Assembled. Polished. Branded. Forced. Beyond.
No names. Never names. Arteries, ventricles, veins.
Ropes unwind. Into...
FRINGES. On the fringes. Always on the fringes. Existing on the fringes. Coming off the hinges.
Water washes away.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Go To Bed Tyler Durden
Okay. I'll try.
I've ALWAYS been an insomniac. My Dad used to walk into the living room at 3AM when I was three years old with the TV on and me in the middle of the floor. The TV wasn't on because I was watching it, it was on because it gave me just enough light to see what kind of monolith I was constructing with my blocks.
Insomnia is an affliction some say. It's a friend of mine.
I've ALWAYS been an insomniac. My Dad used to walk into the living room at 3AM when I was three years old with the TV on and me in the middle of the floor. The TV wasn't on because I was watching it, it was on because it gave me just enough light to see what kind of monolith I was constructing with my blocks.
Insomnia is an affliction some say. It's a friend of mine.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
On The Road
I just finished Jack Kerouac's On the Road for the second time. I read it once in grad school, and it's amazing how much I've forgotten about it. I'd rank it as one of my top three favourite novels of all time. It's wild and it's unhinged, and it resonates throughout the generations. It's still so relevant. It's America. I've always agreed with the critic's sentiments that it's the defining novel of the post-war Beat Generation...just as Tom Wolfe's Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test (which is what I'm reading next...again) effectively serves the same role for the generation that followed-up...the counter-culture and the hippies of the 60's. What's amazing is that so many of the central characters that you find in On the Road, also played a pivitol role in ushering in the generation that followed their own, and you can see the reverence that many of the central figures of the counter-culture held towards the Beat writers and their comrades.
But one thing that makes me identify so much with On the Road, was something that I completely forgot about until my recent re-read of the novel. It's such a treat and in some way, it's a connection to me, no matter how slight. As their final trip unfolds, Sal, Dean, and Stan head to Mexico City to meet up with Bull Lee. On the way, they pass through Texas from Denver, and the way Kerouac describes this journey he goes into great detail about the Texas landscape and the towns that he passes through. The fact that in 1949 Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassady passed through my hometown, on their way to meet William Burroughs in Mexico City, on the highway that my house sits on, even referring to Brady (my hometown) as it's fitting colloquial dressing (the heart of Texas), taking notes for his masterpiece, brings a smile to me. I mean, my hometown...which is so small and so lost...it received a fitting description in one of the great American novels of all time, and it's author passed literally yards from where my house sits en route to his greatest journey. Nothing's ever from Brady. Nothing ever goes through Brady. Sometimes, it seems that nothing ever leaves Brady. But for once, I can identify with Brady and feel pride, because it is so exclusive, and it is so unique, and it is so tangibly small. It's mine.
It's nice to know that about the place you sprang from.
But one thing that makes me identify so much with On the Road, was something that I completely forgot about until my recent re-read of the novel. It's such a treat and in some way, it's a connection to me, no matter how slight. As their final trip unfolds, Sal, Dean, and Stan head to Mexico City to meet up with Bull Lee. On the way, they pass through Texas from Denver, and the way Kerouac describes this journey he goes into great detail about the Texas landscape and the towns that he passes through. The fact that in 1949 Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassady passed through my hometown, on their way to meet William Burroughs in Mexico City, on the highway that my house sits on, even referring to Brady (my hometown) as it's fitting colloquial dressing (the heart of Texas), taking notes for his masterpiece, brings a smile to me. I mean, my hometown...which is so small and so lost...it received a fitting description in one of the great American novels of all time, and it's author passed literally yards from where my house sits en route to his greatest journey. Nothing's ever from Brady. Nothing ever goes through Brady. Sometimes, it seems that nothing ever leaves Brady. But for once, I can identify with Brady and feel pride, because it is so exclusive, and it is so unique, and it is so tangibly small. It's mine.
It's nice to know that about the place you sprang from.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Be Still
INVICTUS
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeoning of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.
It matters not how straight the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
~ William Ernest Henley
Wikipedia's initial explanation of Existential Crisis:
Existential crisis is a concept in existentialism describing a state of panic or feeling of intense psychological discomfort about questions of existence. It is presumably more common in cultures where basic survival needs have been overcome.
No fucking shit.
