And deal with it then. Patience, you are a valuable ally. One that has profitted me something beneficial. Even among the venerable assembly of characters from the long shadows and uncertain light. I'm thankful for my recent time amongst the pines, figuring all that is to be figured, with those who make the figuring consistent and accurate. At least, from my point of view perspective is everything.* So it goes. I have goals. Wrote them down on a 3X5 notecard and stuck them in my wallet to carry in my back pocket at all times to remind me of effectual perspective. 2010, here I come...I hope you're ready. Degrees of certainty notwithstanding.
*And also, immediately listen to Telekinesis. Songs are Coasts of Carolina and Foreign Room.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Giant Ghosts Of The Winter Drift
You are a friend of man.
And my thoughts are left to picking battles.
Unequivocal discovery,
Finding you in the realm of love.
As words from the old bard,
"What's in a name?
That which we call a rose,
By any other name would smell as sweet."
Your presence is so overtly significant,
These feelings have not yet been named.
Spinning and shining from where things are,
And where they're supposed to be.
What will be,
Never will be.
I can't convince myself you're really there.
Through life's rich pageant,
I dance with you.
If only fleeting and timeless.
A great commission for touch and embrace,
That which you cannot possibly possess.
Scared.
Sacred.
You have my sympathies.
And to whatever devil or saint you accompany,
When you're not roaming unchecked in my own reverie,
I raise my drink to the contenders.
Never will they have faced such an invisible and unconquerable foe.
I only posture when necessary.
I only parade when asked.
Risen,
From the ice world.
Where you've grown oh so cold.
Where you live oh so cold.
Embers only dying now,
From a fire long ago.
With a knife in your belt,
Stabbing for my soul,
You are no friend of man.
Taken,
In the night.
Like an aviator's baby boy.
With no steps through the door,
Levitate across the floor,
With the cold wind in the lunar light.
I tire more expediently than before.
Yet, the mind loses no step.
It is the crime of the century.
Profoundly significant confusion.
I am terrified,
There will be no conclusion.
Why did you find the most sentimental of lovers?
May it haunt you as you haunt me.
So what can you see up there?
Where no one exists.
How does it look up there?
Hovering high above.
On the pedestal where I've placed you.
And my thoughts are left to picking battles.
Unequivocal discovery,
Finding you in the realm of love.
As words from the old bard,
"What's in a name?
That which we call a rose,
By any other name would smell as sweet."
Your presence is so overtly significant,
These feelings have not yet been named.
Spinning and shining from where things are,
And where they're supposed to be.
What will be,
Never will be.
I can't convince myself you're really there.
Through life's rich pageant,
I dance with you.
If only fleeting and timeless.
A great commission for touch and embrace,
That which you cannot possibly possess.
Scared.
Sacred.
You have my sympathies.
And to whatever devil or saint you accompany,
When you're not roaming unchecked in my own reverie,
I raise my drink to the contenders.
Never will they have faced such an invisible and unconquerable foe.
I only posture when necessary.
I only parade when asked.
Risen,
From the ice world.
Where you've grown oh so cold.
Where you live oh so cold.
Embers only dying now,
From a fire long ago.
With a knife in your belt,
Stabbing for my soul,
You are no friend of man.
Taken,
In the night.
Like an aviator's baby boy.
With no steps through the door,
Levitate across the floor,
With the cold wind in the lunar light.
I tire more expediently than before.
Yet, the mind loses no step.
It is the crime of the century.
Profoundly significant confusion.
I am terrified,
There will be no conclusion.
Why did you find the most sentimental of lovers?
May it haunt you as you haunt me.
So what can you see up there?
Where no one exists.
How does it look up there?
Hovering high above.
On the pedestal where I've placed you.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
It Ain't Gonna Save Me
Blood splattered in Pollock-esque brilliance when he split his temple with the business end blade of that black Flying-V guitar.
"Ahhhhh fuck all...here we go..."
Mania, like a tornado, starts picking up alarming velocity in shoulder to shoulder proximity. Beer cans start sailing like Spitfires at the heads of the bandmates as they scurry off stage. It was all out war. Mortar rounds lobbed from the crowd, drumsticks like bayonets, a mic-stand makes an effective mallet, bass guitar like a battering ram, punches thrown...haymakers, sweat, blood, misty breath in the freezing cold, bouncers rush in with veins bulging out of their neanderthal foreheads. Spontaneous fucking chaos. I'd seen it once before in some sanctimonious Nirvana documentary when Cobain splintered the skull of some poor hooligan like he was a Chinaman driving a railroad spike. You drink too much, you embrace anarchy, you get your eyes crossed by a 3-inch-thick plank of glossy wood and nickel-wound strings; swung maliciously by the long-haired shrieking demon you just paid 20 bucks to pound your ass into raw meat, all the while accompanied by a fitting soundtrack. When cornered, wild animals go to great lengths to vacate the situation. Human civility notwithstanding, punk rock musicians are no exception.
She bought the tickets. She asked me to accompany. She was wide-eyed, hairs on the back of her neck stood up straight. Electric air, charged and fused with hysteria. A bit hypnotized she was, you might say. Pure wonderment and primal fear. I quick-scanned the room, found the easiest exit to usher her out, clinched my fist in my coat pocket, turned my beer bottle upside down (a fitting armament to sink into some wayward animal's jugular, should it come to it), grabbed her arm and ushered her to higher ground as a defensive maneuver.
We are on the Austin360 A-List the next day. We look like we belong there. The first time I saw her, she was dancing in the middle of a brightly colored hoola-hoop, in the middle of the night, in the middle of a wonderful bar, in the middle of warm lights reflecting off the middle of her small brown-haired head.
We walk past two delinquents with their faces smashed and pressed up against the window of the cruiser, being read their rights. Dried blood down the face serves as an unfortunate reminder that you do. not. fuck. with. punk. bands. in. Austin. Texas. She trembles a bit at the two poor rioters and the shape they're in. She puts her arm under mine and rests her head on my shoulder as we walk past the ignorant youthful anarchists. Inconvenienced policeman in 28 degree weather means handcuffs and arrests. Arrested. Arrested and thrown in the clink.
She looks up at me from her scarf and pea coat and tells me she has fun with me. Arrested.
I seem to be arrested.
All is lost. There is no hope for me.
"Ahhhhh fuck all...here we go..."
Mania, like a tornado, starts picking up alarming velocity in shoulder to shoulder proximity. Beer cans start sailing like Spitfires at the heads of the bandmates as they scurry off stage. It was all out war. Mortar rounds lobbed from the crowd, drumsticks like bayonets, a mic-stand makes an effective mallet, bass guitar like a battering ram, punches thrown...haymakers, sweat, blood, misty breath in the freezing cold, bouncers rush in with veins bulging out of their neanderthal foreheads. Spontaneous fucking chaos. I'd seen it once before in some sanctimonious Nirvana documentary when Cobain splintered the skull of some poor hooligan like he was a Chinaman driving a railroad spike. You drink too much, you embrace anarchy, you get your eyes crossed by a 3-inch-thick plank of glossy wood and nickel-wound strings; swung maliciously by the long-haired shrieking demon you just paid 20 bucks to pound your ass into raw meat, all the while accompanied by a fitting soundtrack. When cornered, wild animals go to great lengths to vacate the situation. Human civility notwithstanding, punk rock musicians are no exception.
She bought the tickets. She asked me to accompany. She was wide-eyed, hairs on the back of her neck stood up straight. Electric air, charged and fused with hysteria. A bit hypnotized she was, you might say. Pure wonderment and primal fear. I quick-scanned the room, found the easiest exit to usher her out, clinched my fist in my coat pocket, turned my beer bottle upside down (a fitting armament to sink into some wayward animal's jugular, should it come to it), grabbed her arm and ushered her to higher ground as a defensive maneuver.
We are on the Austin360 A-List the next day. We look like we belong there. The first time I saw her, she was dancing in the middle of a brightly colored hoola-hoop, in the middle of the night, in the middle of a wonderful bar, in the middle of warm lights reflecting off the middle of her small brown-haired head.
We walk past two delinquents with their faces smashed and pressed up against the window of the cruiser, being read their rights. Dried blood down the face serves as an unfortunate reminder that you do. not. fuck. with. punk. bands. in. Austin. Texas. She trembles a bit at the two poor rioters and the shape they're in. She puts her arm under mine and rests her head on my shoulder as we walk past the ignorant youthful anarchists. Inconvenienced policeman in 28 degree weather means handcuffs and arrests. Arrested. Arrested and thrown in the clink.
