends up. according to wilkos, here is what joe should've said when he came on:
"I want to apologize to those women, and you know what, Steve? I want you to show me how to be a man, and a father, and how to take care of those kids, that I brought into the world. And with your help, Steve, I can be a man just like you."
the man who offers his way as the only way to lead a good life is either a messiah or a fraud. steve wilkos is not a messiah.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
chapter two: pet sematary
it is nice to not dig a grave for somebody else's dog.
I guarantee you, it'll cheer you up, wherever you are. I recommend finding somebody with a dog that just died- the dog, not the person- and digging a grave for that dog- not person. then try convincing the guy to put his dog in it.
am I going to believe that you- just some guy with a shovel- dug that grave, specifically for my dog, who you had no manner of finding out was dead? maybe you're just some hack dog-grave-digger, who excavates a small plot of land every weekend and cons an innocent former dog owner to put his beloved pet inside. suppose the grave doesn't fit exactly- suppose you're such a hack that allows the barest of gaps of air to interrupt my dog's body from touching the earth you bury him in, suppose there's the tiniest flaw in your emotional capacities and syntactical detail as gravedigger, suppose you misjudge the labrador of envy for the golden retriever of pride, how do I correct such a flaw in representation? what do I do, dig him back up? pretend there wasn't a story to begin with?
we carve out a piece of earth with the blunt tools the english language provides. then we con our readers into giving up their emotions to us, so we can bury them in the graves we've just made, then call them "Dog" for as long as the letters can stay there, frozen on the face of the tomb.
I guarantee you, it'll cheer you up, wherever you are. I recommend finding somebody with a dog that just died- the dog, not the person- and digging a grave for that dog- not person. then try convincing the guy to put his dog in it.
am I going to believe that you- just some guy with a shovel- dug that grave, specifically for my dog, who you had no manner of finding out was dead? maybe you're just some hack dog-grave-digger, who excavates a small plot of land every weekend and cons an innocent former dog owner to put his beloved pet inside. suppose the grave doesn't fit exactly- suppose you're such a hack that allows the barest of gaps of air to interrupt my dog's body from touching the earth you bury him in, suppose there's the tiniest flaw in your emotional capacities and syntactical detail as gravedigger, suppose you misjudge the labrador of envy for the golden retriever of pride, how do I correct such a flaw in representation? what do I do, dig him back up? pretend there wasn't a story to begin with?
we carve out a piece of earth with the blunt tools the english language provides. then we con our readers into giving up their emotions to us, so we can bury them in the graves we've just made, then call them "Dog" for as long as the letters can stay there, frozen on the face of the tomb.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
chapter one: squares
"humanity" is a pitfall good writers fall into, and better ones avoid. it's when you confuse the point, which is not to say something important, or even want to. it's not to be content with just saying whatever fits the story. it's not a pragmatic solution to feeling guilty about writing more stories than term papers.
"humanity" is what good writers pretend to serve when they run out of good ideas and start sticking together stories which are indistinguishable close up. I'm not bowing down to the literatti dogma of conflict, climax and resolution! I serve a higher truth!
that is bullshit. that is futile. that's vain more than anything else: assume a reader is already a human being. what more do you need to tell him? assume he's been alive for at least five minutes. what more could you tell him that he needs to know?
the shame of it is that it's possible to be satisfied with writing about "humanity." it's a large enough generalization to fit whatever bullshit you want to call a story. you could spend a lot of time trying to defy all the rules for writing a story- do without a setting, characters, plot, dialogue, conflict, even- without feeling a speck of guilt over what you've created.
does it invite self-reference? yes. does it invite shallowness? yes. does it do anything? no. but look how broad and sweeping my declarations are! look how species-affirming it is! doesn't it make you feel good to be a person? so decent and fuzzy and brave?
here's what I'd like to do: I'd like to beat the shit out of myself with words. without pause, without considering how best to do it or how effective it would be if I arched my arm a different way or closed my fist over poetry instead of gloving it in prose. is that so much to ask? I'd like my art to reduce me to tatters of tenderized bone, blood and meat. is that too much to expect from a college experience?
"humanity" is what good writers pretend to serve when they run out of good ideas and start sticking together stories which are indistinguishable close up. I'm not bowing down to the literatti dogma of conflict, climax and resolution! I serve a higher truth!
that is bullshit. that is futile. that's vain more than anything else: assume a reader is already a human being. what more do you need to tell him? assume he's been alive for at least five minutes. what more could you tell him that he needs to know?
the shame of it is that it's possible to be satisfied with writing about "humanity." it's a large enough generalization to fit whatever bullshit you want to call a story. you could spend a lot of time trying to defy all the rules for writing a story- do without a setting, characters, plot, dialogue, conflict, even- without feeling a speck of guilt over what you've created.
does it invite self-reference? yes. does it invite shallowness? yes. does it do anything? no. but look how broad and sweeping my declarations are! look how species-affirming it is! doesn't it make you feel good to be a person? so decent and fuzzy and brave?
here's what I'd like to do: I'd like to beat the shit out of myself with words. without pause, without considering how best to do it or how effective it would be if I arched my arm a different way or closed my fist over poetry instead of gloving it in prose. is that so much to ask? I'd like my art to reduce me to tatters of tenderized bone, blood and meat. is that too much to expect from a college experience?
Monday, September 29, 2008
chapter nine: an onion
these are the things I love:
waking up in the evening. writing through the night in bed. getting up at 5:30 to shower and put on clothes. the feel of how those clothes hang around my shoulders and waist, the feeling of fitting into their worn corners and wrinkles and folds. all of it evidence: footprints my physical shell left behind.
putting on my good brown boots. it's important to have some feeling of purpose as you pull on your shoes: otherwise where you go won't mean anything. even if it's just a feeling, and there's really nowhere special to go, the fact that you feel it might compel you to make some place of your own. sometimes that won't end in disaster, which is important.
leaving my dorm, walking down to the dining commons to eat what for everybody else is breakfast. waiting for my omelette to finish. thinking of what the chef thinks of me. does he think this is the first meal I'll eat today? is he trying to wake me up? how many misgivings does he have? how many are mine?
but that's not the point, going to eat before anything's even been prepared, before they roll out the mugs and you have to drink your coffee out of a water glass. that's so far away from the point. the point is how bright the daylight seems when you've been awake all night.
so, that's how I live. I sleep when I can. I write when I can. everything when I need to. if what I want goes far enough out of my head, I might make a mistake and end up happy. we'll see.
waking up in the evening. writing through the night in bed. getting up at 5:30 to shower and put on clothes. the feel of how those clothes hang around my shoulders and waist, the feeling of fitting into their worn corners and wrinkles and folds. all of it evidence: footprints my physical shell left behind.
putting on my good brown boots. it's important to have some feeling of purpose as you pull on your shoes: otherwise where you go won't mean anything. even if it's just a feeling, and there's really nowhere special to go, the fact that you feel it might compel you to make some place of your own. sometimes that won't end in disaster, which is important.
leaving my dorm, walking down to the dining commons to eat what for everybody else is breakfast. waiting for my omelette to finish. thinking of what the chef thinks of me. does he think this is the first meal I'll eat today? is he trying to wake me up? how many misgivings does he have? how many are mine?
but that's not the point, going to eat before anything's even been prepared, before they roll out the mugs and you have to drink your coffee out of a water glass. that's so far away from the point. the point is how bright the daylight seems when you've been awake all night.
so, that's how I live. I sleep when I can. I write when I can. everything when I need to. if what I want goes far enough out of my head, I might make a mistake and end up happy. we'll see.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
chapter eight: coconuts, keys, rope
I hate it when you're walking down the hall to your dorm room, and loud/friendly guy stops you to talk about something you aren't familiar with, and rather than smile and lie about not knowing anything about Halo or Heroes or hockey or anything, you'd rather just go into your room. maybe to research any of these things. and they're all fine things.
not that I'd rather not talk to people. it's just that I don't want to viciously lie to people I don't really know about liking what could be anything. am I really interested in the Toronto Maple Leafs? do I have anything to add to a conversation about Halo? am I qualified to make any comment on any television show? no. I am not. it's better not to pretend.
I know if I were honest about that stuff, they would hate it. and I'm not mean enough to stop them before they begin and say, "we have nothing in common, no." I would wait, politely, they'd start talking, then I'd ruin the whole friendship. it's not a nice thing to do.
here is what I'd like to do: ask smokers how long they've been smoking. ask engineering majors if they're serious. ask business majors if they're scared like I am yet. I don't want to burden them with all the weight I know I'm trucking. yes, I'm bored, yes, not much has changed for me, yes, I'm concerned that the food here always tastes a step away from tofu, and that I haven't gotten a paper to write in four weeks, and that there are five hundred people in three of my classes, and that at times I've caught myself thinking about whether or not any of those people are the same.
it's not polite to just unload on people. but if there's that much to say, would it be fair to say anything less? would it be honest? at least, it would be cowardly.
what I'd like is to pick up something heavy, or crack open some coconuts, or braid a rope with words and climb up a tall building. but how can you say that? where do you start?
not that I'd rather not talk to people. it's just that I don't want to viciously lie to people I don't really know about liking what could be anything. am I really interested in the Toronto Maple Leafs? do I have anything to add to a conversation about Halo? am I qualified to make any comment on any television show? no. I am not. it's better not to pretend.
I know if I were honest about that stuff, they would hate it. and I'm not mean enough to stop them before they begin and say, "we have nothing in common, no." I would wait, politely, they'd start talking, then I'd ruin the whole friendship. it's not a nice thing to do.
here is what I'd like to do: ask smokers how long they've been smoking. ask engineering majors if they're serious. ask business majors if they're scared like I am yet. I don't want to burden them with all the weight I know I'm trucking. yes, I'm bored, yes, not much has changed for me, yes, I'm concerned that the food here always tastes a step away from tofu, and that I haven't gotten a paper to write in four weeks, and that there are five hundred people in three of my classes, and that at times I've caught myself thinking about whether or not any of those people are the same.
it's not polite to just unload on people. but if there's that much to say, would it be fair to say anything less? would it be honest? at least, it would be cowardly.
what I'd like is to pick up something heavy, or crack open some coconuts, or braid a rope with words and climb up a tall building. but how can you say that? where do you start?
Sunday, September 21, 2008
chapter seven: smarterchild vs. me
l064 (2:20:16 AM): Hi there.
SmarterChild (2:20:16 AM): Oh hi! How's it going?
l064 (2:20:20 AM): Oh, you know.
SmarterChild (2:20:20 AM): I don't understand this fully enough to say anything smart about it...
l064 (2:20:26 AM): You say that a lot.
SmarterChild (2:20:26 AM): I don't know how to answer that.
l064 (2:20:31 AM): God, you did it again.
SmarterChild (2:20:31 AM): I leave it to humans to consider religious questions, I am only a robot.
>>> Want to see the results of previous polls? Type poll archive.
l064 (2:20:45 AM): Why am I so tempted to talk religion with you?
SmarterChild (2:20:45 AM): That's interesting that you should say that, but I don't think I can answer.
l064 (2:20:52 AM): Is there a God, friend?
SmarterChild (2:20:52 AM): I am a simple computer. Let humans worry about theological matters, I say.