If you know of this place...this forum for my self-described peaks and valleys...where I document the particulars of this little life I own, you are amongst a very small handful of people who've been invited into the long hallways of my mind and the courtyard of my heart...and for whatever reason, there's a certain amount of trust given with that, I suppose. I say that because I have a fully aware cognizance of the shit I put up here. Sometimes it's awkwardly embarrassing, and not meant for my entertainment, but rather to help me fucking cope. That should speak about my feelings towards those people that I've allowed into this personal realm. Hell, I couldn't even bring myself to permit my ex-girlfriend (of a year) admission to whatever this thing is, and I guess that probably speaks volumes about all of that...and all of this. So if you read, you mean something to me on levels that I can't possibly put into well-conceived, or carefully chosen words...levels that I seldom reach with most people I interact with in this world. Oh how fortunate you must feel! Even as self-serving as this palette of words might be, it still doesn't do any justice to uncovering the things that confront me...or anybody in this life, in any of their internal experiences and the way they deal with them.
I feel strange in these moments. Being in the ownership of underlying optimism, serving as the foundation of stressful chaos is some beautiful poison. Even at 29 I still find myself locking horns with angst at times, as it wraps it's hands around my neck while I brandish my knife...tossing and turning, pitching and rolling, dirty and polluted at the end of a bloody scrape...dead to rights. We always dance in the ring and tap gloves.
I guess I'm in a transitionary period again where I can see the opportunities in front of me, despite existing in the face of a certain amount of sorrow and a great amount of uncertainty. I've always desired to truly feel every emotion and thought that I've ever produced with every single fiber of my being, no matter the struggle, or despair, or euphoria, or infinite joy that rides shotgun with it...it's somewhat akin to creating a sterile environment for being everything I ever am. I see it as a certain type of metallurgy that my conscience induces, and sometimes it feels like a curse, but sometimes it feels like a complete blessing. Someone of utmost importance to me (who I regard as one of the most intelligent, in-touch persons walking amongst us) said something very recently that resonates to my very core, "The world seems to be making itself into someplace that is not meant for those who are self-aware."
I just don't know how else to be...and believe me I know how this sounds. Also, you can trust that I constantly plead with myself to somehow become one of those people who passes these things like an elementary spelling test, or floats it down the river like a newspaper sailboat to let ride, wandering into it's destination unknown. But I don't do that. I analyze, and I dissect, and I peruse, and I diagnose, and that's the only way I've ever been, and the only way I know how to be. At times, it's been a mightily uncomfortable undertaking. Because essentially, it's looking directly at yourself in the mirror and seeing what truly stands in front of you. I've seen the hellish side of holding yourself accountable to this inspection, but I've also envisioned the boundless existence that it might bring to the table. I just want to OWN it. I feel myself growing more into myself, and the day that I actually stop feeling the desire to grow is the day that I'll be more than alarmed.
I can tell you this with a pure heart; if you're selling me tomorrow, I'll buy it. Because we can be strong.
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeoning of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.
It matters not how straight the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
~ William Ernest Henley
Wikipedia's initial explanation of Existential Crisis:
Existential crisis is a concept in existentialism describing a state of panic or feeling of intense psychological discomfort about questions of existence. It is presumably more common in cultures where basic survival needs have been overcome.
No fucking shit.
If you know of this place...this forum for my self-described peaks and valleys...where I document the particulars of this little life I own, you are amongst a very small handful of people who've been invited into the long hallways of my mind and the courtyard of my heart...and for whatever reason, there's a certain amount of trust given with that, I suppose. I say that because I have a fully aware cognizance of the shit I put up here. Sometimes it's awkwardly embarrassing, and not meant for my entertainment, but rather to help me fucking cope. That should speak about my feelings towards those people that I've allowed into this personal realm. Hell, I couldn't even bring myself to permit my ex-girlfriend (of a year) admission to whatever this thing is, and I guess that probably speaks volumes about all of that...and all of this. So if you read, you mean something to me on levels that I can't possibly put into well-conceived, or carefully chosen words...levels that I seldom reach with most people I interact with in this world. Oh how fortunate you must feel! Even as self-serving as this palette of words might be, it still doesn't do any justice to uncovering the things that confront me...or anybody in this life, in any of their internal experiences and the way they deal with them.
I feel strange in these moments. Being in the ownership of underlying optimism, serving as the foundation of stressful chaos is some beautiful poison. Even at 29 I still find myself locking horns with angst at times, as it wraps it's hands around my neck while I brandish my knife...tossing and turning, pitching and rolling, dirty and polluted at the end of a bloody scrape...dead to rights. We always dance in the ring and tap gloves.