She looks up at me from her scarf and pea coat and tells me she has fun with me. Arrested.
I seem to be arrested.
All is lost. There is no hope for me.
Monday, November 23, 2009
EPIC
I'm fucking epic. I have an epic name. Cory Will. I live an epic life. I live in the raddest city in the whole of civilization. I know the most interesting people. We are collectively observant and effortlessly engineer the best fucking hypothetical scenarios to ever exist. Our conversation is unrivaled and airtight, rhythmic and fluid. Unceasingly thrilled and inspired. I threw the best traveling-road-show-party last night, ever...without any help. A girl made me boob-shaped cupcakes for my birthday. I have tomorrow off. Today is second Saturday. I have a head full of glorious, multi-colored hair. I wear v-neck shirts, and I look fucking amazeballs. I sometimes stare in the mirror at myself and agree to myself that I would make-out with myself. My chest is proportionately streamlined to my waist-line. I'm sweet and I have a good heart, and all the while I can ride a horse, change my own oil, field dress wild game with a pocket knife, roll my own cigarette, and I've never lost a fight I've been in. I'm not apologizing for any of this. I'm a shot of whiskey and a Bible verse. I'm a walking revolver. My momma likes my songs. She says her little boy is the greatest. I've spent the last 30 years being unnecessarily hard on myself. I've listened to other people for too long. I'm not arrogant. Far from it. This is just my "naked rain-dance" phase...to paraphrase a dear friend. If we're going to hold to the theory that we're all unpredictable, complex, multi-faceted beings, well then...I'm owed this. If someone had an intervention with me, I'd say, "I saw this coming."
Is that what you look like now???? Jesus. Herbert. Christ. You age well. Too bad looks don't really mattah anymore. I've been making eyes at you.
Is that what you look like now???? Jesus. Herbert. Christ. You age well. Too bad looks don't really mattah anymore. I've been making eyes at you.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
The Windmill At Which I've Lowered My Lance
I'm finally to a dedicated point. A plateau where I feel comfortable buying what you're selling. I don't feel like I'm sliding down the shiny edge of a thin razor, nervously looking over each side hoping not to fall, but longing to get off all the while. I am finally beginning to come to understand what I already know. The horses are comfortable in the stables and the need for furious running is only shown in flashes of white-knuckle focus now. Rested and weary, I can reload with efficiency now. You can't stop progress, and you can't deny preparation. I've rattled off long enough, headstrong throughout a vacant southern land, looking for my place at the table. Suddenly, a chair seems pulled out for me and a plate has been set. I am terribly focused right now.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Katy Bar The Door
Ever the vigilant, I know that life can tell me to have a fucking seat at any moment. It's not that I have a morbid sense of impending doom, but I think we do have to carry a circumspect ambition towards most things in life. If nothing else, it allows us to be prepared.
Because of this, or more naturally, in spite of this, I feel strongly compelled to give credence to the way I've been feeling lately and how my environment has been emitting a (very welcomed) nice warm glow.
George Bernard Shaw said, "The power of accurate observation is commonly called cynicism by those who have not got it." I like that quote. Not because I'm cynical, but because it recognizes the (what would seem to be an obvious fact) ever present element that life can be downright fucking rotten sometimes; what with human frailty, the presence of pure evil around every corner, death, disease, and good intentions gone awry...and to deny this is ignorance. However, it takes a certain amount of effort to keep from viewing the world this way in totality. The yin, the yang...I suppose. Light, dark.
Screaming non-sequitur: It's why I love the movie No Country For Old Men so much. I was always baffled as to why people didn't understand this movie. "I didn't get it. What was it about? It just ended like that???" The whole movie is about chaos theory and how we can't stop what's coming to us and the total lack of control thereof. There are themes of boredom interspersed with flash storms of violence. Elements that have forever plagued the human condition. But we're equipped with quite possibly the most formidable weapon with which to fight back. Hope. All you need to know about that whole movie and the hypothesis it suggests is to listen very closely to Tommie Lee Jones' monologue at the very end. The Coen brothers give the secret away at the end in, what I'd say is, the most genius of ways. The last minute-and-a-half is exactly what that movie is trying to say.
Point being, there's enough desperation to go around, and desperation is a wanderer. That's why it's so important to take in the freedom of harmony, and allow yourself to accept serenity when we find it.
Gratitude.
I am so thankful for the things I have, the people I know, the people I love, the people I have loved, the experiences I've had, the people who have helped to shape me, and the person I have become...and all that it entails.
I love this wonderful city where I reside. There is no place I would rather be. I think of the many twists and turns my life could've taken if I'd decided one way or another on so many things that seemed oh so important at the time, and I'm so thankful that I'm here, in this city, writing this right now.
I love my friends. The old adage about the measure of a man being found in his friends is true. They're all so unique and different and this entertains and amuses and warms me. But they all share common ground in that they're good people. So many good people.
I love my family. I love my family. I love my family. I love my family. I love my family. I love my family. I love my family. I love my family. I love them in a way that can never be contained by spoken word or harnessed by a thought or communication. I love them so much.
The opportunities I've been afforded are a king's ransom. Like all, I'm guilty of apathy and frustration at times, but I've been provided for by the universe every step of the way. In fact, I've been overcompensated. There's a quiet confidence that is growing in me, and the places I want to be are looking more clearly defined. I want the courage and determination. I want to line my fears up and step into the ring with them.
I've been in love. I've been in love with them, and they've been in love with me.
The older I get the more apparent it is to me that every moment we have here is to be cherished and that we truly are fleeting and fragile and beautiful. I can see it all around, and I can feel it inside. I can think about it, I can sing about it, I can write about it, and I can manifest it. That was given to me for no other reason than for me to have it. That is fascinating.
So I sit here at 30 years old with as much hope as I can ever remember.
-------
This is one of the sweetest songs I have ever heard and I love it.
Because of this, or more naturally, in spite of this, I feel strongly compelled to give credence to the way I've been feeling lately and how my environment has been emitting a (very welcomed) nice warm glow.
George Bernard Shaw said, "The power of accurate observation is commonly called cynicism by those who have not got it." I like that quote. Not because I'm cynical, but because it recognizes the (what would seem to be an obvious fact) ever present element that life can be downright fucking rotten sometimes; what with human frailty, the presence of pure evil around every corner, death, disease, and good intentions gone awry...and to deny this is ignorance. However, it takes a certain amount of effort to keep from viewing the world this way in totality. The yin, the yang...I suppose. Light, dark.
Screaming non-sequitur: It's why I love the movie No Country For Old Men so much. I was always baffled as to why people didn't understand this movie. "I didn't get it. What was it about? It just ended like that???" The whole movie is about chaos theory and how we can't stop what's coming to us and the total lack of control thereof. There are themes of boredom interspersed with flash storms of violence. Elements that have forever plagued the human condition. But we're equipped with quite possibly the most formidable weapon with which to fight back. Hope. All you need to know about that whole movie and the hypothesis it suggests is to listen very closely to Tommie Lee Jones' monologue at the very end. The Coen brothers give the secret away at the end in, what I'd say is, the most genius of ways. The last minute-and-a-half is exactly what that movie is trying to say.
Point being, there's enough desperation to go around, and desperation is a wanderer. That's why it's so important to take in the freedom of harmony, and allow yourself to accept serenity when we find it.
Gratitude.
I am so thankful for the things I have, the people I know, the people I love, the people I have loved, the experiences I've had, the people who have helped to shape me, and the person I have become...and all that it entails.
I love this wonderful city where I reside. There is no place I would rather be. I think of the many twists and turns my life could've taken if I'd decided one way or another on so many things that seemed oh so important at the time, and I'm so thankful that I'm here, in this city, writing this right now.
I love my friends. The old adage about the measure of a man being found in his friends is true. They're all so unique and different and this entertains and amuses and warms me. But they all share common ground in that they're good people. So many good people.
I love my family. I love my family. I love my family. I love my family. I love my family. I love my family. I love my family. I love my family. I love them in a way that can never be contained by spoken word or harnessed by a thought or communication. I love them so much.
The opportunities I've been afforded are a king's ransom. Like all, I'm guilty of apathy and frustration at times, but I've been provided for by the universe every step of the way. In fact, I've been overcompensated. There's a quiet confidence that is growing in me, and the places I want to be are looking more clearly defined. I want the courage and determination. I want to line my fears up and step into the ring with them.
I've been in love. I've been in love with them, and they've been in love with me.
