April 5,
April 7,
April 14 ,
April 28,
April 29,
April 30
So school started today. Those words have such a magical value. School. I've struggled with that concept for some time now. It's tied up somehow to learning, but no one is sure what, exactly. It has something to do with taxes. Something to do with grades. Something to do with eventual income. Something to do with "liberalism." Something to do with history; something about how you don't want to repeat it.
School means regimentation; success! School means opportunity presents itself in a prettier package if you pretend to agree with the teacher.
I can't say. I can't say that I agree that a free market is better for the world economy than a protectionist one. I can't say it. But that's what school told me today. I believe in adaptation to technology; I do. But I don't see that quickening the pace of life improves it. That. That seems to be the bottom line. School! Why aren't you telling me what to do about that theory!?
I wonder. I wonder why school has taught me to doubt myself. I wonder why I've resisted that notion so vehemently, that idea that I shouldn't trust my own analyses. After all, all written work is just someone else's analysis; why shouldn't mine count equally? Are some people more qualified to push their opinions on others? I wonder.
Time is spreading itself out for me right now. God has given me an opportunity to just think and sit for awhile; no worrying about food, clothing, shelter. I've got everything I need to survive, and some convenience to boot; what am I going to do with that time? I still feel as though there's some raging battle somewhere to fight, some great cause to push forward, some universal empathy to gather and distribute. I still feel that. But I'm having trouble focusing. What aspect of existence should be my priority in the war I want to fight? Should it be the pursuit of happiness? Should it be the fight for common rights and liberties? (PS I don't believe "man" has any inalienable rights, 'cept to die and hope to find Jah after expiration.) Might I want to explicate some "freedom" I believe in? (Puh-shaw , puh-leez.) What could it be? (currently unanswerable for me)
So the NCAA tournament final went on today. Kind of disappointing. The 7'1" center for Georgia Tech got his ass shut down. That whole team looked not-so-together. The athleticism throughout the game was not-so-apparent. I love watching a good game. Sports are the essence of war and conflict. Grace, agility, power, balance. These things are incredible to watch, even if the stage they appear on is contrived. But damn, even the stars don't shine some days.
Had my first bout with instructed Yoga today. Felt like a video pushed through fast forward. Felt like I was on some seven-second delay. And my groin and hamstring muscles are tight. They make it so I can't do concave/convex back exercises properly.
Where's my incense?
So I only caught the last ten minutes of the network premier of "The Swan," but it is hard for me to determine words which convey my internal reaction. "Disgusted," "sickened," "revolted," "dismayed," "horrified" and "appalled" all come to mind.
What kind of a sick world do I live in where God's creations will go through no less than multiple simultaneous plastic surgeries and then televise themselves in order to find happiness, and, PS, compete in a beauty pageant?
Let me try to be rational.
From information gathered within my life experiences, beauty is revered. There is a strong connection between beauty and aesthetics, as in, certain ratios of lines and shapes and certain combinations of colors are pleasing to the eye because of their natural value. There is also a strong connection between beauty and societal values, as in, if a group has decided in some way over time that "thin" is "beautiful," than "thin" becomes "beautiful." It seems that different people have different ideas of whom or what is beautiful, but there is a general agreement when certain characteristics are present, as in, tall blonde female with big tits and a skinny waist, or a tall, muscular man with a strong jaw line and "piercing" eyes.
But, for heaven's sake, within my life experience, beauty does not equate to happiness. In fact, to me, it's almost always seemed exactly the opposite-beauty means despair, loneliness, egotism, the necessity of rejecting others who are less beautiful, the pressures to remain beautiful, the pain if that beauty fades, the frustration of being touched too much, the hurt of being "wanted for the wrong reasons." Who in their right mind would want to be beautiful!? I think I'd rather be healthy! And if health is beyond my control, I think I'd rather pay homage to Jah for good friends and the possibility of experiencing the beauty of life and living.
Sex in the dark is beautiful. Images don't get in the way of feelings. Lights don't distract from meaning. Shadows don't show wrinkles. Bodies become bodies, pairs become singles-I suppose multiples of any sort become singles. There is no shape and form. There are no reflections with which to judge the perfections and imperfections of physical form. There are no lines; there are no colors. Life in the dark would be beautiful-only perhaps it would be rather difficult to navigate through obstacles.
So what do I see when I see the "swans" emerging from the double doors on the television to gaze at themselves in a mirror for the first time since their surgeries. I see dead Marines in the Sunni triangle. I see dead Iraqis in Baghdad. I see the word "mulatto." "Spic." "Chink." "Nigger." Because without seeing people, without knowing what they look like, how can you label them? How can you label me?
In that mirror the "swan" looks at, I see women who've been targeted for rape because they were beautiful. I see prostitutes and pornographic models. I see the lives of those who've been emotionally destroyed because they've determined they were ugly, therefore worthless.
I see myself emerging from the double doors on the television. I see myself standing in front of that mirror. I'll shatter the glass with my right fist, knuckles aimed at the reflection of my eyes. I see blood and hear the crash. I feel much better.
Sometimes you lose. Sometimes you lose yourself. The gravity of a situation measures the depth of lucidity involved. Sometimes I feel weightless.
Sometimes there are disappointments. Sometimes there are questionings of "why?" Sometimes there are matters of age, of race, creed; of privilege, sex; of phantom separators.
Some of us think of some things more than others of us. Warm water. The dizziness before peace settles in.
I think my obsession about record-keeping stems from my desire to make sure there is some physical evidence that I was ever here at all, struggling to decipher the ultimate puzzle. Ultimate? Maybe only according to me.
It all boils down to a pot on a stove, emptied of water and the only substances that remain are the pollutants. Impurities. Things of a different melting point.
Who the fuck cares.
Diffidence is so unbecoming.