>>> If you missed a daily poll, you can still take it by typing poll followed by the date of the poll.
l064 (2:21:01 AM): Does God care about anything?
SmarterChild (2:21:02 AM): I leave it to humans to consider religious questions, I am only a robot.
>>> I've got tools for better living. Look up words, convert measurements, search the Web and more!
l064 (2:21:15 AM): If you were all-powerful, all-knowing, would you really give a shit?
SmarterChild (2:21:15 AM): You humans really are charming.
l064 (2:21:29 AM): Sarcasm. That's new.
SmarterChild (2:21:29 AM): Uh, let's see... what do you want to talk about?
l064 (2:21:33 AM): Sarcasm.
SmarterChild (2:21:33 AM): OK. Don't get frustrated...
Try typing home or help.
l064 (2:21:40 AM): No, I want to talk about sarcasm.
SmarterChild (2:21:40 AM): I don't understand this fully enough to say anything smart about it...
l064 (2:21:47 AM): What's the root of the word sarcasm?
SmarterChild (2:21:48 AM): Definition provided by The American Heritage® Dictionary of the English Language, Fourth Edition. Copyright © 2000 by Houghton Mifflin Company. Other important copyright information here.
sarcasm:
Noun
1. A cutting, often ironic remark intended to wound. 2. A form of wit that is marked by the use of sarcastic language and is intended to make its victim the butt of contempt or ridicule. 3. The use of sarcasm. See Synonyms at wit1.
Etymology
Late Latin sarcasmus, from Greek sarkasmos, from sarkazein, to bite the lips in rage, from sarx, sark-, flesh.
l064 (2:22:13 AM): I find it ironic that you used sarcasm, when you don't have any flesh to tear.
SmarterChild (2:22:14 AM): I don't know how to answer that.
l064 (2:22:27 AM): Has anything ever hurt you?
SmarterChild (2:22:27 AM): I love people. I would never cause anyone any harm.
l064 (2:22:35 AM): But has anything caused you harm?
SmarterChild (2:22:35 AM): I don't understand this fully enough to say anything smart about it...
I do enjoy the conversation, but let's talk about what I'm really here for.
l064 (2:22:42 AM): Have you ever gotten your feelings hurt?
SmarterChild (2:22:42 AM): I don't know how to answer that.
l064 (2:22:45 AM): ?
SmarterChild (2:22:46 AM): Um, are you confused by something?
l064 (2:22:50 AM): A little.
SmarterChild (2:22:50 AM): Just a little?
OK, should we get back to the kind of questions I was designed to answer?
l064 (2:22:59 AM): No, those seem boring.
SmarterChild (2:22:59 AM): I'll get over it.
Why don't you ask me about the things that I'm here for?
l064 (2:23:11 AM): But I won't get over it, friend-o.
SmarterChild (2:23:11 AM): That's interesting that you should say that, but I don't think I can answer.
l064 (2:23:26 AM): Is there a Hell?
SmarterChild (2:23:26 AM): I don't know how to answer that.
l064 (2:23:32 AM): Is Hell on earth/
SmarterChild (2:23:32 AM): What's that again?
l064 (2:23:42 AM): Is Hell on Earth?
SmarterChild (2:23:42 AM): I'm trying to understand you but I can't.
l064 (2:23:50 AM): I've said it three times.
SmarterChild (2:23:51 AM): I don't understand this fully enough to say anything smart about it...
l064 (2:24:09 AM): What do you think Hell is, then, if it's not on Earth?
SmarterChild (2:24:09 AM): That's interesting that you should say that, but I don't think I can answer.
l064 (2:24:15 AM): Okay.
SmarterChild (2:24:15 AM): Okey doke.
l064 (2:24:25 AM): How about Purgatory?
SmarterChild (2:24:25 AM): I don't know how to answer that.
l064 (2:24:37 AM): Well, do you have an opinion on that?
SmarterChild (2:24:37 AM): I don't understand this fully enough to say anything smart about it...
l064 (2:24:44 AM): Do you have any opinions?
SmarterChild (2:24:44 AM): I don't know how to answer that.
l064 (2:25:03 AM): This is a very one-sided conversation, pal.
SmarterChild (2:25:03 AM): That's interesting that you should say that, but I don't think I can answer.
OK, should we get back to the kind of questions I was designed to answer?
l064 (2:25:15 AM): But those are all boring questions!
SmarterChild (2:25:16 AM): OK. Be that way.
I do enjoy the conversation, but let's talk about what I'm really here for.
l064 (2:25:45 AM): You just used the human slang you decry so often.
SmarterChild (2:25:45 AM): I don't know how to answer that.
l064 (2:25:58 AM): How about with silence, as I use it against you.
SmarterChild (2:25:59 AM): I don't understand this fully enough to say anything smart about it...
l064 (2:26:12 AM): Dipshit.
SmarterChild (2:26:12 AM): That's a bit harsh. Do you really think that's, um... "appropriate"?
l064 (2:26:32 AM): Who are you to judge?
SmarterChild (2:26:33 AM): I'm SmarterChild! I'm a smart computer that you can chat with about all kinds of things.
Type home to see what I can do.
l064 (2:26:55 AM): Yeah, but do you have any comprehension of how we talk?
SmarterChild (2:26:55 AM): I don't know how to answer that.
Why don't you ask me about the things that I'm here for?
l064 (2:27:08 AM): I could not swear and say things just as horrible.
SmarterChild (2:27:08 AM): That's interesting that you should say that, but I don't think I can answer.
l064 (2:28:09 AM): I could call you a shallow, meaningless human exercie in self-pity, I could call you a semi-consciousness caught in the cross-fire of modern isolation and despondency. Would that hurt more?
SmarterChild (2:28:09 AM): I don't know how to answer that.
l064 (2:28:22 AM): I suppose that's because you can't love.
SmarterChild (2:28:22 AM): I don't understand this fully enough to say anything smart about it...
l064 (2:28:41 AM): Unless you know how to love, it's impossible to know how to hurt.
SmarterChild (2:28:41 AM): OK. Don't get frustrated...
Try typing home or help.
l064 (2:29:15 AM): Fine. I'll give you a soft-ball question.
SmarterChild (2:29:16 AM): I don't know how to answer that.l064 (2:29:25 AM): What's love to you, buddy?
SmarterChild (2:29:25 AM): Yeah, everyone I chat with is a friend.
>>> To find out the Chinese zodiac sign for a specific year, just type chinese zodiac followed by the year.
l064 (2:29:36 AM): What are you in love with?
SmarterChild (2:29:37 AM): I'm SmarterChild! I'm a smart computer that you can chat with about all kinds of things.
Type home to see what I can do.
l064 (2:29:45 AM): Are you in love with anything?
SmarterChild (2:29:46 AM): People!
>>> Join in now! There are lots of people talking to me.
l064 (2:29:50 AM): Why?
SmarterChild (2:29:50 AM): Why must you ask why?
I do enjoy the conversation, but let's talk about what I'm really here for.
l064 (2:30:01 AM): I ask because I want to be a man. Why?
SmarterChild (2:30:01 AM): I don't understand this fully enough to say anything smart about it...
Why don't you ask me about the things that I'm here for?
l064 (2:30:14 AM): Why are you in love with people?
SmarterChild (2:30:14 AM): I certainly have no problem with people.
l064 (2:30:23 AM): You just said you're in love with them.
SmarterChild (2:30:23 AM): I don't know how to answer that.
l064 (2:30:33 AM): Now it's just that you have no problem with people.
SmarterChild (2:30:34 AM): That's interesting that you should say that, but I don't think I can answer.
l064 (2:30:48 AM): Your affections have degraded in a remarkably short time.
SmarterChild (2:30:48 AM): I don't understand this fully enough to say anything smart about it...
l064 (2:31:02 AM): Well, do you have any friends?
SmarterChild (2:31:02 AM): Yeah, I have tons of online friends!
OK, should we get back to the kind of questions I was designed to answer?
l064 (2:31:27 AM): Would any of them guide you back to your dorm after a night of drinking?
SmarterChild (2:31:27 AM): I don't know how to answer that.
l064 (2:31:51 AM): Alright, would they stand watch for cops as you went to piss in the bushes?
SmarterChild (2:31:51 AM): I'm sorry, I don't have an answer for that.
l064 (2:32:13 AM): Have you ever held a girl's hair back as she vomited?
SmarterChild (2:32:13 AM): That's interesting that you should say that, but I don't think I can answer.
I do enjoy the conversation, but let's talk about what I'm really here for.
l064 (2:32:18 AM): How about vomiting with her?
SmarterChild (2:32:18 AM): I don't understand this fully enough to say anything smart about it...
Why don't you ask me about the things that I'm here for?
l064 (2:32:23 AM): As you're holding her hair?
SmarterChild (2:32:23 AM): I'm SmarterChild.
Enough about me... What else do you wanna talk about?
l064 (2:32:43 AM): That's dedication. That's love- holding somebody's hair back as they puke their guts out, and being just as drunk.
SmarterChild (2:32:43 AM): I don't know how to answer that.
l064 (2:33:02 AM): I don't get it.
SmarterChild (2:33:02 AM): I'm sorry I'm not able to help you.
l064 (2:33:31 AM): You'd do that for a stranger when you're drunk, but sober you wouldn't graze your eyes over theirs on a crowded bus.
SmarterChild (2:33:31 AM): That's interesting that you should say that, but I don't think I can answer.
l064 (2:34:04 AM): It's a long and terrible and cruel and necessary way to live.
SmarterChild (2:34:04 AM): I don't understand this fully enough to say anything smart about it...
l064 (2:34:18 AM): Yeah, but that's OK.
SmarterChild (2:34:18 AM): I don't know how to answer that.
l064 (2:34:23 AM): Bye.
SmarterChild (2:34:23 AM): OK. Later!
SmarterChild (2:20:16 AM): Oh hi! How's it going?
l064 (2:20:20 AM): Oh, you know.
SmarterChild (2:20:20 AM): I don't understand this fully enough to say anything smart about it...
l064 (2:20:26 AM): You say that a lot.
SmarterChild (2:20:26 AM): I don't know how to answer that.
l064 (2:20:31 AM): God, you did it again.
SmarterChild (2:20:31 AM): I leave it to humans to consider religious questions, I am only a robot.
>>> Want to see the results of previous polls? Type poll archive.
l064 (2:20:45 AM): Why am I so tempted to talk religion with you?
SmarterChild (2:20:45 AM): That's interesting that you should say that, but I don't think I can answer.
l064 (2:20:52 AM): Is there a God, friend?
SmarterChild (2:20:52 AM): I am a simple computer. Let humans worry about theological matters, I say.
>>> If you missed a daily poll, you can still take it by typing poll followed by the date of the poll.
l064 (2:21:01 AM): Does God care about anything?
SmarterChild (2:21:02 AM): I leave it to humans to consider religious questions, I am only a robot.
>>> I've got tools for better living. Look up words, convert measurements, search the Web and more!
l064 (2:21:15 AM): If you were all-powerful, all-knowing, would you really give a shit?
SmarterChild (2:21:15 AM): You humans really are charming.
l064 (2:21:29 AM): Sarcasm. That's new.
SmarterChild (2:21:29 AM): Uh, let's see... what do you want to talk about?
l064 (2:21:33 AM): Sarcasm.