The older I get the more apparent it is to me that every moment we have here is to be cherished and that we truly are fleeting and fragile and beautiful. I can see it all around, and I can feel it inside. I can think about it, I can sing about it, I can write about it, and I can manifest it. That was given to me for no other reason than for me to have it. That is fascinating.
So I sit here at 30 years old with as much hope as I can ever remember.
-------
This is one of the sweetest songs I have ever heard and I love it.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Will The Circle Be Unbroken?
There ain't no more goddamn frontier. The only untouched places on the high plains of this world with waist-high grass and free-roaming herd animals are those in the unseen depths of our minds. Its within our heads and the veins that envelope our hearts to provide the only vast horizons for our eyes to see nowadays. Choirs sing about it. Congregations sweat over it. Untamed places where cowards cringe and the courageous barely survive are readily available, but traipsed by few. Counterclockwise motions send the bucket down the well with forearms a-pulsin' to ascend with anything it displaces, bringing into the light a drink of fearful madness. From the pits of Hell sometimes. A sin and a thought catching a ride up to the surface. Sometimes it takes a revolver to put down what was brought up, and sometimes it takes a careful set of loving, graceful hands to care for what finds new breath out of the depths. This is my favourite time of year, when those things work their way to the forefront...out of the prairie. Out of the heat. They greet us with a head-nod and a hay-maker shortly thereafter. But they acknowledge you at least. They let you know their purpose. Sometimes they're here to give us our own. Damn them all and all they carry. Some kinda high lonesome sound they sing. Always. Damn them all.
The ending of my relationship with you was a necessary casualty for getting to the place I want to be. To some parties it's difficult, but necessary, to say that my journey with you, at this point, is now over.
In the sky Lord, in the sky...
The ending of my relationship with you was a necessary casualty for getting to the place I want to be. To some parties it's difficult, but necessary, to say that my journey with you, at this point, is now over.
In the sky Lord, in the sky...
Thursday, September 17, 2009
I Was Young When I Left Home
My daddy loved Dylan, and so do I. That is all.
He hung on every sad word that fell from her mouth.
All the confusion and abandonment denies everything she could possibly ever let out.
So he swaggers on, one foot in front of the other, while the questions in his head mount.
But the muse for which his heart sang and his purpose in the matter left no doubt.
He hung on every sad word that fell from her mouth.
All the confusion and abandonment denies everything she could possibly ever let out.
So he swaggers on, one foot in front of the other, while the questions in his head mount.
But the muse for which his heart sang and his purpose in the matter left no doubt.
Monday, September 07, 2009
"The Graduate" In Gentleman's Form
I feel as though I was seduced by the world and all her cinematic shameless self-promotion. I wonder what it'll be like when I meet the girl of my dreams and everything is fucked? When I was a child I used to think the glittered specks on the ceiling were little holes where Heaven sat in the attic, because light was the saturation of color and it hovered above us. I used to think divinity rested, perched on top of our heads, and the halogen-lighted room was where the angels sang their praise-chorus. It resided above us, and it made sense. And where is my guilt? It's everywhere. I don't know, but I've been told, every little thing's been bought and sold.
Who else feels this raw shit? Am I the only one in my little circle? I'm drunk.
The most effective poets will whine themselves to sleep. Goodnight moon. Just stop talking now.
Who else feels this raw shit? Am I the only one in my little circle? I'm drunk.
The most effective poets will whine themselves to sleep. Goodnight moon. Just stop talking now.
Thursday, September 03, 2009
Couldn't Have Said It Better...
"I have hoped as many hopes and dreamed so many dreams, seen them swept aside by weather, and blown away by men, washed away in my own mistakes, that — I use to wonder if it wouldn't be better just to haul off and quit hoping. Just protect my own inner brain, my own mind and heart, by drawing it up into a hard knot, and not having any more hopes or dreams at all. Pull in my feelings, and call back all of my sentiments — and not let any earthly event move me in either direction, either cause me to hate, to fear, to love, to care, to take sides, to argue the matter at all — and, yet ... there are certain good times, and pleasures that I never can forget, no matter how much I want to, because the pleasures, and the displeasures, the good times and the bad, are really all there is to me. And these pleasures that you cannot ever forget are the yeast that always starts working in your mind again, and it gets in your thoughts again, and in your eyes again, and then, all at once, no matter what has happened to you, you are building a brand new world again, based and built on the mistakes, the wreck, the hard luck and trouble of the old one."
~ Woody Guthrie
~ Woody Guthrie
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Lilly Mae Mathew's Guide To the Over Compensated Life
Straight from the hip I shoot with my best writing taking the air like tender meat. There's always something to be said for vulnerability, but who has the time, much less the desire to throw yourself in a frying pan? I do. And so it is...
It's raining tonight on these streets where it never fucking rains, and there's plenty of piss and shit to be washed away on these brick-lined avenues. Sickly enough, both literally and figuratively. You see, Cinderella's pumpkin turns into a festering gourd here from time to time, but much more infrequent than it did in the paper city just North of the Trinity River...where I lost my mind...in all it's filthy bronze elegance. So I think I can readily take this in stride and somehow manage. Life works in cycles, and we're all in this together, right? Sure.
.22 bullets used to fly like single-file flocks of albatross in the stratoshpere when I was younger. My aim was true out there, back then. Always.
That little town, Rochelle, which burned down in a white hot sunstream when it was up for county seat in the late 1800's. It had the disgrace of not being named after a famous Texas, slave-owning general. It lost because the rail head and locomotives gave Brady (Mister Peter Brady) the jurisprudence to govern the small county in which I was raised (Confederate General Ben McCulloch), but my ancestors pulled for their territory. It was a few votes short (despite 22% living below the Brady poverty line, but who knows that, and more importantly, who seems to care? That's another clothesline for another afternoon).
The Hill Country never looks sweeter than it does between our homeland and San Saba County. Lilly Mae saw it, but she didn't pay much care though...with her French-styled counters and ice-cream offerings for every child-like humanoid that passed through those arched doors. She was there because God, or the universe, or some force of nature told her to be there. 50 cents on the dollar was her standard price, and a smile and handshake was all it took to make a transaction. She was as beautiful as those hills, and her smile was welcoming like the big oak shade trees. Commerce still found her on any day, sunny or overcast. Sodas and nails, soups and flour, cash...no credit...but she held tabs.
I can still pick out the exact trees where my mother used to escape those she was surrounded by and lose herself in Hemingway and Fitzgerald and Dostoevsky. There's a strong "V-split" in a tree about 200 yards South of the ranch house...next to the crumbling livestock barns, where she would sit for hours and educate herself from herself about the world that she hadn't seen. Away from her brothers, and away from the chaos that filled that little rock-lined, hand-made house. Hours she would sit and take the Hill Country, and inspired words, in like a sponge, and she felt free and near God, or something more significant than what she'd seen. It was the same draw from her chest that pulled me to sink a cross made of cedar-posts about three feet deep into the ground where nobody ventures. It's where I thought I might find the most appropriate place to talk to God. He hasn't disagreed with the placement. Not yet anyways.
Someone once stumbled upon it, and questioned it's existence in a way that spoke of inquisitive despondence, but I never gave a fuck about those who inquired about the time I spent on my knees. I pray there when seas get rough. I pray there when skies are blue. I pray there when passing by, and I pray there when I feel inclined. I like to think she did the same in her own place. In fact, I know she did. I know of two trees that hold significance to her that she's never shared with anyone in her family. That is a mother/son conversation...and I inherited my mother's sentimentality. Thank heaven for it all...and damn it all. It's wrecked me and saved me. But mostly saved me.
I remember Mathews Grocery, before they tore it down with the mid-sized wrecking ball. There was a wicked, black 1990 Ford Ranger for sale out front that I coveted a few years before my legal driving age. But they tore her store down after she passed, like the world tears down our history, and consequently our innocence. America shreds it's history like a failed document in a corporate conference room. Ashamedly so. But nothing could've supported the belfry in that building. It was beyond it's time, and heavier than most. Like most everyone I know...myself included.
She used to sit behind the counter, serving sandwiches and smiles like a gypsy, enjoying her time pulled from the killing fields. Sent a couple of her sons over in planes made of bailing wire and super-glue to fight for Europe. Her store sat before our little parcel of land on the highway leading there, and it was always the halftime show during day-long work trips that sat more like dread as mold on wet carpet to a young boy, or glorious afternoons yanking fish out of our ponds with my father and little sister.
I drink whiskey, like my grandfather...like my sister does. It's in our blood.