I guess I'm in a transitionary period again where I can see the opportunities in front of me, despite existing in the face of a certain amount of sorrow and a great amount of uncertainty. I've always desired to truly feel every emotion and thought that I've ever produced with every single fiber of my being, no matter the struggle, or despair, or euphoria, or infinite joy that rides shotgun with it...it's somewhat akin to creating a sterile environment for being everything I ever am. I see it as a certain type of metallurgy that my conscience induces, and sometimes it feels like a curse, but sometimes it feels like a complete blessing. Someone of utmost importance to me (who I regard as one of the most intelligent, in-touch persons walking amongst us) said something very recently that resonates to my very core, "The world seems to be making itself into someplace that is not meant for those who are self-aware."
I just don't know how else to be...and believe me I know how this sounds. Also, you can trust that I constantly plead with myself to somehow become one of those people who passes these things like an elementary spelling test, or floats it down the river like a newspaper sailboat to let ride, wandering into it's destination unknown. But I don't do that. I analyze, and I dissect, and I peruse, and I diagnose, and that's the only way I've ever been, and the only way I know how to be. At times, it's been a mightily uncomfortable undertaking. Because essentially, it's looking directly at yourself in the mirror and seeing what truly stands in front of you. I've seen the hellish side of holding yourself accountable to this inspection, but I've also envisioned the boundless existence that it might bring to the table. I just want to OWN it. I feel myself growing more into myself, and the day that I actually stop feeling the desire to grow is the day that I'll be more than alarmed.
I can tell you this with a pure heart; if you're selling me tomorrow, I'll buy it. Because we can be strong.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
The All-Nighter's and the Sunlight That Follows Close Behind
Hot damn!! Haven't done that in awhile....
When I hung up the phone, I went out to my balcony, and saw that the crested Tuesday sun was peaking it's waking eyeballs over Southeast Austin, ready to usher in the day, in total disregard of the lack of sleep that I struck out on. I'm still (as I type this) in the same clothes I was in when I met up with these cats at Doc's around the stroke of 9:30pm for one beer, where I promptly left after the final sip of that single beer...heading home by myself to dig in chasms...or something like that. So I just got back from the Shell station where I put the necessary gas in my tank (of the ghost white truck) to get through the day, and bought 3 Red Bulls which are going to be a nice compliment to the final effort that I can muster for the next 12 hours; which I can only hope will at least get me through lunchtime in a state of mind that hopefully avoids any utter physical and mental collapse. If I can make it through the first half of the day, I'm fairly confident I can soldier through the remainder on cruise control...with much needed sleep following very, very close behind 5:30pm on a lazy early-summer Tuesday evening.
So as far removed as Sunday night's sleep is, I hear my shower calling my dirty-ass name, with a much needed shave to follow closely thereafter, only to greet the day about half the man I was yesterday....with no regret's...an effortlessly fluid conversation, all things considered...and possibly an inspired story from my hard-wired brain under my belt.
Geez man....I've been listening to "Handshake Drugs" (Wilco)NON...STOP...ON...REPEAT...for about 2 hours now.
And it's never made so much sense...but it has absolutely zero to do with mas drogas...but rather because of quite literally everything else. I'm so unapologetically insomnia-ridden.
Oh and go Celtics.
It's Tuesday.
29.
When I hung up the phone, I went out to my balcony, and saw that the crested Tuesday sun was peaking it's waking eyeballs over Southeast Austin, ready to usher in the day, in total disregard of the lack of sleep that I struck out on. I'm still (as I type this) in the same clothes I was in when I met up with these cats at Doc's around the stroke of 9:30pm for one beer, where I promptly left after the final sip of that single beer...heading home by myself to dig in chasms...or something like that. So I just got back from the Shell station where I put the necessary gas in my tank (of the ghost white truck) to get through the day, and bought 3 Red Bulls which are going to be a nice compliment to the final effort that I can muster for the next 12 hours; which I can only hope will at least get me through lunchtime in a state of mind that hopefully avoids any utter physical and mental collapse. If I can make it through the first half of the day, I'm fairly confident I can soldier through the remainder on cruise control...with much needed sleep following very, very close behind 5:30pm on a lazy early-summer Tuesday evening.
So as far removed as Sunday night's sleep is, I hear my shower calling my dirty-ass name, with a much needed shave to follow closely thereafter, only to greet the day about half the man I was yesterday....with no regret's...an effortlessly fluid conversation, all things considered...and possibly an inspired story from my hard-wired brain under my belt.
Geez man....I've been listening to "Handshake Drugs" (Wilco)NON...STOP...ON...REPEAT...for about 2 hours now.
And it's never made so much sense...but it has absolutely zero to do with mas drogas...but rather because of quite literally everything else. I'm so unapologetically insomnia-ridden.
Oh and go Celtics.
It's Tuesday.
29.
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