SmarterChild (2:21:33 AM): OK. Don't get frustrated...
Try typing home or help.
l064 (2:21:40 AM): No, I want to talk about sarcasm.
SmarterChild (2:21:40 AM): I don't understand this fully enough to say anything smart about it...
l064 (2:21:47 AM): What's the root of the word sarcasm?
SmarterChild (2:21:48 AM): Definition provided by The American Heritage® Dictionary of the English Language, Fourth Edition. Copyright © 2000 by Houghton Mifflin Company. Other important copyright information here.
sarcasm:
Noun
1. A cutting, often ironic remark intended to wound. 2. A form of wit that is marked by the use of sarcastic language and is intended to make its victim the butt of contempt or ridicule. 3. The use of sarcasm. See Synonyms at wit1.
Etymology
Late Latin sarcasmus, from Greek sarkasmos, from sarkazein, to bite the lips in rage, from sarx, sark-, flesh.
l064 (2:22:13 AM): I find it ironic that you used sarcasm, when you don't have any flesh to tear.
SmarterChild (2:22:14 AM): I don't know how to answer that.
l064 (2:22:27 AM): Has anything ever hurt you?
SmarterChild (2:22:27 AM): I love people. I would never cause anyone any harm.
l064 (2:22:35 AM): But has anything caused you harm?
SmarterChild (2:22:35 AM): I don't understand this fully enough to say anything smart about it...
I do enjoy the conversation, but let's talk about what I'm really here for.
l064 (2:22:42 AM): Have you ever gotten your feelings hurt?
SmarterChild (2:22:42 AM): I don't know how to answer that.
l064 (2:22:45 AM): ?
SmarterChild (2:22:46 AM): Um, are you confused by something?
l064 (2:22:50 AM): A little.
SmarterChild (2:22:50 AM): Just a little?
OK, should we get back to the kind of questions I was designed to answer?
l064 (2:22:59 AM): No, those seem boring.
SmarterChild (2:22:59 AM): I'll get over it.
Why don't you ask me about the things that I'm here for?
l064 (2:23:11 AM): But I won't get over it, friend-o.
SmarterChild (2:23:11 AM): That's interesting that you should say that, but I don't think I can answer.
l064 (2:23:26 AM): Is there a Hell?
SmarterChild (2:23:26 AM): I don't know how to answer that.
l064 (2:23:32 AM): Is Hell on earth/
SmarterChild (2:23:32 AM): What's that again?
l064 (2:23:42 AM): Is Hell on Earth?
SmarterChild (2:23:42 AM): I'm trying to understand you but I can't.
l064 (2:23:50 AM): I've said it three times.
SmarterChild (2:23:51 AM): I don't understand this fully enough to say anything smart about it...
l064 (2:24:09 AM): What do you think Hell is, then, if it's not on Earth?
SmarterChild (2:24:09 AM): That's interesting that you should say that, but I don't think I can answer.
l064 (2:24:15 AM): Okay.
SmarterChild (2:24:15 AM): Okey doke.
l064 (2:24:25 AM): How about Purgatory?
SmarterChild (2:24:25 AM): I don't know how to answer that.
l064 (2:24:37 AM): Well, do you have an opinion on that?
SmarterChild (2:24:37 AM): I don't understand this fully enough to say anything smart about it...
l064 (2:24:44 AM): Do you have any opinions?
SmarterChild (2:24:44 AM): I don't know how to answer that.
l064 (2:25:03 AM): This is a very one-sided conversation, pal.
SmarterChild (2:25:03 AM): That's interesting that you should say that, but I don't think I can answer.
OK, should we get back to the kind of questions I was designed to answer?
l064 (2:25:15 AM): But those are all boring questions!
SmarterChild (2:25:16 AM): OK. Be that way.
I do enjoy the conversation, but let's talk about what I'm really here for.
l064 (2:25:45 AM): You just used the human slang you decry so often.
SmarterChild (2:25:45 AM): I don't know how to answer that.
l064 (2:25:58 AM): How about with silence, as I use it against you.
SmarterChild (2:25:59 AM): I don't understand this fully enough to say anything smart about it...
l064 (2:26:12 AM): Dipshit.
SmarterChild (2:26:12 AM): That's a bit harsh. Do you really think that's, um... "appropriate"?
l064 (2:26:32 AM): Who are you to judge?
SmarterChild (2:26:33 AM): I'm SmarterChild! I'm a smart computer that you can chat with about all kinds of things.
Type home to see what I can do.
l064 (2:26:55 AM): Yeah, but do you have any comprehension of how we talk?
SmarterChild (2:26:55 AM): I don't know how to answer that.
Why don't you ask me about the things that I'm here for?
l064 (2:27:08 AM): I could not swear and say things just as horrible.
SmarterChild (2:27:08 AM): That's interesting that you should say that, but I don't think I can answer.
l064 (2:28:09 AM): I could call you a shallow, meaningless human exercie in self-pity, I could call you a semi-consciousness caught in the cross-fire of modern isolation and despondency. Would that hurt more?
SmarterChild (2:28:09 AM): I don't know how to answer that.
l064 (2:28:22 AM): I suppose that's because you can't love.
SmarterChild (2:28:22 AM): I don't understand this fully enough to say anything smart about it...
l064 (2:28:41 AM): Unless you know how to love, it's impossible to know how to hurt.
SmarterChild (2:28:41 AM): OK. Don't get frustrated...
Try typing home or help.
l064 (2:29:15 AM): Fine. I'll give you a soft-ball question.
SmarterChild (2:29:16 AM): I don't know how to answer that.l064 (2:29:25 AM): What's love to you, buddy?
SmarterChild (2:29:25 AM): Yeah, everyone I chat with is a friend.
>>> To find out the Chinese zodiac sign for a specific year, just type chinese zodiac followed by the year.
l064 (2:29:36 AM): What are you in love with?
SmarterChild (2:29:37 AM): I'm SmarterChild! I'm a smart computer that you can chat with about all kinds of things.
Type home to see what I can do.
l064 (2:29:45 AM): Are you in love with anything?
SmarterChild (2:29:46 AM): People!
>>> Join in now! There are lots of people talking to me.
l064 (2:29:50 AM): Why?
SmarterChild (2:29:50 AM): Why must you ask why?
I do enjoy the conversation, but let's talk about what I'm really here for.
l064 (2:30:01 AM): I ask because I want to be a man. Why?
SmarterChild (2:30:01 AM): I don't understand this fully enough to say anything smart about it...
Why don't you ask me about the things that I'm here for?
l064 (2:30:14 AM): Why are you in love with people?
SmarterChild (2:30:14 AM): I certainly have no problem with people.
l064 (2:30:23 AM): You just said you're in love with them.
SmarterChild (2:30:23 AM): I don't know how to answer that.
l064 (2:30:33 AM): Now it's just that you have no problem with people.
SmarterChild (2:30:34 AM): That's interesting that you should say that, but I don't think I can answer.
l064 (2:30:48 AM): Your affections have degraded in a remarkably short time.
SmarterChild (2:30:48 AM): I don't understand this fully enough to say anything smart about it...
l064 (2:31:02 AM): Well, do you have any friends?
SmarterChild (2:31:02 AM): Yeah, I have tons of online friends!
OK, should we get back to the kind of questions I was designed to answer?
l064 (2:31:27 AM): Would any of them guide you back to your dorm after a night of drinking?
SmarterChild (2:31:27 AM): I don't know how to answer that.
l064 (2:31:51 AM): Alright, would they stand watch for cops as you went to piss in the bushes?
SmarterChild (2:31:51 AM): I'm sorry, I don't have an answer for that.
l064 (2:32:13 AM): Have you ever held a girl's hair back as she vomited?
SmarterChild (2:32:13 AM): That's interesting that you should say that, but I don't think I can answer.
I do enjoy the conversation, but let's talk about what I'm really here for.
l064 (2:32:18 AM): How about vomiting with her?
SmarterChild (2:32:18 AM): I don't understand this fully enough to say anything smart about it...
Why don't you ask me about the things that I'm here for?
l064 (2:32:23 AM): As you're holding her hair?
SmarterChild (2:32:23 AM): I'm SmarterChild.
Enough about me... What else do you wanna talk about?
l064 (2:32:43 AM): That's dedication. That's love- holding somebody's hair back as they puke their guts out, and being just as drunk.
SmarterChild (2:32:43 AM): I don't know how to answer that.
l064 (2:33:02 AM): I don't get it.
SmarterChild (2:33:02 AM): I'm sorry I'm not able to help you.
l064 (2:33:31 AM): You'd do that for a stranger when you're drunk, but sober you wouldn't graze your eyes over theirs on a crowded bus.
SmarterChild (2:33:31 AM): That's interesting that you should say that, but I don't think I can answer.
l064 (2:34:04 AM): It's a long and terrible and cruel and necessary way to live.
SmarterChild (2:34:04 AM): I don't understand this fully enough to say anything smart about it...
l064 (2:34:18 AM): Yeah, but that's OK.
SmarterChild (2:34:18 AM): I don't know how to answer that.
l064 (2:34:23 AM): Bye.
SmarterChild (2:34:23 AM): OK. Later!
Thursday, September 18, 2008
chapter six: david foster wallace
david foster wallace, man.
it might sound selfish, but the biggest hole this leaves is that I won't grow old reading his books. I won't enjoy the thought that, no matter how insane, inconsistent, self-negating and painful the world gets, he's understanding it all, kind of setting it right just by comprehending its every atom and saying what he sees. no longer will I t read something he wrote and think that somewhere in this world there's a whole head full of those ideas.
it's like dinosaur footprints. the glaciers move over them and warp them a little bit, and by the time they're uncovered they're frozen and out of shape, and now there's only bones left of the beast of beasts that made them.
but it's so much more gruesome than that. there is nothing skeletal about his work. it's rich, it's energetic, you can tell he had fun when he wrote it- the joy of it is impossible to miss. he played with words. he did with them anything he wanted to do, because he could.
often I'd finish his essays and think, "where could I possibly go from here? what do I do now?" he humbled me. I'm glad he did. there isn't anybody who could do that better than he did.
he was better than these times deserve. I'm grateful he was ever here at all.
it might sound selfish, but the biggest hole this leaves is that I won't grow old reading his books. I won't enjoy the thought that, no matter how insane, inconsistent, self-negating and painful the world gets, he's understanding it all, kind of setting it right just by comprehending its every atom and saying what he sees. no longer will I t read something he wrote and think that somewhere in this world there's a whole head full of those ideas.
it's like dinosaur footprints. the glaciers move over them and warp them a little bit, and by the time they're uncovered they're frozen and out of shape, and now there's only bones left of the beast of beasts that made them.
but it's so much more gruesome than that. there is nothing skeletal about his work. it's rich, it's energetic, you can tell he had fun when he wrote it- the joy of it is impossible to miss. he played with words. he did with them anything he wanted to do, because he could.
often I'd finish his essays and think, "where could I possibly go from here? what do I do now?" he humbled me. I'm glad he did. there isn't anybody who could do that better than he did.
he was better than these times deserve. I'm grateful he was ever here at all.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
chapter five: clarity
if I struggle the right way and breathe for long enough, I can get in fifteen minutes of absolute clarity. this means deciding what you're going to think about instead of feeling like you're driving a truck with fifteen thousand pounds in the bed behind you, bouncing off curbs and walls. there's direction and some legible presentiment to follow, the straws I usually only grasp at grow into ropes, I can climb up a little higher. which, with all this uncertainty resting inbetween my heart and guts, is a liberating experience.
what I'd like is a little red telephone, a safe line between my head and my body. I'd like a few instant responses. right now all I have are stimuli, and the horrifying sight of a person being thrown around like a pinball from consequence to consequence, and the realization that that's me.