You try and follow your heart, and if you're serious, you're not disappointed if it leads to complete and utter madness. In fact, you should welcome it if it beckons. The fire burns anything it wants. It's up to you to put it out or fuel it. Nobody else. It's not done for you. I think that's one of the strangest things.
Ahh, Mr. Guthrie, say it ain't so...
There's a black wind blowing through the cotton fields baby. I sit here with my unfortunate old soul, delightfully anachronistic. Sarcastically smiling where nobody understands but me.
Nothing seems to be more important in this life than understanding who you are. Nothing has shown me that it is.
It's raining tonight on these streets where it never fucking rains, and there's plenty of piss and shit to be washed away on these brick-lined avenues. Sickly enough, both literally and figuratively. You see, Cinderella's pumpkin turns into a festering gourd here from time to time, but much more infrequent than it did in the paper city just North of the Trinity River...where I lost my mind...in all it's filthy bronze elegance. So I think I can readily take this in stride and somehow manage. Life works in cycles, and we're all in this together, right? Sure.
.22 bullets used to fly like single-file flocks of albatross in the stratoshpere when I was younger. My aim was true out there, back then. Always.
That little town, Rochelle, which burned down in a white hot sunstream when it was up for county seat in the late 1800's. It had the disgrace of not being named after a famous Texas, slave-owning general. It lost because the rail head and locomotives gave Brady (Mister Peter Brady) the jurisprudence to govern the small county in which I was raised (Confederate General Ben McCulloch), but my ancestors pulled for their territory. It was a few votes short (despite 22% living below the Brady poverty line, but who knows that, and more importantly, who seems to care? That's another clothesline for another afternoon).
The Hill Country never looks sweeter than it does between our homeland and San Saba County. Lilly Mae saw it, but she didn't pay much care though...with her French-styled counters and ice-cream offerings for every child-like humanoid that passed through those arched doors. She was there because God, or the universe, or some force of nature told her to be there. 50 cents on the dollar was her standard price, and a smile and handshake was all it took to make a transaction. She was as beautiful as those hills, and her smile was welcoming like the big oak shade trees. Commerce still found her on any day, sunny or overcast. Sodas and nails, soups and flour, cash...no credit...but she held tabs.
I can still pick out the exact trees where my mother used to escape those she was surrounded by and lose herself in Hemingway and Fitzgerald and Dostoevsky. There's a strong "V-split" in a tree about 200 yards South of the ranch house...next to the crumbling livestock barns, where she would sit for hours and educate herself from herself about the world that she hadn't seen. Away from her brothers, and away from the chaos that filled that little rock-lined, hand-made house. Hours she would sit and take the Hill Country, and inspired words, in like a sponge, and she felt free and near God, or something more significant than what she'd seen. It was the same draw from her chest that pulled me to sink a cross made of cedar-posts about three feet deep into the ground where nobody ventures. It's where I thought I might find the most appropriate place to talk to God. He hasn't disagreed with the placement. Not yet anyways.
Someone once stumbled upon it, and questioned it's existence in a way that spoke of inquisitive despondence, but I never gave a fuck about those who inquired about the time I spent on my knees. I pray there when seas get rough. I pray there when skies are blue. I pray there when passing by, and I pray there when I feel inclined. I like to think she did the same in her own place. In fact, I know she did. I know of two trees that hold significance to her that she's never shared with anyone in her family. That is a mother/son conversation...and I inherited my mother's sentimentality. Thank heaven for it all...and damn it all. It's wrecked me and saved me. But mostly saved me.
I remember Mathews Grocery, before they tore it down with the mid-sized wrecking ball. There was a wicked, black 1990 Ford Ranger for sale out front that I coveted a few years before my legal driving age. But they tore her store down after she passed, like the world tears down our history, and consequently our innocence. America shreds it's history like a failed document in a corporate conference room. Ashamedly so. But nothing could've supported the belfry in that building. It was beyond it's time, and heavier than most. Like most everyone I know...myself included.
She used to sit behind the counter, serving sandwiches and smiles like a gypsy, enjoying her time pulled from the killing fields. Sent a couple of her sons over in planes made of bailing wire and super-glue to fight for Europe. Her store sat before our little parcel of land on the highway leading there, and it was always the halftime show during day-long work trips that sat more like dread as mold on wet carpet to a young boy, or glorious afternoons yanking fish out of our ponds with my father and little sister.
I drink whiskey, like my grandfather...like my sister does. It's in our blood.
You try and follow your heart, and if you're serious, you're not disappointed if it leads to complete and utter madness. In fact, you should welcome it if it beckons. The fire burns anything it wants. It's up to you to put it out or fuel it. Nobody else. It's not done for you. I think that's one of the strangest things.
Ahh, Mr. Guthrie, say it ain't so...
There's a black wind blowing through the cotton fields baby. I sit here with my unfortunate old soul, delightfully anachronistic. Sarcastically smiling where nobody understands but me.
Nothing seems to be more important in this life than understanding who you are. Nothing has shown me that it is.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Reset
Our greatest triumph will be that which we overcame. Measurement will tell us so, in due time. There's things that mean everything to me that can't be dulled by the general minutiae of life. "Each wrinkle on your face, I know it at a glance, you cannot run and hide, nor duck nor dodge them. Your carcass and your deeds, will fertilize the seeds of the men that stood to guard my thirty thousand."
I'm reminded of particular direction offered from my father on some sweat-soaked, work-heavy day on our Central Texas ranch, driving fence-posts. "You NEVER hang your head for anybody, but you NEVER place yourself above anybody. We're all in this together." There's a dark wind that blows through the cotton fields, but we weather the storm. In the cellar, or with bloody fingers in the field. Either way, we process that sentiment because of those that came before us in a far and distant time. I wonder?
We are all in this together. Hell, I see you still have his toothbrush in your bathroom. I take that for what it's worth and continue my ceaseless search. Can you blame me? No, you can't. I can't blame you either. I'm proud and deflated by certain things, but as Hemingway said, "A man can be defeated, but never destroyed." And Oscar Wilde said, "Every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future." True.
You play every part scripted for you perfectly in my dreams. They are frequent...admittedly so. I also read some book about our star-signs and how compatible we are. The jury's out...
I'd stop the dreams if I could. But I'd never touch them with reality, because there's no way you could fulfill their lofty expecations. So I leave them in a satisfied, hazy memory. It's where you belong, after all. In reality.
I'm reminded of particular direction offered from my father on some sweat-soaked, work-heavy day on our Central Texas ranch, driving fence-posts. "You NEVER hang your head for anybody, but you NEVER place yourself above anybody. We're all in this together." There's a dark wind that blows through the cotton fields, but we weather the storm. In the cellar, or with bloody fingers in the field. Either way, we process that sentiment because of those that came before us in a far and distant time. I wonder?
We are all in this together. Hell, I see you still have his toothbrush in your bathroom. I take that for what it's worth and continue my ceaseless search. Can you blame me? No, you can't. I can't blame you either. I'm proud and deflated by certain things, but as Hemingway said, "A man can be defeated, but never destroyed." And Oscar Wilde said, "Every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future." True.
You play every part scripted for you perfectly in my dreams. They are frequent...admittedly so. I also read some book about our star-signs and how compatible we are. The jury's out...
I'd stop the dreams if I could. But I'd never touch them with reality, because there's no way you could fulfill their lofty expecations. So I leave them in a satisfied, hazy memory. It's where you belong, after all. In reality.
Friday, August 07, 2009
Ships With Holes Will Sink
And this has me thinking about my true friendships. You navigate and effort within the best of your abilities to control the dynamic within the parameters of intimate relations, but how much control do we really have? In one of my irrelevant songs I say, "We slide in and out of change, but nobody ever really changes." Time, circumstance, life...it all has infinite elements that shape and mold who we are. We share our experiences like a prescribed personal essay with the people we hold infinitely dear, but what if they don't reciprocate? Or better yet, what if they simply don't want to hear your bullshit, or tire of your presence? Especially when it has a foundation in what previously seemed unshakable. I like to convince myself that the friendships I've cultivated are immune to change, but that's probably myopic on my part. In fact, I know it is. I don't hold anybody to their alleged obligations anymore. Shit, I never really have. People are free to flow in and out of my life. This might be shortsighted on my part, but I have ideals that aren't going to change; no matter who is present or who isn't. I am who I am. While I hold personal expectations for myself (in a perfect world), I won't stop being who I am because of some "potential" construct of personhood that someone has placed on my head. I didn't choose this life, I'm just living it...sometimes poorly, sometimes gracefully. To add to that, I'm not regretful. I choose, and pursue, the things I enjoy, and avoid that which I don't. I'm only participating in the paths that have been laid on my plate on a daily basis like every other person in this world. Potential is a dangerous word. I'll navigate around it in the only way I know how...and I have my blueprint (like everybody else)...I don't need approval. In the end, I only have to answer to myself (and I hold myself to higher standards than anybody in this world, or the next, can possibly hope to impose on me). But I'll deal with the consequences of my decisions, like a man, like the way my father taught me, when it's my time to answer. I once read a great quote, "Let the world know the weight of who you are, and then let the world deal with it." I'm an idealist, so naturally, that's gonna ring true to me. How can I not? Really? My ideals sometimes get me in trouble, though. It's all I know.