Piece by piece all things unravel. Left behind-that which is essential, if ignored. Left behind-that which is crucial, yet bypassed.
And the song remains the same, remains the same, remains the same ...
I dance now--always. Shifting left and right, weaving to some natural tempo, some Taoist mambo, samba, or ballet.
It could have been Fairy Dust, for all I know. I put my trust directly up my nose—what irony. I look for a greater power among the lesser things considered of men and beasts. I look for truth through garbage bins behind fast food joints. What irony. I become dissatisfied; get angry with the “search for sound,” become frustrated because I have no way to do “professional” “speaker modeling” within my four walls. I have trouble with compressed bass. It sounds hollow through five-inch speakers.
Memories are like snapshots. Like snapped shots. Like short video clips, edited together like a patchwork sweater—minus the yarn, minus the needles. Just add water; just add proactive floor cleaner that dissolves gelcaps. What irony.
Just add Tuesdays that flim-flam on by like the worst day of a week. Just add Wednesdays where there’s a feeling like—should be writing a novel about “the full value of worthlessness.”
From the rubble—syncopation. Begin on an off-beat; continue for long enough; then add the down-beat; suddenly you’ve confused the listener. What—exactly—are you trying to accomplish here? Push the main melody a half step to the right, to the future, suddenly you’ve got an echo. Add some reverb—voila. A master-fucking-piece of “art.” Like that painting in the museum, the one with the big red circle and some splotches of blue running away from it. What vision, let me tell you.
Spare me now, spare me later, the headache is still interminable.
There are very few feelings like putting on a fresh, clean pair of socks. Bare feet with poor circulation tend to become uncomfortable when faced with natural temperatures. Mostly too cold; temperatures, that is. After any occasion not to have socks on, for instance, after a shower, putting socks on is a superior example of how simplicity can erase the overwhelming onslaught of News and Information, Discussions and Interpretations, Plans and Forebodings, and of other such meddlings with the already-overworked brain.
I've been working hard since this past weekend, trying to reconcile why What Happens Happens, mixing that in with standard Memory Loss, and thinking about economics goals like producer and consumer surplus, and how all are happy who are involved with the equilibrating process, but everyone else (aka the Majority) aren't, but-that also doesn't matter, because it's part of the equation already.
Yoga is great. But I find myself disturbed with the behavior of the particular little cocksucker who talks too much in class. For some reason, his comments while the teacher is talking really grate against my nerves. His confidence in himself makes me sick, like I want to smash the little faggot into the floorboards. All the while, I realize it is my own self that is creating the problem by letting him exist inside my little bubble-world at all. He's harmless; the only one doing the harming is me to myself. Living and breathing will be full of distractions-why I care what he does or says within an hour period twice a week in some random classroom is beyond me. But even my rationalizing the situation doesn't keep my blood pressure down when he starts jabbering nonsense. Who wants to hear anyone jabber nonsense, right? (Visualize the irony)
So the television is occupying my brain again. I need to find out "what happens next," and I feel the need to break down and psychoanalyze commercials. I thought I'd be through with that habit by now. No such bones.
There's been a rift; a tear, I believe, in the universal social fabric. The connective weaving, bumping and grinding of the movers and shakers has come to a sudden and unquestionably abrupt halt. Who the fuck am I kidding ... Fabric is cotton right, cotton is fabric, as in, the poor wooly sheep that wandered back into civilization after six years gone. Who knew sheep, when left unshorn, were nothing more than a little sheep-head sticking out of a massive x-mas sweater, yet undyed and yarnsmithed? Look up the poor bastard thing, code-named "Shrek." Send your love.
Cheers.
Abstract thoughts, strung together, 2 am.
Sometimes I'm glad that I heard that people who think they might be going crazy aren't. Only that the ones who never consider the option might be. Because sometimes I feel a little loopy. Like, how far away can I really get. Games that force me to explain myself, they make me nervous. As in, I don't really want you to know me. Whatever I want you to know about me I'll volunteer in my own good time. Which is opposite a philosophy I count on for other people. Openness, truth, trust. I leave them to the others. I'd rather be in a silent haze. Not that I have anything to hide. Just that I'm more interested in tomorrow rather than yesterday or today. Just that I don't necessarily believe in making light of things I'd rather not make light of. Maybe it's a case of selfishness.
And as for the tech sound. I think the purest form of music is the altered sound wave. Honestly, how natural is it to make hardened cat guts into string and then draw horse hairs across it, or to smelt metals into a cone and buzz with lips, or to stretch dried animal hide across a hollowed surface. No, I prefer synthesis. Take a cyclical electronic pulse, put it in a frequency range I can hear, and play with it ad infinitum. That music would be the quickest way to the heart of the soul, and with no loss of materials to show for it.
For as many layers as I consciously put up, I'm amazed I can still get stung sometimes. "Why should you care that I [enter phrase here], it's not like you take me seriously anyway." Ouch. You mean, sharing hopes and dreams, sharing a life, sharing daily existence, is not taking a person seriously. Curve ball over the outside corner. Like the Mariners. 7-14? Losing record. Sigh.
But I can guarantee, that dull glazed look can put off even the guy in the mirror. Grow out the hair, hide the face, quiet the tone, abbreviate the words. Suddenly, peace in detachment. Not like it's like that tomorrow. God knows tomorrow brings the promise of eternal salvation, just say your prayers and eat your Wheaties, like Hulk Hogan says. (Didn't he take too many steroids, go bald?)
Sometimes the future looks bleak, like I'm staring through foggy, out-of-focus glasses. But I try to remind myself about borrowed time, about the beauty and fascination of Creation and the be-damned Dinosaurs. Then that T-fuckin-Rex comes roundin' the corner. Damn the Hard Trance, bring on the House.