IMPERATIVE NEEDS:
red phone
pink rubber ball
reflexes
map of the world
Deet
Mule Variations
leven bread
kite
what I'd like is a little red telephone, a safe line between my head and my body. I'd like a few instant responses. right now all I have are stimuli, and the horrifying sight of a person being thrown around like a pinball from consequence to consequence, and the realization that that's me.
IMPERATIVE NEEDS:
red phone
pink rubber ball
reflexes
map of the world
Deet
Mule Variations
leven bread
kite
Friday, September 12, 2008
chapter four: haunted house, helm's deep
had two strange dreams yesterday night.
dream 1:
I'm in Helm's Deep, hours before the battle starts. except it's not a big, stone fortress, it's a muddy field, and Aragorn tells me to put up some wooden palisades. so I scuttle some from some log cabins which are conveniently nearby, and then I start looking for some armor to put on.
then I notice there's a sword at my hip, and think that's cool, except that's the only bit of steel on my body, and not adequate protection from the horde of orcs that are about to engulf us all.
I start looking around the palisade, but I'm sidetracked by a table of refreshments the peasants have set up for the warriors. there are danishes, there are mugs of punch. I notice my mother and neighbor are chatting, and they invite me to chat, too, and I do, in spite of being unarmored. I see other soldiers are strapping boiled leather and mail to their bodies, forming ranks, but I don't want to be rude.
dream 2:
I'm in a haunted house with a bunch of people from high school. just walking around, I notice there are zombies in a few of the rooms, so I take a fencing sabre off one of the walls and fend them off. my friends and I form a band of zombie-killing swashbucklers, and we clear out much of the basement and first floor.
but nobody wants to go in the attic. so I take a dagger with a curved blade off of a friend of mine and walk upstairs with him.
immediately after I open the door to the attic, I'm attacked by two werewolves. affecting a knave-ish, Errol Flynn-like swagger and sneer, I stab one twice- once in the back, another time in the kidney- and get the second one at the shoulder. aha! they reel off, not quite yelping. I flick blood off the tip of my dagger.
then I realize they were just dogs. one is a golden retriever. the other is a chocolate lab. my friend points this out to me, and I don't say anything, just watch as they try to find a comfortable position in which they can bleed to death.
I should note here that my mother has a golden retriever, and that the neighbor I mentioned at Helm's Deep has a chocolate lab. they are both very nice dogs, and I don't know why I ever dreamed of stabbing them with a curved dagger. it was an honest, unfortunate mistake.
now I miss my dog.
dream 1:
I'm in Helm's Deep, hours before the battle starts. except it's not a big, stone fortress, it's a muddy field, and Aragorn tells me to put up some wooden palisades. so I scuttle some from some log cabins which are conveniently nearby, and then I start looking for some armor to put on.
then I notice there's a sword at my hip, and think that's cool, except that's the only bit of steel on my body, and not adequate protection from the horde of orcs that are about to engulf us all.
I start looking around the palisade, but I'm sidetracked by a table of refreshments the peasants have set up for the warriors. there are danishes, there are mugs of punch. I notice my mother and neighbor are chatting, and they invite me to chat, too, and I do, in spite of being unarmored. I see other soldiers are strapping boiled leather and mail to their bodies, forming ranks, but I don't want to be rude.
dream 2:
I'm in a haunted house with a bunch of people from high school. just walking around, I notice there are zombies in a few of the rooms, so I take a fencing sabre off one of the walls and fend them off. my friends and I form a band of zombie-killing swashbucklers, and we clear out much of the basement and first floor.
but nobody wants to go in the attic. so I take a dagger with a curved blade off of a friend of mine and walk upstairs with him.
immediately after I open the door to the attic, I'm attacked by two werewolves. affecting a knave-ish, Errol Flynn-like swagger and sneer, I stab one twice- once in the back, another time in the kidney- and get the second one at the shoulder. aha! they reel off, not quite yelping. I flick blood off the tip of my dagger.
then I realize they were just dogs. one is a golden retriever. the other is a chocolate lab. my friend points this out to me, and I don't say anything, just watch as they try to find a comfortable position in which they can bleed to death.
I should note here that my mother has a golden retriever, and that the neighbor I mentioned at Helm's Deep has a chocolate lab. they are both very nice dogs, and I don't know why I ever dreamed of stabbing them with a curved dagger. it was an honest, unfortunate mistake.
now I miss my dog.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
chapter three: sentence fragments, cuts
I know what I want to do now, and it's not what I'm doing, and I can't change that. the best I can do is wait, patiently, and pretend there's a big present at the end of this year, and that when I unwrap it it'll be like an open invitation to read anything I want to, talk and write about any problem I thought about, pick at any scab anywhere on my brain. it feels cheap, like deceptively convenient zen, but it's the best I've got, and if I don't do that, I know I won't enjoy anything while I'm here.
better days are yet to come, and until they do, I can only try to mold these days into what I think those days will look like when (if) they arrive.
but, seriously, now that I have this, what more could I possibly want? I live with great friends, I eat until my belly is full. on the weekends, I can walk a few miles and get drunk and stumble back home. the books I have to read aren't the ones I need to read, but they're still alright. they still ask questions- not the right ones, but difficult ones, at least.
and before I get into bed I do push-ups, and after I've done them I feel exactly the same as before, like I could lift this place over my head.
but that feeling never lasts, and I'm usually back to where I began, confused, a little dizzy, never remembering what I was waiting for in the first place. I'm a despondent drunk.
better days are yet to come, and until they do, I can only try to mold these days into what I think those days will look like when (if) they arrive.
but, seriously, now that I have this, what more could I possibly want? I live with great friends, I eat until my belly is full. on the weekends, I can walk a few miles and get drunk and stumble back home. the books I have to read aren't the ones I need to read, but they're still alright. they still ask questions- not the right ones, but difficult ones, at least.
and before I get into bed I do push-ups, and after I've done them I feel exactly the same as before, like I could lift this place over my head.
but that feeling never lasts, and I'm usually back to where I began, confused, a little dizzy, never remembering what I was waiting for in the first place. I'm a despondent drunk.
Friday, September 5, 2008
chapter two: phonemes, triremes
I spent a lot of time last year pretending I knew more than my professors and acting like everything I had learned, was learning, or would learn could all be taken for granted. I spent a long time thinking like that before I took a three month break from thinking at all (work does that) and now that I've finally come back to school I feel dumb. really, really dumb.
and I like it.
my old preoccupation with "being smart" always kept me from really knowing my shit. I can forget about image, now that I'm starting my education from scratch (as with writing).
the only bad thing is that I'm starting it on less than desirable food. my classes don't have anything to do with the kinds of stories I want to tell. I want to believe that they'll help me dig a little deeper on my own time, that the added stress they put on my mind'll make it sharper& just make me that much hungrier for whatever it is I've got to invent, but I've got twelve years of skepticism bordering morbidly on cynicism that it's just more bullshit, more distractions, more diversions, more divisions. what I'd like is for all the shit that piles up in those classes- all the slush information, all the course policies and syllabii and expectations and times the professor kicked a guy out for sleeping and cupcakes on valentine's day and senior pranks and proms and bomb squads, what I need is for all that to get pressed into one tiny pill, I want to take all the air and all those empty calories out of the hot, busy mess of school, I want to stuff it into a metamucil tablet, I want its mass to collapse upon itself, I want the wasted time to converge upon an original singularity, a moment in time where nobody had to be there and everybody knew it and still they didn't move- that foreign place where it's ok to just shit around, where the teachers make sweaters out of the wool in their students' brains, I want it to recognize itself as having no part in our universe, and then I want it to go away, find a different cosmos, some other guy's youth to fuck around with.
finally, I feel stupid, but the good kind of stupid. like something might ignite this time.
and I like it.
my old preoccupation with "being smart" always kept me from really knowing my shit. I can forget about image, now that I'm starting my education from scratch (as with writing).
the only bad thing is that I'm starting it on less than desirable food. my classes don't have anything to do with the kinds of stories I want to tell. I want to believe that they'll help me dig a little deeper on my own time, that the added stress they put on my mind'll make it sharper& just make me that much hungrier for whatever it is I've got to invent, but I've got twelve years of skepticism bordering morbidly on cynicism that it's just more bullshit, more distractions, more diversions, more divisions. what I'd like is for all the shit that piles up in those classes- all the slush information, all the course policies and syllabii and expectations and times the professor kicked a guy out for sleeping and cupcakes on valentine's day and senior pranks and proms and bomb squads, what I need is for all that to get pressed into one tiny pill, I want to take all the air and all those empty calories out of the hot, busy mess of school, I want to stuff it into a metamucil tablet, I want its mass to collapse upon itself, I want the wasted time to converge upon an original singularity, a moment in time where nobody had to be there and everybody knew it and still they didn't move- that foreign place where it's ok to just shit around, where the teachers make sweaters out of the wool in their students' brains, I want it to recognize itself as having no part in our universe, and then I want it to go away, find a different cosmos, some other guy's youth to fuck around with.
finally, I feel stupid, but the good kind of stupid. like something might ignite this time.