Doors open and doors close. I'm not in the business of lies, and I'm certainly not in the business of slamming doors shut on those I love and respect. I'm not sure I'm ready for some of those doors to close just yet. But I have no control over certain elements, and I shouldn't be ashamed of that. I won't be. I just wish there was a more efficient means of communicating that unfolding dynamic. But it is what it is. It is what it is. I've had enough life under my belt to understand that I know ships with holes will sink. Sometimes sad, but sometimes unavoidable. It is what it is. As my musical hero Ryan Adams says (and I say this with no arrogance), "I always win in the end." I say that because I hold true to my ideals. I'm not ashamed to lose and let go. One of the most important lessons I've ever learned is to let go. I'm not afraid of this. But maybe that's my problem?
Abandonment issues in their twisted vacuum. Maybe that's the issue? Maybe not.
I promise, I'm not self-involved. Very much the opposite. Don't know how to handle recent developments. But this is how I've chosen, I suppose.
On another, unrelated note, life is good. I have my first "band gig" next Tuesday. I couldn't have picked three better gentlemen to play with, and I'm finally doing it. It's what I moved here for, and it's actually happening. I like our songs, and I hope people like our performance. We'll see.
Someone once told me, "You think too much." I love the person who told me that, like a brother, and I don't ever take it as an insult although I think that was it's original intent. I take that as direct fucking representation of who I am. If you don't like it, I can't change that. I'm sorry.
Faith (in every respect). Patience (in ways that need to be learned). "Heal your vines, you'll heal inside eventually."
Doors open and doors close. I'm not in the business of lies, and I'm certainly not in the business of slamming doors shut on those I love and respect. I'm not sure I'm ready for some of those doors to close just yet. But I have no control over certain elements, and I shouldn't be ashamed of that. I won't be. I just wish there was a more efficient means of communicating that unfolding dynamic. But it is what it is. It is what it is. I've had enough life under my belt to understand that I know ships with holes will sink. Sometimes sad, but sometimes unavoidable. It is what it is. As my musical hero Ryan Adams says (and I say this with no arrogance), "I always win in the end." I say that because I hold true to my ideals. I'm not ashamed to lose and let go. One of the most important lessons I've ever learned is to let go. I'm not afraid of this. But maybe that's my problem?
Abandonment issues in their twisted vacuum. Maybe that's the issue? Maybe not.
I promise, I'm not self-involved. Very much the opposite. Don't know how to handle recent developments. But this is how I've chosen, I suppose.
On another, unrelated note, life is good. I have my first "band gig" next Tuesday. I couldn't have picked three better gentlemen to play with, and I'm finally doing it. It's what I moved here for, and it's actually happening. I like our songs, and I hope people like our performance. We'll see.
Someone once told me, "You think too much." I love the person who told me that, like a brother, and I don't ever take it as an insult although I think that was it's original intent. I take that as direct fucking representation of who I am. If you don't like it, I can't change that. I'm sorry.
Faith (in every respect). Patience (in ways that need to be learned). "Heal your vines, you'll heal inside eventually."
Monday, August 03, 2009
Movies
I just watched "500 Days of Summer" and even though I had at least three glasses of wine while doing so, I've come to the conclusion that if I had the talent to write a movie about my 20's, it probably would've been that one. It's great...it made me squirm in my seat...and it's haunting. To me.
I'm tired of being the set of training wheels for girls before they get on their big bikes. But nothing in the prior entries of this blog should lend surprise to that.
I'm tired of being the set of training wheels for girls before they get on their big bikes. But nothing in the prior entries of this blog should lend surprise to that.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Let's Not and Say We Did...or Maybe Not Never Did Do Anything
I've told myself, many times, that some things never change. When they do it's often surprising...the outcome, the motive, those involved, everything. When things don't change you almost get used to it's familiarity. Like that train that picks you up every day at the same time and takes you past the same buildings and drops you off at the same place. That same structured black hole you find yourself inescapably falling down every time. Well today was different.
You see, I've had a problem falling down that black-hole-piss-pot situation for awhile now, and now that she's decided to add recreational drug use to her mantra shouldn't surprise, nor offend. However, the ruse for which it came about is suspiciously strategic, as were other recent moves on her part. I'm pretty sure both of which were aimed at me. That's neither here nor there. Even if the dialogue and movement from either side says otherwise. This is how I deal with it.
For those who deal in extremes (a trait, after trial and error, I've definitively found repulsive) the coming is as easy as the going. I'm not to escape blame...I was buying what she was selling. Literally, and figuratively...ashamedly so. But in spite of the fact that I had to drive home today to sleep some of it off during the middle of the workday, on a Tuesday notwithstanding, I found her proposition had a very different kind of appeal to me today.
To piss on one's tree, one must enjoy that which he is marking, and subsequently hold indignation for those trying to impose their unwelcome presence. Well, I thought about it, because for fuck's sake, here was my chance...
"I'm in self-destruction mode today...are you?"
"Hmmm...I've been avoiding self-destruction mode as of late...but you know I'm no stranger to decadence."
"You wanna go crazy tonight?"
"You KNOW I'll call your bluff on that, maybe."
"Meet me at my house in 30 minutes. Stay with me tonight."
"I hope you're alright."
So I sat, staring at myself in the mirror...getting my haircut, and somewhere not too far down the road there was a girl. And this girl was probably burying her day and her trials under piles of red-stained turbulent devolution. And I'm sure there was a guy next to her. Possibly on the couch, or maybe in her bed. But this time...this time...it wasn't me.
The girl who normally cuts my hair walks by, looks me in the mirror and asks, "Hey, you stayin' outta trouble?!?!"
"I'm trying."
For the first time in awhile, I wasn't lying.
You see, I've had a problem falling down that black-hole-piss-pot situation for awhile now, and now that she's decided to add recreational drug use to her mantra shouldn't surprise, nor offend. However, the ruse for which it came about is suspiciously strategic, as were other recent moves on her part. I'm pretty sure both of which were aimed at me. That's neither here nor there. Even if the dialogue and movement from either side says otherwise. This is how I deal with it.
For those who deal in extremes (a trait, after trial and error, I've definitively found repulsive) the coming is as easy as the going. I'm not to escape blame...I was buying what she was selling. Literally, and figuratively...ashamedly so. But in spite of the fact that I had to drive home today to sleep some of it off during the middle of the workday, on a Tuesday notwithstanding, I found her proposition had a very different kind of appeal to me today.
To piss on one's tree, one must enjoy that which he is marking, and subsequently hold indignation for those trying to impose their unwelcome presence. Well, I thought about it, because for fuck's sake, here was my chance...
"I'm in self-destruction mode today...are you?"
"Hmmm...I've been avoiding self-destruction mode as of late...but you know I'm no stranger to decadence."
"You wanna go crazy tonight?"
"You KNOW I'll call your bluff on that, maybe."
"Meet me at my house in 30 minutes. Stay with me tonight."
"I hope you're alright."
So I sat, staring at myself in the mirror...getting my haircut, and somewhere not too far down the road there was a girl. And this girl was probably burying her day and her trials under piles of red-stained turbulent devolution. And I'm sure there was a guy next to her. Possibly on the couch, or maybe in her bed. But this time...this time...it wasn't me.
The girl who normally cuts my hair walks by, looks me in the mirror and asks, "Hey, you stayin' outta trouble?!?!"
"I'm trying."
For the first time in awhile, I wasn't lying.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
L'Arc-en-Ciel
There's people and places I've seen and heard and felt.
There's signs and pathways that point and travel and fail.
You sit in a dark room long enough you'll go blind.
No need for eyes.
Nothing to hear.
Nothing to feel.
Nobody to be.
Turn the lights on and hear faint buzzing in the bulb.
Feel the warmth of light.
Everything illuminates in the circuit of electricity.
Everything illuminates because of my hyper-sensitivity.
I watch no channels.
I memorize no lines.
I sit and dream up prolific times.
Nothing makes sense and everything is relative.
Bend some laws and stretch most truths.
For a moment there I thought it was you.
Dressed in clothes arched in red and green.
Dancing in a sky soaked blue.
I try not to understand until something gives,
Or the dust flies off and the shine comes through.
Corinthian arrogance is not just a biblical affliction.
It's a novel world; it's a present condition.
It's platinum everyone.
Can't be chained by what seems real or what seems fake.
Everyone hiding behind secret spills and stains.
I've made the strangest mistakes I can't really explain.
Your chromatic spectacle.
Your untouchable mirage.
You are only illusion while mercury is blowing the top out of the thermometer.
So I boil in collusion and add to the confusion.
Battle Hymns of a Modern Man...the devil has a counter on his turnstiles.
God has a welcome mat.
The great folly of life is that nothing is fair.
Yet I stand here, resolute, breathing the mist of a passionate air.
There's signs and pathways that point and travel and fail.
You sit in a dark room long enough you'll go blind.
No need for eyes.
Nothing to hear.
Nothing to feel.
Nobody to be.
Turn the lights on and hear faint buzzing in the bulb.
Feel the warmth of light.
Everything illuminates in the circuit of electricity.
Everything illuminates because of my hyper-sensitivity.
I watch no channels.
I memorize no lines.
I sit and dream up prolific times.
Nothing makes sense and everything is relative.
Bend some laws and stretch most truths.
For a moment there I thought it was you.
Dressed in clothes arched in red and green.
Dancing in a sky soaked blue.
I try not to understand until something gives,
Or the dust flies off and the shine comes through.
Corinthian arrogance is not just a biblical affliction.
It's a novel world; it's a present condition.
It's platinum everyone.
Can't be chained by what seems real or what seems fake.
Everyone hiding behind secret spills and stains.
I've made the strangest mistakes I can't really explain.
Your chromatic spectacle.
Your untouchable mirage.
You are only illusion while mercury is blowing the top out of the thermometer.
So I boil in collusion and add to the confusion.
Battle Hymns of a Modern Man...the devil has a counter on his turnstiles.
God has a welcome mat.
The great folly of life is that nothing is fair.
Yet I stand here, resolute, breathing the mist of a passionate air.
Monday, July 13, 2009
By Way of the Green Line
I watched this again last night. The best scene from one of my favourite movies of all time.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
You Can Wake Up Now
Impartial, wasted and free...
The only girl I cozy up to is Austin herself. She makes an interesting partner and bedmate, and she makes this all oh so much fun. Her virtues never fade...only in the North. She just keeps teasing me with the possibilities, and they are numerous. Like krill in a shallow sea. Tell me another place that rivals the personality of my love and I'll call you a liar. She never lets me down.
Desperation is a wanderer around certain parts, and I've carefully observed it with my own eyes. It'll visit my home from time to time, but do what you want cause I won't remember. Just don't call your shot cause it never sticks. Only those who keep from themselves are those who suffer it's fate. And fortitude has nothing to do with it. There's about 5 million caustic items to call to attention. However, they all roll on for reasons that make perfect sense to me. Like a soaring bird of prey, we (each and every one of us) have the opportunity to see things as a small map with pieces moving back and forth, to and fro. They all seem small and insignificant now.
Rubbed wrong, don't mattah...just wave inspiration under my nose and I'll come right round.
The only girl I cozy up to is Austin herself. She makes an interesting partner and bedmate, and she makes this all oh so much fun. Her virtues never fade...only in the North. She just keeps teasing me with the possibilities, and they are numerous. Like krill in a shallow sea. Tell me another place that rivals the personality of my love and I'll call you a liar. She never lets me down.
Desperation is a wanderer around certain parts, and I've carefully observed it with my own eyes. It'll visit my home from time to time, but do what you want cause I won't remember. Just don't call your shot cause it never sticks. Only those who keep from themselves are those who suffer it's fate. And fortitude has nothing to do with it. There's about 5 million caustic items to call to attention. However, they all roll on for reasons that make perfect sense to me. Like a soaring bird of prey, we (each and every one of us) have the opportunity to see things as a small map with pieces moving back and forth, to and fro. They all seem small and insignificant now.
Rubbed wrong, don't mattah...just wave inspiration under my nose and I'll come right round.
Tuesday, June 02, 2009
I Will Have You
I don't know how, I don't know when, and I don't really know why, but I will have you.
Or one just like you.
Or one just like you.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Tuesday, April 07, 2009
Please Grace...Don't take offense to my nonsense...
I possess a staggering ability to presuppose personality traits that I find attractive and attach them to things that are not so attractive in retrospect.
That's a "me" problem.
Hoo...
Ray...
That's a "me" problem.
Hoo...
Ray...
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
Don't Be Afraid of What You've Learned
There are two things a person should never be angry at; what they can help and what they cannot."
~ Plato
The French say anger is a bad counselor (le wise!). I say that's probably a fair assessment. Anger can also be sharpened into an efficient utensil. It certainly has its place and its necessity in this world and within our hearts and minds. If it weren't for anger injustice would prevail...at all times. Cruelty and malice would be ever-present. Anger is a useful tool with providence to drive these things back into the woods and let them know that we mean business. That such action and decorum will not be tolerated. But anger is a pretty poison. It beckons with ease, and welcomes during the initial onset. Be that as it may, shame has a wicked ability to rear it's ugly head if anger isn't channeled in proper avenues.
I find myself being less angry. Not necessarily in measurable instances, but moreso in duration. I don't rightly recall a moment in time when I decided this to be the case or convention, but let's call it a "gathering of evidence" over the years. I've found that if something is addressed immediately without an unfortunate festering, resolution always follows shortly thereafter. Any emotion really. Happiness, melancholy, worry, anger, elation, pride, jealousy, guilt, longing, excitement, loneliness, joy, anticipation, optimism, remorse, lust, relief...all these things are what make us truly human, and I'd venture so far to say that without each of these we're probably getting the short end of the stick on this great ride of life. The magic trick seems to be balancing them though.
Mama always told me that in any relationship (any relationship) you should surround yourself with people who have a center line and don't swing erratically from one side of the pendulum to the next without reason or the capacity to find their footing at the center. A "true zero" (for lack of a better term) is a valuable thing to possess, because it allows us a frame of reference. There's always something to return to. Something that allows us to operate within a comfortable degree of certainty that we are who and what we actually convince ourselves we are. A blueprint for reality, if you will...I'll spare you the laborious dive into metaphysical objectivism and leave "reality" up to the brain people.
Some of this newfound comfort with emotion is akin to the wonderful process of aging. As we age, we refine our ability to place emotion into circumstance. 5 years ago, I would write a miniature thesis about conversation that rubbed me wrong till my sleeves were bloody. Now, I just sit and think awhile...assign my emotions where they are most useful, complete their mission, and move on. Trust me...it's not a perfected campaign, but it's showing signs of maturity.
In the world of moral relativism, emotion never really takes allegiance to a side. We often assign it an allegiance to "right or wrong" because we're clouded with whatever overriding sense of humanity seems to be pervading our every thought at the moment. But saying anger is wrong is short-sighted, and conversely saying happiness is good is also myopic. Anger is anger. Happiness is happiness. Carrying guilt for either one is gratuitous. You're human...it's quite alright.
Separating the rational from the emotional, as it turns out, seems to be an exercise in futility...as anyone can tell you. Even so, balance between the two certainly brings clarity. But you have to be careful to give each their fair say. Let them be heard.
Having an emotion means being human.
Controlling that emotion so that it prevents damage is maturity.
Accepting maturity is grace.
And grace is providence...
It gets easier. Even if we don't know why.
~ Plato
The French say anger is a bad counselor (le wise!). I say that's probably a fair assessment. Anger can also be sharpened into an efficient utensil. It certainly has its place and its necessity in this world and within our hearts and minds. If it weren't for anger injustice would prevail...at all times. Cruelty and malice would be ever-present. Anger is a useful tool with providence to drive these things back into the woods and let them know that we mean business. That such action and decorum will not be tolerated. But anger is a pretty poison. It beckons with ease, and welcomes during the initial onset. Be that as it may, shame has a wicked ability to rear it's ugly head if anger isn't channeled in proper avenues.