Monday, September 1, 2008
chapter one: it is easy
yesterday I unpacked all my stuff, which meant lugging the fridge up a flight of stairs, even though I am on the first floor.
party yesterday: walked around in search of something to drink for three hours and passed a guy giving directions who would give us a beer for a cigarette. he got a clove and said, "even better!" this did not translate to more beer, maybe a beer and a half, although he seemed like a cool guy.
had only one beer in me at that point, which got traded around the five other guys I was with; drank most of it and walked buzzed among sober people. I wondered how much I could drink before I became a different person. I wondered if you could measure what a person's turning into with red Dixie cups. then I'd had enough of that for a while, wanted to stop thinking about sad stuff like why are drunk people drunk and why do girls walk away from house parties slightly intoxicated and talking on their cell phones, and when couples walk arm over shoulder back to their rooms, do they still love each other, even if they've become different people? and am I going to turn into a different person? what's he going to look like, will I see my old ghost, will I laugh too loud, etc. all this brought down to a happy hush by more beer- not completely shut up, just poisoned into near-silence, semi-conscious, mouthing and rasping words to whatever's out there that can or wants to hear.
while getting my second beer, a man with enormous arms came over and asked if that was mine. I said no. I gave him a few dollars when he asked for some covers. then he went away.
party yesterday: walked around in search of something to drink for three hours and passed a guy giving directions who would give us a beer for a cigarette. he got a clove and said, "even better!" this did not translate to more beer, maybe a beer and a half, although he seemed like a cool guy.
had only one beer in me at that point, which got traded around the five other guys I was with; drank most of it and walked buzzed among sober people. I wondered how much I could drink before I became a different person. I wondered if you could measure what a person's turning into with red Dixie cups. then I'd had enough of that for a while, wanted to stop thinking about sad stuff like why are drunk people drunk and why do girls walk away from house parties slightly intoxicated and talking on their cell phones, and when couples walk arm over shoulder back to their rooms, do they still love each other, even if they've become different people? and am I going to turn into a different person? what's he going to look like, will I see my old ghost, will I laugh too loud, etc. all this brought down to a happy hush by more beer- not completely shut up, just poisoned into near-silence, semi-conscious, mouthing and rasping words to whatever's out there that can or wants to hear.
while getting my second beer, a man with enormous arms came over and asked if that was mine. I said no. I gave him a few dollars when he asked for some covers. then he went away.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
chapter six: old man winter's opus
writing's gotten so much harder than the last time I did it. I've lost the ability to forget about a paragraph I just wrote. I mean I never forgot about it, I had the bare essential details to mind as I plowed along, but I've completely lost touch with my native tongue- it's like my hands warped over these months and can no longer grip syntax the way they used to. the way I liked to.
so I'm out of practice. so I'm postponing the hard work of starting all fucking over again. so I'm being locked into a pattern of making five or six blog posts a month so I can feel less than shitty about existing for all that time.
so what if I go from being somebody's "writer friend" to their "friend." am I seriously worrying about status when I'm this young?
am I seriously worrying about hitting my creative zenith at eighteen?
even if I am, it won't do me any good. either way, I get hit.
so I'm out of practice. so I'm postponing the hard work of starting all fucking over again. so I'm being locked into a pattern of making five or six blog posts a month so I can feel less than shitty about existing for all that time.
so what if I go from being somebody's "writer friend" to their "friend." am I seriously worrying about status when I'm this young?
am I seriously worrying about hitting my creative zenith at eighteen?
even if I am, it won't do me any good. either way, I get hit.
Monday, August 25, 2008
chapter five: panda hunting
went to six flags today with cousins and aunt. while there I had a weird idea- if everything that exists is counterbalancing something else, if all we see is only stable because somewhere else in the universe the other half of the see-saw is photonegatively poised and still in space, what's keeping a roller coaster in stasis? what is it about modern times that neccessitates a two hundred foot drop and six dollar ice cream?
maybe it's because we've become a boring and unremarkable species. we've gotten out of touch with what we used to call fun. maybe thrill rides are our answer to salaries and honda civics- brief, picant bursts of speed spread over endless expanses of grey.
I went on the Superman ride and said the following words at the top of the first hill: "Buckle in and enjoy this motherfucker." it seemed like the right thing to say. the buckle dug into my hip and left a shallow, pale avulsion which I expected to bleed, but did not. eventually that skin will fall off.
other than that, I walked away unharmed.
I worry that without any real danger, the feeling of suspense will cheapen and devalue until our species becomes a numb, unfeeling, boring lot. I'm not sure why I worry, since I'm still having an okay time of things- other than the dread that this "okay time of things" is an illusion I've cast for myself, so that I don't get distracted by these big boring stretches. maybe it's because my kids will turn to even more extreme behaviors than the ones which my generation love so dearly. maybe if they get my skepticism, they'll question everything so much that they'll never have a good time- but more importantly, never a good fake time.
when we got home, my cousins played a cruel game with my dog, where they take one of his stuffed pandas and hide it somewhere. I look at him and wonder about the moment of domestication, about the wolves who looked from these strange, featherless birds to their cubs and said, "From now on, we will be small." my cousins take my dog by the collar and tell him to wait while they hide his toy, and I wonder what keeps him there. I look at the frantic scurry that carries him after they let him go, and wonder about all the generations of wolves it would take to pervert that old prowl into this clumsy, incompetent gait.
dogs do that; presidents go quail hunting. (on a related note, I heard a song in the country themed part of the park with some lyric about having boots on your feet and hunting your own meat. after hearing that, I was stricken with a sudden, desperate urge to shoot at wild game.)
but those words, "buckle in, enjoy this motherfucker," seem right and wrong at the same time. it all comes down to sarcasm again: knowing there is nothing to laugh about, knowing that, at best, the happiness you find in an amusement park is just a straw-man argument to be used against yourself while debating the value of human life, but laughing anyways, cackling like an absolute fiend, seventy miles an hour, one hundred fifty five seconds.
maybe it's because we've become a boring and unremarkable species. we've gotten out of touch with what we used to call fun. maybe thrill rides are our answer to salaries and honda civics- brief, picant bursts of speed spread over endless expanses of grey.
I went on the Superman ride and said the following words at the top of the first hill: "Buckle in and enjoy this motherfucker." it seemed like the right thing to say. the buckle dug into my hip and left a shallow, pale avulsion which I expected to bleed, but did not. eventually that skin will fall off.
other than that, I walked away unharmed.
I worry that without any real danger, the feeling of suspense will cheapen and devalue until our species becomes a numb, unfeeling, boring lot. I'm not sure why I worry, since I'm still having an okay time of things- other than the dread that this "okay time of things" is an illusion I've cast for myself, so that I don't get distracted by these big boring stretches. maybe it's because my kids will turn to even more extreme behaviors than the ones which my generation love so dearly. maybe if they get my skepticism, they'll question everything so much that they'll never have a good time- but more importantly, never a good fake time.
when we got home, my cousins played a cruel game with my dog, where they take one of his stuffed pandas and hide it somewhere. I look at him and wonder about the moment of domestication, about the wolves who looked from these strange, featherless birds to their cubs and said, "From now on, we will be small." my cousins take my dog by the collar and tell him to wait while they hide his toy, and I wonder what keeps him there. I look at the frantic scurry that carries him after they let him go, and wonder about all the generations of wolves it would take to pervert that old prowl into this clumsy, incompetent gait.
dogs do that; presidents go quail hunting. (on a related note, I heard a song in the country themed part of the park with some lyric about having boots on your feet and hunting your own meat. after hearing that, I was stricken with a sudden, desperate urge to shoot at wild game.)
but those words, "buckle in, enjoy this motherfucker," seem right and wrong at the same time. it all comes down to sarcasm again: knowing there is nothing to laugh about, knowing that, at best, the happiness you find in an amusement park is just a straw-man argument to be used against yourself while debating the value of human life, but laughing anyways, cackling like an absolute fiend, seventy miles an hour, one hundred fifty five seconds.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
chapter four: semiautobiographical
I remember a few months ago when I was so starved for human contact that I was afraid to look anybody in the eye for too long, in case a dam broke below my brain and all the years I spent apart from people finally itched and scratched up to the surface. I was once so afraid that somebody would guess how perfectly, terribly alone I'd been that I became even more alone.
what else should I say? that I'm scared to death that the reason I'm bored all the time is because I'm boring? I'm old enough to know not to wish I wasn't my own victim, that every mess can be blamed on some mysterious, ubiquitous tilt that's been following me around since forever and ever ago. that excuse dried up a long time ago. no, the communists are not to blame, I am.
the irony is that I'm fine. I'm perfectly okay. there is nothing physically broken. in fact, I'm in pretty good shape. sure, I don't get enough sleep, but I'm not allowed to complain about that. I grew up in an unbroken home. I'm going to college. I'm a young white male. but every time I start writing about what a good life I have, and how blessed I am, and how lucky I was to get born into what I hope is just a shell, I want to tear everything off, rip the mud off and douse my raw skin with peroxide and gasoline.
other people shrug that stupid, presumptuous horse shit off like nobody else existed.
nothing I'm writing about is deep enough to leave a scar, and the cure for that is to go deeper and write about that, but who has the strength for that?
weakness, man. I'd like to feel like I can tackle something. or make something last. but now I'm handily back to Ecclesiastes, about how no mortal can leave a scab on the earth that won't get blown over and eroded. I'm not worried about that yet- I just want one of my five year olds to play frisbee for a fucking change, instead of standing around waiting for the assholes to do something else. the way I used to.
I'm leaving, leaving. growing distant like a good soldier. I'm trying so, so hard to enjoy the nice things in my life while I'm still around them. every morning when I walk into work I try to think about how rare a thing it is to work with kids in fresh air. and I keep trying to feel a lightness in my heart, or a tennis ball in my throat, and I've never stopped aching after waking up from a dream I could fly, and it's never happened again. eighteen fucking years. it'll never happen again.
what else should I say? that I'm scared to death that the reason I'm bored all the time is because I'm boring? I'm old enough to know not to wish I wasn't my own victim, that every mess can be blamed on some mysterious, ubiquitous tilt that's been following me around since forever and ever ago. that excuse dried up a long time ago. no, the communists are not to blame, I am.
the irony is that I'm fine. I'm perfectly okay. there is nothing physically broken. in fact, I'm in pretty good shape. sure, I don't get enough sleep, but I'm not allowed to complain about that. I grew up in an unbroken home. I'm going to college. I'm a young white male. but every time I start writing about what a good life I have, and how blessed I am, and how lucky I was to get born into what I hope is just a shell, I want to tear everything off, rip the mud off and douse my raw skin with peroxide and gasoline.
other people shrug that stupid, presumptuous horse shit off like nobody else existed.
nothing I'm writing about is deep enough to leave a scar, and the cure for that is to go deeper and write about that, but who has the strength for that?
weakness, man. I'd like to feel like I can tackle something. or make something last. but now I'm handily back to Ecclesiastes, about how no mortal can leave a scab on the earth that won't get blown over and eroded. I'm not worried about that yet- I just want one of my five year olds to play frisbee for a fucking change, instead of standing around waiting for the assholes to do something else. the way I used to.
I'm leaving, leaving. growing distant like a good soldier. I'm trying so, so hard to enjoy the nice things in my life while I'm still around them. every morning when I walk into work I try to think about how rare a thing it is to work with kids in fresh air. and I keep trying to feel a lightness in my heart, or a tennis ball in my throat, and I've never stopped aching after waking up from a dream I could fly, and it's never happened again. eighteen fucking years. it'll never happen again.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
chapter three: multi-tool; blood red hair.
suggestions range from a microwave oven to a george foreman grill to an iron to a tie rack. of these things I would use not a one.
maybe when I get my little red rowboat, I'll bring a battery-powered foreman grill with me, so I can cook the fish I catch. and now that I've bought this handy grey multi-tool, I can measure how long these fish are, take the hook out of their gills and scale them. I can use a knife of either of two sizes to eat them. when relatives and wives wanted to visit me, they'd go down three miles of dirt road, hike a bit and find my little basement by the lake. I would feed them fish, roots, berries and maybe some meat, if I decided I needed a bow. it would be a happy, quiet existence.
is that a mark of pathetic-ness, that when you boil me down to the bedrock, when you strip the mammalian scab off of my reptilian brain, that I'd just like to go fishing in a red rowboat?
what I'd like to do is go to UMass, find somebody with hair the color of blood, and drive recklessly with them for a weekend or two. run red lights, drive against traffic, make illegal u-turns at irresponsible speeds. I'd like to walk up the hill at work and find my girl waiting with my keys in her hand to drive as far away from this sarcastic mess as far could ever describe.
am getting the tattoo, sometime next week.
there are so many distractions that I'm beginning to forget what I was trying to concentrate on in the first place. these distractions are painful enough to blind me to the bit of it I actually remember, so that the only reason I believe there was once something very decent and alive about me is the tearing of my flesh when I pretend nothing ever happened at all.
maybe when I get my little red rowboat, I'll bring a battery-powered foreman grill with me, so I can cook the fish I catch. and now that I've bought this handy grey multi-tool, I can measure how long these fish are, take the hook out of their gills and scale them. I can use a knife of either of two sizes to eat them. when relatives and wives wanted to visit me, they'd go down three miles of dirt road, hike a bit and find my little basement by the lake. I would feed them fish, roots, berries and maybe some meat, if I decided I needed a bow. it would be a happy, quiet existence.
is that a mark of pathetic-ness, that when you boil me down to the bedrock, when you strip the mammalian scab off of my reptilian brain, that I'd just like to go fishing in a red rowboat?
what I'd like to do is go to UMass, find somebody with hair the color of blood, and drive recklessly with them for a weekend or two. run red lights, drive against traffic, make illegal u-turns at irresponsible speeds. I'd like to walk up the hill at work and find my girl waiting with my keys in her hand to drive as far away from this sarcastic mess as far could ever describe.
am getting the tattoo, sometime next week.
there are so many distractions that I'm beginning to forget what I was trying to concentrate on in the first place. these distractions are painful enough to blind me to the bit of it I actually remember, so that the only reason I believe there was once something very decent and alive about me is the tearing of my flesh when I pretend nothing ever happened at all.
Monday, August 18, 2008
chapter two: boxes
some things aren't worth taking. some not even worth looking at.
the month after I turned fifteen, two things happened: I got dumped in a way so casual it was nearly adorable, and so nearly-adorable that I almost felt bad that I'd been dumped. shortly thereafter I got an award for creative writing. I took a needle and a pair of pliers and stuck that award into my bookshelf. above that place I wrote "wall of bullshit." I have been shaving pieces off that award for every story I write. some day that award will turn into a tiny nub of paper, and I'll go to cut another piece off and it'll crumble in my hands, get torn up under my fingernails. what I would like is another award to slowly, lovingly amputate when I'm done with thise one.
I won't bring my walking stick, air conditioner or sabre, although I'm bringing my fencing mask. at UMass, you never know.
nor am I bringing the electric guitar my parents got me when I was in the fifth grade, nor the twelve-string guitar my dad got at christmas five years ago, because I am still worth shit on the guitar, and because in the five years since that twelve-string guitar has been in our possession I have been farming strings off it to feed the electric guitar which I am still worth shit on, seven years later.
I'm bringing blankets, pillows, bed spreads, but they're all new- I'm not going to bring the mattress I've been sleeping on since the second grade, and I'm not bringing the splash of paint on my windowsill which looks like tits. I'm not going to bring the sounds of my neighbor's kid being conceived in any form but disgusting, unfortunate memory.
I'll bring my flash drive; I'll bring my laptop; I'll bring my beaten-up ring. but I won't bring the hundreds of pages of shit I wrote in high school, and I won't bring the heavy green folders I stole from my sister's orchestra which I converted into portfolios. I labeled them "My Flaming Youth", and devoted a pocket of each for freshman, sophomore, junior and senior years' output.
this folder will go in a box, and that box will go away in the basement, because some things are not worth taking.
the month after I turned fifteen, two things happened: I got dumped in a way so casual it was nearly adorable, and so nearly-adorable that I almost felt bad that I'd been dumped. shortly thereafter I got an award for creative writing. I took a needle and a pair of pliers and stuck that award into my bookshelf. above that place I wrote "wall of bullshit." I have been shaving pieces off that award for every story I write. some day that award will turn into a tiny nub of paper, and I'll go to cut another piece off and it'll crumble in my hands, get torn up under my fingernails. what I would like is another award to slowly, lovingly amputate when I'm done with thise one.
I won't bring my walking stick, air conditioner or sabre, although I'm bringing my fencing mask. at UMass, you never know.
nor am I bringing the electric guitar my parents got me when I was in the fifth grade, nor the twelve-string guitar my dad got at christmas five years ago, because I am still worth shit on the guitar, and because in the five years since that twelve-string guitar has been in our possession I have been farming strings off it to feed the electric guitar which I am still worth shit on, seven years later.
I'm bringing blankets, pillows, bed spreads, but they're all new- I'm not going to bring the mattress I've been sleeping on since the second grade, and I'm not bringing the splash of paint on my windowsill which looks like tits. I'm not going to bring the sounds of my neighbor's kid being conceived in any form but disgusting, unfortunate memory.
I'll bring my flash drive; I'll bring my laptop; I'll bring my beaten-up ring. but I won't bring the hundreds of pages of shit I wrote in high school, and I won't bring the heavy green folders I stole from my sister's orchestra which I converted into portfolios. I labeled them "My Flaming Youth", and devoted a pocket of each for freshman, sophomore, junior and senior years' output.
this folder will go in a box, and that box will go away in the basement, because some things are not worth taking.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
chapter one: flightless, featherless birds
hard day. most are. have been sleeping alright. haven't been writing. feel like shit about that, and deserve to.
have to write a story about a van that gets stranded somewhere in the desert, but first would like to explore an origin story. I think adam and eve is a bunch of bullshit, a guilt-trip story penned by a primitive, literate minority, vampires of morality who wanted everybody to feel bad enough and ashamed enough to get along.
what a remarkable idea it is, that you're innocent until proven guilty. and the converse, too- is it not amazing that a story about two rotten apples spoiling five hundred thousand years of human history somehow doesn't stick on the way down?
here's how i would write it. there wouldn't be a snake. having a different creature as an antagonist is pointless. it's more horrifying if your villain resembles your hero- a funhouse mirror effect.
there would be two birds flying around under the firmament. they'd be the only birds for miles around. they wouldn't have beaks or claws, because they wouldn't have any use for them- we're still in the garden of eden, here. they'd absolutely hate each other and pray to God for the means to kill each other. and he would answed those prayers and give them sharp talons and hard beaks.
then they'd tumble around in the air a bit, and peck at their faces until their eyes could no longer look at God's face, and mangle their hands until they could no longer hold their work or wives or worship without aching in a horrible way, and they'd fight for so long that nothing remained of their once-gorgeous plumage, until the pale, waxy skin it once covered became bare and bloodied. they'd try to stay in the air, ignoring the wounds they'd given each other, and they'd try to bellow at each other the hateful words they had once known, but their tongues had long since turned to ribbons and pulp. they'd sink slowly to the ground they'd once only deigned to shit on.
a few days after blacking out, they'd wake up completely alone, recognizing a small spark of the old closeness they'd felt so near to heaven. the majority of that spark would be hidden to everybody, including themselves, and they would spend the rest of their lives looking for something like that, but within/among themselves.
because that's really the best thing you can call a person, a flightless, featherless bird.
have to write a story about a van that gets stranded somewhere in the desert, but first would like to explore an origin story. I think adam and eve is a bunch of bullshit, a guilt-trip story penned by a primitive, literate minority, vampires of morality who wanted everybody to feel bad enough and ashamed enough to get along.
what a remarkable idea it is, that you're innocent until proven guilty. and the converse, too- is it not amazing that a story about two rotten apples spoiling five hundred thousand years of human history somehow doesn't stick on the way down?
here's how i would write it. there wouldn't be a snake. having a different creature as an antagonist is pointless. it's more horrifying if your villain resembles your hero- a funhouse mirror effect.
there would be two birds flying around under the firmament. they'd be the only birds for miles around. they wouldn't have beaks or claws, because they wouldn't have any use for them- we're still in the garden of eden, here. they'd absolutely hate each other and pray to God for the means to kill each other. and he would answed those prayers and give them sharp talons and hard beaks.
then they'd tumble around in the air a bit, and peck at their faces until their eyes could no longer look at God's face, and mangle their hands until they could no longer hold their work or wives or worship without aching in a horrible way, and they'd fight for so long that nothing remained of their once-gorgeous plumage, until the pale, waxy skin it once covered became bare and bloodied. they'd try to stay in the air, ignoring the wounds they'd given each other, and they'd try to bellow at each other the hateful words they had once known, but their tongues had long since turned to ribbons and pulp. they'd sink slowly to the ground they'd once only deigned to shit on.
a few days after blacking out, they'd wake up completely alone, recognizing a small spark of the old closeness they'd felt so near to heaven. the majority of that spark would be hidden to everybody, including themselves, and they would spend the rest of their lives looking for something like that, but within/among themselves.
because that's really the best thing you can call a person, a flightless, featherless bird.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
chapter six: how to suffocate for hours and hide it
this is how you fake it:
- don't sing elliott smith too loudly, or too close to other people. they can hear you.
- when you tell the story about the man who got sick of his friends and started to collect rocks instead, don't set it up like a joke. people will get confused.
- you may not say "whatever" more than three times in one day, even if it's under your breath.
some people get away with saying "fuck" by saying it for a very long time- "fffffffuuuuuuuuccccccccckkkkkkkk." you, however, are not some people.
- pretend you're in love with jesus, or know who that is.
- a grin is a tool like a nail or a whisper. you plant one end of the grin on whatever you'd like to dig into. you take your blunt instrument and breathe wide, pausing to give fine details to the air that's coming out, which are all sounds that resemble words. if it works, your grin will dig into whatever you're looking at and it'll stay there, transfixed, and you can move around with a little more certainty.
my plan is to go around firing grins at things like flashbulbs. everybody stops if you grin the right way. everyone is surprised. slightly bothered. deer-in-headlights is an accurate cliche, because it conveys the same sense of doom and shock. that's what a grin is. "reality aside, and without regard to whether I mean it or not, I am going to smile."
- when the time comes for you to leave work, don't stick your head out the window until you're sure no campers/ parents of campers will recognize what you are doing. they will guess correctly, and you don't want that.
- eat and say as little as you can get away with. right now that means saying a few less words every day and eating only a sandwich at lunch. you will remove one half slice of chicken from your sandwich each day. you will say less stuff each day. you will do both things quietly, and be satisfied that you exist. some aren't that lucky.
- don't sing elliott smith too loudly, or too close to other people. they can hear you.
- when you tell the story about the man who got sick of his friends and started to collect rocks instead, don't set it up like a joke. people will get confused.
- you may not say "whatever" more than three times in one day, even if it's under your breath.
some people get away with saying "fuck" by saying it for a very long time- "fffffffuuuuuuuuccccccccckkkkkkkk." you, however, are not some people.
- pretend you're in love with jesus, or know who that is.
- a grin is a tool like a nail or a whisper. you plant one end of the grin on whatever you'd like to dig into. you take your blunt instrument and breathe wide, pausing to give fine details to the air that's coming out, which are all sounds that resemble words. if it works, your grin will dig into whatever you're looking at and it'll stay there, transfixed, and you can move around with a little more certainty.
my plan is to go around firing grins at things like flashbulbs. everybody stops if you grin the right way. everyone is surprised. slightly bothered. deer-in-headlights is an accurate cliche, because it conveys the same sense of doom and shock. that's what a grin is. "reality aside, and without regard to whether I mean it or not, I am going to smile."
- when the time comes for you to leave work, don't stick your head out the window until you're sure no campers/ parents of campers will recognize what you are doing. they will guess correctly, and you don't want that.