I find myself being less angry. Not necessarily in measurable instances, but moreso in duration. I don't rightly recall a moment in time when I decided this to be the case or convention, but let's call it a "gathering of evidence" over the years. I've found that if something is addressed immediately without an unfortunate festering, resolution always follows shortly thereafter. Any emotion really. Happiness, melancholy, worry, anger, elation, pride, jealousy, guilt, longing, excitement, loneliness, joy, anticipation, optimism, remorse, lust, relief...all these things are what make us truly human, and I'd venture so far to say that without each of these we're probably getting the short end of the stick on this great ride of life. The magic trick seems to be balancing them though.
Mama always told me that in any relationship (any relationship) you should surround yourself with people who have a center line and don't swing erratically from one side of the pendulum to the next without reason or the capacity to find their footing at the center. A "true zero" (for lack of a better term) is a valuable thing to possess, because it allows us a frame of reference. There's always something to return to. Something that allows us to operate within a comfortable degree of certainty that we are who and what we actually convince ourselves we are. A blueprint for reality, if you will...I'll spare you the laborious dive into metaphysical objectivism and leave "reality" up to the brain people.
Some of this newfound comfort with emotion is akin to the wonderful process of aging. As we age, we refine our ability to place emotion into circumstance. 5 years ago, I would write a miniature thesis about conversation that rubbed me wrong till my sleeves were bloody. Now, I just sit and think awhile...assign my emotions where they are most useful, complete their mission, and move on. Trust me...it's not a perfected campaign, but it's showing signs of maturity.
In the world of moral relativism, emotion never really takes allegiance to a side. We often assign it an allegiance to "right or wrong" because we're clouded with whatever overriding sense of humanity seems to be pervading our every thought at the moment. But saying anger is wrong is short-sighted, and conversely saying happiness is good is also myopic. Anger is anger. Happiness is happiness. Carrying guilt for either one is gratuitous. You're human...it's quite alright.
Separating the rational from the emotional, as it turns out, seems to be an exercise in futility...as anyone can tell you. Even so, balance between the two certainly brings clarity. But you have to be careful to give each their fair say. Let them be heard.
Having an emotion means being human.
Controlling that emotion so that it prevents damage is maturity.
Accepting maturity is grace.
And grace is providence...
It gets easier. Even if we don't know why.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Face Control
After 30 years (17 or so of them since the great hurricane of puberty) you'd think it would come as no great surprise that we're all on some basic level just little eating, breathing, pissing, shitting, fuck machines. Doin' what our dicks and ovaries tell us. And some might think after 32 years, with fantastic, fully-developed breasts, she might...she might have a greater idea of her target destination without the use of random shots thrown about the air like a madman on a killing spree.
I think he wonders what it would take to convince her otherwise. If it's even a possibility. His mother says, "Humanity is it's own greatest enemy. Always has been." As if he hasn't been clued-in on this secret. His father once told him as a child on their first of many fishing trips that selection was a preference, and patience and process were the destination. The child desired to keep each and every one of his bounty, but in the father's great wisdom he explained that there was no need to keep everything...that the child should only keep the one that he really desired. Small, rival packs of wolves howled in the distance.
He tells me, very delicately in the wee hours of the morning how years and years of preference and process have allowed him to deny several on the end of his line, and that patience is a weapon even if turned upon himself at times. I heard something about reclamation. "Do anything you want, but just not here." I've never seen such a fall from immediate grace to immediate despair. So I watched him drink and rock back and forth. I could see gears spinning, and flags raising, and boundaries drawn. I could see the green battery acid pumping through his veins, mixing with the alcohol in his skull...pupils opening full-throttle. No sleep for the boy.
I would venture to guess walking around the corner seeing her with his good friend in a drug-induced kiss would probably send him to the bathroom to empty the contents of his stomach. And I can also imagine that it's good business sense to make friendly with the drug dealer...for obvious reasons. And I can imagine the precipitous drop that her stomach took when she looked up and locked eyes with him unexpectedly, exposing her guilt. But I really don't know. I wish I knew. It was all pretty hazy when I got the details. All I really know is it's beneficial to have a familiar face with you when such a thing occurs, because no amount of face control can hide the mortification shared between the few in the party. I know that looking at the familiar (non-threatening face) brings an immediate comfort like an icy river in the middle of a forest fire. No amount of "Fonzie-cool" can mask the nuclear war behind their eyes. I heard something about reclamation. "Do anything you want, but just not here." Jokes aren't quite as funny, and anecdotal stories just seem to go in one ear and out the other when you're flooded with panic; all the while trying to control your face. So I've heard.
As I heard this weekend, and I don't know but I've been told "every little thing's been bought and sold." I suppose nothing really seems sacred. I suppose I've been there. But never really anything as spontaneous before. Relation is nothing altogether new. So all I can really do is wish him the best and keep my nose clean. I want to feel bad for him, but it really shouldn't be that big of a surprise. He was warned. Even by himself.
I think he wonders what it would take to convince her otherwise. If it's even a possibility. His mother says, "Humanity is it's own greatest enemy. Always has been." As if he hasn't been clued-in on this secret. His father once told him as a child on their first of many fishing trips that selection was a preference, and patience and process were the destination. The child desired to keep each and every one of his bounty, but in the father's great wisdom he explained that there was no need to keep everything...that the child should only keep the one that he really desired. Small, rival packs of wolves howled in the distance.
He tells me, very delicately in the wee hours of the morning how years and years of preference and process have allowed him to deny several on the end of his line, and that patience is a weapon even if turned upon himself at times. I heard something about reclamation. "Do anything you want, but just not here." I've never seen such a fall from immediate grace to immediate despair. So I watched him drink and rock back and forth. I could see gears spinning, and flags raising, and boundaries drawn. I could see the green battery acid pumping through his veins, mixing with the alcohol in his skull...pupils opening full-throttle. No sleep for the boy.
I would venture to guess walking around the corner seeing her with his good friend in a drug-induced kiss would probably send him to the bathroom to empty the contents of his stomach. And I can also imagine that it's good business sense to make friendly with the drug dealer...for obvious reasons. And I can imagine the precipitous drop that her stomach took when she looked up and locked eyes with him unexpectedly, exposing her guilt. But I really don't know. I wish I knew. It was all pretty hazy when I got the details. All I really know is it's beneficial to have a familiar face with you when such a thing occurs, because no amount of face control can hide the mortification shared between the few in the party. I know that looking at the familiar (non-threatening face) brings an immediate comfort like an icy river in the middle of a forest fire. No amount of "Fonzie-cool" can mask the nuclear war behind their eyes. I heard something about reclamation. "Do anything you want, but just not here." Jokes aren't quite as funny, and anecdotal stories just seem to go in one ear and out the other when you're flooded with panic; all the while trying to control your face. So I've heard.
As I heard this weekend, and I don't know but I've been told "every little thing's been bought and sold." I suppose nothing really seems sacred. I suppose I've been there. But never really anything as spontaneous before. Relation is nothing altogether new. So all I can really do is wish him the best and keep my nose clean. I want to feel bad for him, but it really shouldn't be that big of a surprise. He was warned. Even by himself.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
I'm Worried
I'm always in love.
Highly emotive and just beyond functional rationality. The gates remain closed. Under lock and key and solid pragmatism. A derelict waving his hands into oblivion. I shout this shit out of my system. Busy little bee he is...heart all a-flutter.
Highly emotive and just beyond functional rationality. The gates remain closed. Under lock and key and solid pragmatism. A derelict waving his hands into oblivion. I shout this shit out of my system. Busy little bee he is...heart all a-flutter.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Ave! Morituri te Salutant!
We temper the foolish with alcohol in our mouths.
I will not say your name out loud.
For the night says it enough to drown my town.
We bury the gold in the floors,
With the bullet in the open drawer...
Rolls and clinks, calling to be used when its called for.
Forsaken child in a red wagon at sunset,
Sold into this somber regret.
A new brunette occupies my dreams.
I ask, "Do you feel fine?"
She says, "You can't be serious all the time."
But I see her in a white dress and flowers held to her chest.
Open, festering wounds like cuts in the wrist.
She reminds me of my mother at her wedding,
Black and white and formally dressed.
She holds my mind in arrest.
Told to me once, twice, three times to watch her eyes.
That was a sub-par ending to the night.
They tell you all you need to know.
She's in the northeast city surrounded and swallowed, imprisoned by snow.
The youth go numb as they fall in love with a dying nation,
And the golden wheatfields wave goodbye to the passing generations.
Someone once said, "Your heroes are words that don't exist."
Easy to say when they lay them in the grave.
The family holds your place.
A green hill on a horizon far away.
By your grandfather, father; your head and soul shall lay.
Down the vine boy, with your very best.
The night they drove you down.
Release the hands you hold.
You belong to God, below His throne.
When He touched you and broke you.