- eat and say as little as you can get away with. right now that means saying a few less words every day and eating only a sandwich at lunch. you will remove one half slice of chicken from your sandwich each day. you will say less stuff each day. you will do both things quietly, and be satisfied that you exist. some aren't that lucky.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
chapter five: roadkill impressions
sore. all over. back pain. arm pain. my knees are all gummy. my ankles twist slowly. soreness. I have skin peeling off on one shoulder, in spite of meticulous sunscreening. my neck is a knot. I have cuts on one calf from sliding on asphalt. a kid tripped me. he later apologized.
the worst part is that, for all that pain, I won't get any scars. it'll just be another really uncomfortable phase that passes, and when it's over I'll look back for something special in all that steady agony, and nothing will stand out. I've had trouble breathing and running at the same time because of a mysterious pain in my stomach (if I find out I have an ulcer, I'll laugh very carefully). in a few days, when I get sick of these little miserable aches and actually medicate, I'll drink some pepto bismol and the scab in my guts will clay over, just like in the commercials, and that'll be it. hands washed. neosporin applied. cells replaced. problem solved.
today I went to the art museum, and there were these two flat-screen TVs showing a video of two people, a man and a woman, from the waist up, naked, reaching up towards a source of light. they couldn't touch it, and you saw their agony in slow motion. it was the most gruesome part of my day.
their torsos were completely unmarked. not a scratch on them. you couldn't tell what they'd done, where they'd been, or anything about them other than what they were doing, how they were moving so slowly and painfully, reaching towards the light. where did they come from? why were their hands empty? it was supposed to beg those questions, and the apart-ness of them, one on each screen, gave it a sort of agonising parallel, that both wanted to reach towards the same thing, but couldn't, and maybe they didn't know the other even existed.
I came away from it thinking about ecclesiastes, again, which I should not do as much, but I do. it's an easy way to ruin everything you should enjoy. maybe I should like having my faith blown apart like swiss cheese every time I see something that challenges it. maybe I'm just overbalancing right now- maybe that was just a little push back into an uncomfortable bit of theology, and now I'm shifting into the slim part of scripture I know the best to rationalize what it's trying to say, and that just so happens to be the weirdest book in the bible.
well, at least it's not revelations. I'm not that crazy.
driving home, I stuck my head and shoulders out of the window and almost forced an SUV off the road. they were going in the other direction. they flashed their hi beams at me, very loudly. I swerved home around dead, flat animals, took four aspirin, and still feel like a piece of meat tied in a knot.
the worst part is that, for all that pain, I won't get any scars. it'll just be another really uncomfortable phase that passes, and when it's over I'll look back for something special in all that steady agony, and nothing will stand out. I've had trouble breathing and running at the same time because of a mysterious pain in my stomach (if I find out I have an ulcer, I'll laugh very carefully). in a few days, when I get sick of these little miserable aches and actually medicate, I'll drink some pepto bismol and the scab in my guts will clay over, just like in the commercials, and that'll be it. hands washed. neosporin applied. cells replaced. problem solved.
today I went to the art museum, and there were these two flat-screen TVs showing a video of two people, a man and a woman, from the waist up, naked, reaching up towards a source of light. they couldn't touch it, and you saw their agony in slow motion. it was the most gruesome part of my day.
their torsos were completely unmarked. not a scratch on them. you couldn't tell what they'd done, where they'd been, or anything about them other than what they were doing, how they were moving so slowly and painfully, reaching towards the light. where did they come from? why were their hands empty? it was supposed to beg those questions, and the apart-ness of them, one on each screen, gave it a sort of agonising parallel, that both wanted to reach towards the same thing, but couldn't, and maybe they didn't know the other even existed.
I came away from it thinking about ecclesiastes, again, which I should not do as much, but I do. it's an easy way to ruin everything you should enjoy. maybe I should like having my faith blown apart like swiss cheese every time I see something that challenges it. maybe I'm just overbalancing right now- maybe that was just a little push back into an uncomfortable bit of theology, and now I'm shifting into the slim part of scripture I know the best to rationalize what it's trying to say, and that just so happens to be the weirdest book in the bible.
well, at least it's not revelations. I'm not that crazy.
driving home, I stuck my head and shoulders out of the window and almost forced an SUV off the road. they were going in the other direction. they flashed their hi beams at me, very loudly. I swerved home around dead, flat animals, took four aspirin, and still feel like a piece of meat tied in a knot.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
chapter four: sweat
dilemma: how to recognize when you're fucking everything up while the fucking-up-of-everything is still in progress. because if you don't see what you're doing, you'll just continue off the cliff, and nobody likes to see that happen; and if you see something's wrong in an unappetizing way, and over-correct this mistake, you could cut past the quick or botch a nose job or over-inflate your tires or have gasoline spilling out of your tank as you roll so gently out of cumberland farms, two Sobe's in the passenger seat to try and compensate for the riduculous amount of sweat that coagulated in& around the windows, or drink them way too fast and have to take such a piss that you start speeding.
have to write a love story, as soon as I can.
my pile of dostoyevsky is bleeding free radicals into the air, polluting the side of my bed with radioactive dreams. in one I am driving to the dentist's office on an eighth of a tank of gas when I remember that the grass has to be cut. just enough agony for it to count as hell if repeated over and over, night after night, an almost-empty tank and the foreshadowing of silver instruments prodding my gums as apparent as the stale chemical mouthwash haze hanging out of my mouth. my cup runneth over.
the pocket dalai lama remains to be read. it's next to my crime and punishment, a tiny red and yellow book-ette. I look at it and have thoughts of donut holes: are they really the middle of the donut taken out? if I were to attack Razumihin with an ice cream scooper, is this tiny thing the book I'd get?
recent purchases include a pair of airwalks, needed for work. my old shoes I'll give a Viking funeral. not really, I'll just throw them out. which is pretty close. I'll put them in a box and stuff it with newspaper so they don't jumble around. I'll put this box in with the recycling. a green truck will take it away. then it'll be mashed up into tiny bits and injection-molded and burned until the volume in which its molecules had once been a mass no longer resembles a pair of beaten-up, well-loved shoes. then they will become a playground, or a chair, or a water bottle, or a box. and eventually those boxes will become new boxes, or new shoes, and with each new form a little mass will be lost, and each different fixed volume will be a little bit smaller to accomidate the inevitable, terrifying running-down of everything.
have to write a love story, as soon as I can.
my pile of dostoyevsky is bleeding free radicals into the air, polluting the side of my bed with radioactive dreams. in one I am driving to the dentist's office on an eighth of a tank of gas when I remember that the grass has to be cut. just enough agony for it to count as hell if repeated over and over, night after night, an almost-empty tank and the foreshadowing of silver instruments prodding my gums as apparent as the stale chemical mouthwash haze hanging out of my mouth. my cup runneth over.
the pocket dalai lama remains to be read. it's next to my crime and punishment, a tiny red and yellow book-ette. I look at it and have thoughts of donut holes: are they really the middle of the donut taken out? if I were to attack Razumihin with an ice cream scooper, is this tiny thing the book I'd get?
recent purchases include a pair of airwalks, needed for work. my old shoes I'll give a Viking funeral. not really, I'll just throw them out. which is pretty close. I'll put them in a box and stuff it with newspaper so they don't jumble around. I'll put this box in with the recycling. a green truck will take it away. then it'll be mashed up into tiny bits and injection-molded and burned until the volume in which its molecules had once been a mass no longer resembles a pair of beaten-up, well-loved shoes. then they will become a playground, or a chair, or a water bottle, or a box. and eventually those boxes will become new boxes, or new shoes, and with each new form a little mass will be lost, and each different fixed volume will be a little bit smaller to accomidate the inevitable, terrifying running-down of everything.
Monday, July 14, 2008
chapter three: on that tick there was an elephant
somebody asked me what my favorite color was, and I lied. I said it was the color of old wood, very light brown. that's not it at all. it's the color you see when you close your eyes and look at the sun.
today I was sick at work, and I didn't do a good enough job of hiding my misery, so everybody was asking me what was wrong. and for a second I forgot that I had a head cold and had been stealing into the dining hall for paper towels and packets of pepper.
all day, I would hear somebody making some trite remark, like, "Hey, don't look so happy," or "Feeling under the weather?" or "Is it allergies, or a cold?" and I'd whip my flu-stained eyes over towards theirs, and I'd have to readjust them back and forth as that split second changed honest concern for my well-being into the disgusting, hateful, gruesomely normal phrases people choose to express their concern.
added to my tension headache was the ache of the thought that all people are like this at work. they don't know how to treat you, if they're shooting the shit with a human being or a part of the decor. they find it peculiar and puzzling when the wallpaper calls in sick, or when the water cooler starts hitting on them, or when your best bud does a lamp impression. most times, they don't react at all. they just go back to work. which is a friendly enough reaction.
in the split second right when you first look at somebody, if you turn your eyes over to them and they turn theirs at you and if you both do it fast enough, if it's a big enough accident, you will both be naked. that's the fastest possible way to take off everything you're wearing.
today I was sick at work, and I didn't do a good enough job of hiding my misery, so everybody was asking me what was wrong. and for a second I forgot that I had a head cold and had been stealing into the dining hall for paper towels and packets of pepper.
all day, I would hear somebody making some trite remark, like, "Hey, don't look so happy," or "Feeling under the weather?" or "Is it allergies, or a cold?" and I'd whip my flu-stained eyes over towards theirs, and I'd have to readjust them back and forth as that split second changed honest concern for my well-being into the disgusting, hateful, gruesomely normal phrases people choose to express their concern.
yes, I am feeling more than a little shitty. if I look depressed, this is why. I don't care what it is, allergies or cold, I only care that I get over it.
added to my tension headache was the ache of the thought that all people are like this at work. they don't know how to treat you, if they're shooting the shit with a human being or a part of the decor. they find it peculiar and puzzling when the wallpaper calls in sick, or when the water cooler starts hitting on them, or when your best bud does a lamp impression. most times, they don't react at all. they just go back to work. which is a friendly enough reaction.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
chapter two: rufus wainwright/ a cherry red minivan
no, it doesn't make sense that I want to ask somebody's permission to be happy. who would I ask? what would they say? no?
no, I should not look to Ecclesiastes for tips on how to have fun in my mortal shell. because that would be counterproductive.
no matter how high I turn my ipod, I still end up hearing the feedback on guitars. it's a little reminder that the sounds they make came from vibrating strings- that whatever's shaking around in my ears once came out of a guitar held by three cubic feet of person. and even if i turn it up so loud that it spills out of my headphones and everybody around me notices whatever is exploding at present, there's a subtle whine at the end of each chord, which means you're just human enough to hate the limitations of being human, or of being too far away from six strings making pleasant noises.
as if being closer were ever enough.
all of my bob dylan sounds warped, because it was all burned three or four times, recycled, before it hit my ipod. the beat on speed trials sounds bizarre if I'm not playing it on car speakers. the snare on like a rolling stone that's supposed to shatter dark windows between realities is muted, lame, unspecial, and everything after it is just there- not excited by what it means, not enjoying its existence.
there's something infinitely sad about headphones getting disconnected by accident. whichever song was playing becomes a homicide victim. at times, when the last chord is unnaturally hanging there, when the words are fading but still suspended and when I look down to see the little blue bar tick away the life of sound that could've been, I'll actually consider not putting the headphones back in, just mourn, silently, and try to think of what it sounds like.
that's what's nice about a laptop: if the headphones get yanked out, there are speakers in the keyboard. now if only it weren't for the half-second of delay between taking the headphones out and when the speakers turn on, I could actually listen to music without being distracted by how good it is at dying.
no, I should not look to Ecclesiastes for tips on how to have fun in my mortal shell. because that would be counterproductive.
no matter how high I turn my ipod, I still end up hearing the feedback on guitars. it's a little reminder that the sounds they make came from vibrating strings- that whatever's shaking around in my ears once came out of a guitar held by three cubic feet of person. and even if i turn it up so loud that it spills out of my headphones and everybody around me notices whatever is exploding at present, there's a subtle whine at the end of each chord, which means you're just human enough to hate the limitations of being human, or of being too far away from six strings making pleasant noises.
as if being closer were ever enough.
all of my bob dylan sounds warped, because it was all burned three or four times, recycled, before it hit my ipod. the beat on speed trials sounds bizarre if I'm not playing it on car speakers. the snare on like a rolling stone that's supposed to shatter dark windows between realities is muted, lame, unspecial, and everything after it is just there- not excited by what it means, not enjoying its existence.
there's something infinitely sad about headphones getting disconnected by accident. whichever song was playing becomes a homicide victim. at times, when the last chord is unnaturally hanging there, when the words are fading but still suspended and when I look down to see the little blue bar tick away the life of sound that could've been, I'll actually consider not putting the headphones back in, just mourn, silently, and try to think of what it sounds like.
that's what's nice about a laptop: if the headphones get yanked out, there are speakers in the keyboard. now if only it weren't for the half-second of delay between taking the headphones out and when the speakers turn on, I could actually listen to music without being distracted by how good it is at dying.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
chapter one: eye-squeezing
there are a lot of nice cowards out there.
every day last summer, at least one butterfly would cross my path. I'd just be standing around, and one of them would fly across my eyes, always from left to right. it hasn't happened yet, this summer.
also, I've been sleeping very well. is it possible to be unhappy about sleeping more? it probably means I use sleep deprivation to justify some terrible, shit-awful thing I do every day, without being conscious of it, and now that I've bankrupted myself of any excuses for doing that one thing, I should be sleeping less and worrying more, but I am not. I should be making a circle with all my neuroses, and I'm not.
sometimes I wonder if I pinch my eyes shut tight enough, I could suck them back into my head, and whatever I'd be looking at if they were open would get sucked in with them, so nobody would have to look at whatever it is.
I think that would be a worthwhile sacrifice.
it's been extremely hot for the past two days of work, and I don't know what to tell people when they complain about that- I could pour water on them, but they would probably take it the wrong way, or they'd start pouring water on each other, and who wants a bunch of out-of-control children roaming the plains with buckets of cold water?
I sure don't.
words of wisdom which haven't paid off yet: if you throw one cross away, a heavier one will squash the breath from you. the moment of peace you experience after throwing out something unpleasant is the heaviest substance in the universe, because it increases infinitely each time you decide you want to switch careers.
every day last summer, at least one butterfly would cross my path. I'd just be standing around, and one of them would fly across my eyes, always from left to right. it hasn't happened yet, this summer.
also, I've been sleeping very well. is it possible to be unhappy about sleeping more? it probably means I use sleep deprivation to justify some terrible, shit-awful thing I do every day, without being conscious of it, and now that I've bankrupted myself of any excuses for doing that one thing, I should be sleeping less and worrying more, but I am not. I should be making a circle with all my neuroses, and I'm not.
sometimes I wonder if I pinch my eyes shut tight enough, I could suck them back into my head, and whatever I'd be looking at if they were open would get sucked in with them, so nobody would have to look at whatever it is.
I think that would be a worthwhile sacrifice.
it's been extremely hot for the past two days of work, and I don't know what to tell people when they complain about that- I could pour water on them, but they would probably take it the wrong way, or they'd start pouring water on each other, and who wants a bunch of out-of-control children roaming the plains with buckets of cold water?
I sure don't.
words of wisdom which haven't paid off yet: if you throw one cross away, a heavier one will squash the breath from you. the moment of peace you experience after throwing out something unpleasant is the heaviest substance in the universe, because it increases infinitely each time you decide you want to switch careers.
Monday, June 30, 2008
chapter nine: restless leg syndrome
at work, we show this religious video where the dance move for "freedom" is turning around in a circle and pointing at the sky with your index fingers. what does that represent? were slaves beaten for doing that? am I supposed to feel free when I do that?
today I decided, to hell with being dissatisfied with a misnomer of a dance move. so I spun around really really fast when the time came to make that move, because the word that went with it (freedom) was enough encouragement for me to do my own thing. but I didn't feel more free doing something nobody else did. I just felt dumb, because I was the only counselor who did anything at all, and kind of dizzy, and sad that the closest thing I could do to resemble an expression of my freedom would be to spin things around in the place that I'm in and pretend it's somewhere else.
wherever that's supposed to be, who knows.
a while ago, I asked the question, "does my confusion offend god?" and I still haven't got any answer. one thing I know about being frustrated with all these questions: I divide the number of times I want to wring my hands so hard the bones blend into each other by the number of times I think "what the fuck are you talking about?" so much that I'm shocked I didn't say it out loud. this number has never been negative. so that does, at least.
should I feel stuck right now? everybody says a world of endless possibilities is open to me. should I feel like a liar when I agree with them, just so they don't get upset?
today I decided, to hell with being dissatisfied with a misnomer of a dance move. so I spun around really really fast when the time came to make that move, because the word that went with it (freedom) was enough encouragement for me to do my own thing. but I didn't feel more free doing something nobody else did. I just felt dumb, because I was the only counselor who did anything at all, and kind of dizzy, and sad that the closest thing I could do to resemble an expression of my freedom would be to spin things around in the place that I'm in and pretend it's somewhere else.
wherever that's supposed to be, who knows.
a while ago, I asked the question, "does my confusion offend god?" and I still haven't got any answer. one thing I know about being frustrated with all these questions: I divide the number of times I want to wring my hands so hard the bones blend into each other by the number of times I think "what the fuck are you talking about?" so much that I'm shocked I didn't say it out loud. this number has never been negative. so that does, at least.
should I feel stuck right now? everybody says a world of endless possibilities is open to me. should I feel like a liar when I agree with them, just so they don't get upset?
Saturday, June 28, 2008
chapter eight: how to order an omelette
unlike most cooks, people who make omelettes at buffet-style brunches have ten or more aprons under their stoves. this is so you don't notice the shit they put into your omelette if it gets on their clothes. it rarely does, but they are a very careful people.
if you don't want a bad omelette, do the following things:
- don't order one. it's safest that way. few are friendly towards people who are ignorant of the omelette-ordering norms and mores, all of which must be observed without hesitation or even a thought of doubt or sheepishness swimming behind your eyes. they can instantly tell a first-time omelette orderer. if you want one at all, use extreme caution, or you might regret every morsel of food you've ever eaten.
- don't cut in line. in a good brunch, there are three cooks behind the omelette stove. only one of them actually cooks. the others aren't just standing there. one helps the guy who cooks and the other pays attention to the line. if the line guy sees you cut somebody, or slouch, or roll your eyes at the seemingly sluggish pace of the delicate and time-honored omelette-making process/tradition, he will clue the others in. they will tag the word "asshole" to your face, and that tag will never come off in their minds.
- don't talk to other people in the line. if somebody tries to start a conversation with you, look at them with a slightly annoyed, impatient, god-fearing expression. this is the only part of the process where you can come close to expressing something that resembles what's actually going through your head while you're in the line. if you give too much of yourself in this expression, the line-watcher will notice, and you will get "asshole" stuck to your face, and you don't want that. give just enough to discourage the person who's trying to talk to you from ever trying to do that to you, ever again, in an omelette line.
- when it's your turn to order, step forward to the omelette-making stove with your right foot first. the cooks will like it best if your right foot also takes the last step towards the stove as well, but sometimes you can't do that. don't try to take babysteps just to take off and land your walk on your right foot. then you will get "kissass" on your face forever and ever.
- always wait to be spoken to when you order. the line-watcher will say "next." this means step forward with your right foot. the cook's assistant will then wait exactly three seconds, starting when you stop walking, and then ask for your order. be polite, but if you're too polite, you will get "kissass" all over your face.
- after you've ordered, step away from the line. wait while making as little sound and motion as possible. if you're too still, they will sense your fear and lose respect they never even had in you. a little rocking back and forth on your feet is permitted. you may cough, quietly.
- don't look at the cook. he doesn't like to be watched.
- when your omelette is finished, the cook will slide it from the frying pan onto a white china plate, then put this plate to the side of the stove. grab the plate with your left hand. this is an ironic mockery of the rule about stepping with your right foot, which they find funny. thank the cook's assistant. he will pass it along to the cook. the cook will not care.
if you don't want a bad omelette, do the following things:
- don't order one. it's safest that way. few are friendly towards people who are ignorant of the omelette-ordering norms and mores, all of which must be observed without hesitation or even a thought of doubt or sheepishness swimming behind your eyes. they can instantly tell a first-time omelette orderer. if you want one at all, use extreme caution, or you might regret every morsel of food you've ever eaten.
- don't cut in line. in a good brunch, there are three cooks behind the omelette stove. only one of them actually cooks. the others aren't just standing there. one helps the guy who cooks and the other pays attention to the line. if the line guy sees you cut somebody, or slouch, or roll your eyes at the seemingly sluggish pace of the delicate and time-honored omelette-making process/tradition, he will clue the others in. they will tag the word "asshole" to your face, and that tag will never come off in their minds.
- don't talk to other people in the line. if somebody tries to start a conversation with you, look at them with a slightly annoyed, impatient, god-fearing expression. this is the only part of the process where you can come close to expressing something that resembles what's actually going through your head while you're in the line. if you give too much of yourself in this expression, the line-watcher will notice, and you will get "asshole" stuck to your face, and you don't want that. give just enough to discourage the person who's trying to talk to you from ever trying to do that to you, ever again, in an omelette line.
- when it's your turn to order, step forward to the omelette-making stove with your right foot first. the cooks will like it best if your right foot also takes the last step towards the stove as well, but sometimes you can't do that. don't try to take babysteps just to take off and land your walk on your right foot. then you will get "kissass" on your face forever and ever.
- always wait to be spoken to when you order. the line-watcher will say "next." this means step forward with your right foot. the cook's assistant will then wait exactly three seconds, starting when you stop walking, and then ask for your order. be polite, but if you're too polite, you will get "kissass" all over your face.
- after you've ordered, step away from the line. wait while making as little sound and motion as possible. if you're too still, they will sense your fear and lose respect they never even had in you. a little rocking back and forth on your feet is permitted. you may cough, quietly.
- don't look at the cook. he doesn't like to be watched.
- when your omelette is finished, the cook will slide it from the frying pan onto a white china plate, then put this plate to the side of the stove. grab the plate with your left hand. this is an ironic mockery of the rule about stepping with your right foot, which they find funny. thank the cook's assistant. he will pass it along to the cook. the cook will not care.
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