Broke you in half,
On a blessing while angels laughed at your effort.
You're only fighting yourself when God enters the ring.
So sing.
Sing loud.
Sing now.
The youth lie sleepless as they fall in love with the dying nations,
And the golden wheatfields wave goodbye to the passing generations.
They'll pull the bait-and-switch on you,
When you hit your stride.
And pot shots come at you from every angle.
So much so, there's no place to hide.
As long as they have their self-importance, and your glare in the gleen...
There's not a fast enough moving stream,
To expedite the faces we turn away.
So long to the ordinary.
Fair play to the contrary.
Everything in moderation keeps you from complication.
Orderly and practiced is the name in vain,
And selfish is the self-inflicted pain.
People will speak of bells they hear from far away,
But all I hear are voices throughout my day,
"Before it's over, make sure you have your say."
I will not say your name out loud.
For the night says it enough to drown my town.
We bury the gold in the floors,
With the bullet in the open drawer...
Rolls and clinks, calling to be used when its called for.
Forsaken child in a red wagon at sunset,
Sold into this somber regret.
A new brunette occupies my dreams.
I ask, "Do you feel fine?"
She says, "You can't be serious all the time."
But I see her in a white dress and flowers held to her chest.
Open, festering wounds like cuts in the wrist.
She reminds me of my mother at her wedding,
Black and white and formally dressed.
She holds my mind in arrest.
Told to me once, twice, three times to watch her eyes.
That was a sub-par ending to the night.
They tell you all you need to know.
She's in the northeast city surrounded and swallowed, imprisoned by snow.
The youth go numb as they fall in love with a dying nation,
And the golden wheatfields wave goodbye to the passing generations.
Someone once said, "Your heroes are words that don't exist."
Easy to say when they lay them in the grave.
The family holds your place.
A green hill on a horizon far away.
By your grandfather, father; your head and soul shall lay.
Down the vine boy, with your very best.
The night they drove you down.
Release the hands you hold.
You belong to God, below His throne.
When He touched you and broke you.
Broke you in half,
On a blessing while angels laughed at your effort.
You're only fighting yourself when God enters the ring.
So sing.
Sing loud.
Sing now.
The youth lie sleepless as they fall in love with the dying nations,
And the golden wheatfields wave goodbye to the passing generations.
They'll pull the bait-and-switch on you,
When you hit your stride.
And pot shots come at you from every angle.
So much so, there's no place to hide.
As long as they have their self-importance, and your glare in the gleen...
There's not a fast enough moving stream,
To expedite the faces we turn away.
So long to the ordinary.
Fair play to the contrary.
Everything in moderation keeps you from complication.
Orderly and practiced is the name in vain,
And selfish is the self-inflicted pain.
People will speak of bells they hear from far away,
But all I hear are voices throughout my day,
"Before it's over, make sure you have your say."
Thursday, February 05, 2009
Sex Reminds Her of Eating Spaghetti
One of the major advantages of working at the premier radio group in the "Live Music Capitol of the World" is the fact that some pretty heavy-hitters will come strolling through for interviews and publicity shows from time to time. I've met Feist, Willie Nelson, Albert Hammond Jr., Robert Earl Keen, Bob Schneider, Lyle Lovett, Ja-Rule, Spoon, Drive-By-Truckers, the Cowboy Junkies; I saw REM and Pete Yorn in the studio and watched Andrew Bird play in our conference room, which was "fucking-A" sweet. Then there was that time I walked right past Ryan Adams one morning as he was checking out the newest issue of the Onion, and laughing to himself like some weirdo cosmonaut with his guitar strapped to his back.
Today I met Ben Kweller. Aside from the fact that I towered above him, there really was nothing too surprising about him. EXCEPT for the fact that he might have been the most friendly and congenial "person of fame" I have ever met. He was so ridiculously nice. I told him I'd been a fan, blah, blah...the same canned awkward bullshit people like him hear five million times in a week. And I really have...been a fan. I liked his first band Radish when I was in high school, and I've always had a soft-spot for his music. This was the same guy who played an entire ACL show with a nose that was bleeding so profusely, he stuck a tampon in his nostrils to keep going. It looked like someone cracked him on the bridge of his nose with a Louisville Slugger before he took the stage...it was bleeding like a sieve. There was blood (his own blood...not some fake-ass red corn syrup like Wayne Coyne spits on everything in sight) all over his guitar, his pants, it was fucking rock-star. His manager forced him to quit playing because he was getting so light-headed and almost passed out half-way through the show. Don't let his diminutive stature fool you...this guy is a straight-up bad-ass with a heart of gold.
He gave me his parking spot after he left (I met him in the parking lot). He literally said, "Hey man...you want this parking spot? I'm about to leave and you can have it."
Ben Kweller gave me his parking spot.
And I give you four tunes of his that I think are pretty damn swell.
Today I met Ben Kweller. Aside from the fact that I towered above him, there really was nothing too surprising about him. EXCEPT for the fact that he might have been the most friendly and congenial "person of fame" I have ever met. He was so ridiculously nice. I told him I'd been a fan, blah, blah...the same canned awkward bullshit people like him hear five million times in a week. And I really have...been a fan. I liked his first band Radish when I was in high school, and I've always had a soft-spot for his music. This was the same guy who played an entire ACL show with a nose that was bleeding so profusely, he stuck a tampon in his nostrils to keep going. It looked like someone cracked him on the bridge of his nose with a Louisville Slugger before he took the stage...it was bleeding like a sieve. There was blood (his own blood...not some fake-ass red corn syrup like Wayne Coyne spits on everything in sight) all over his guitar, his pants, it was fucking rock-star. His manager forced him to quit playing because he was getting so light-headed and almost passed out half-way through the show. Don't let his diminutive stature fool you...this guy is a straight-up bad-ass with a heart of gold.
He gave me his parking spot after he left (I met him in the parking lot). He literally said, "Hey man...you want this parking spot? I'm about to leave and you can have it."
Ben Kweller gave me his parking spot.
And I give you four tunes of his that I think are pretty damn swell.
Monday, February 02, 2009
Cliff Diving
Right now I'm walking through minefields with steel-toed boots on. A flak jacket above it. I'm focused. Terribly and specifically focused. Like America's New Darlings. Trusted someone else to pack my parachute as I squeezed out the door to catch the plane already headed down the tarmac. Turbines a-blowin'. My sights are peaked and filed down. The hair on the back of my neck stands. I'm lighting wildfires in my mind. Walking up to the front lines with my rifle zeroed in. I feel God hover above...the heat below. I don't need much and I don't need more. I think I've started a new avalanche. Let the horses who beg to run...
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Top Fiver
If you know me, you probably know my affinty for music. You know my sometimes...err, eternal elitist attitude towards what is considered credible artistry and inaudible shit. I've always tried to challenge myself to pinpoint a Top Five, and while that task is a veritable "whack-a-mole" (<--promised myself I'd find a place for that reference today), what with my ever-evolving and fluid taste in ALL kinds of music, I've narrowed it down to five songs that I dig pretty heavily and always have. It's no wonder that three songs come from my top three favourite songwriters...and while I will always claim that one particular song is amongst my favourite songs (mostly when drunk), it will usually have a brief stint in the ether only to be replaced by a completely different song (during a completely different booze session).
*However, these five songs would be the "gun to head" list I'd make if there were only five songs I could listen to for the rest of my life.
ANYWAYS...in no particular order...
*I couldn't go too obscure because the website didn't have a couple of songs I might've put on there. Maybe I'll make a "Cory's Top Five Greatest Obscure Songs" list next. Or maybe I'll punch your face.
*However, these five songs would be the "gun to head" list I'd make if there were only five songs I could listen to for the rest of my life.
ANYWAYS...in no particular order...
*I couldn't go too obscure because the website didn't have a couple of songs I might've put on there. Maybe I'll make a "Cory's Top Five Greatest Obscure Songs" list next. Or maybe I'll punch your face.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Scorching Both Ends of the Candle in the Crescent City
I used to know my limits. I somehow forgot them on that long dirty highway. It gives you enough time to hallucinate as you dart through the swamps. Some AM station rattling off voodoo-cajun-french-creole-fair.
There are two types of drugs that you should never find yourself tackling in New Orleans. Watch Easy Rider and that'll tell you one of them. Ask me, and I can tell you the other.
Ah, we were killin' old lovers and stuffin' em in boxes. Boxes of booze and pain killers. Driving insanity across state lines. Creole spice and ethanol grade bloody marys. Old world hotels and beautiful dentists on leave from Paraguay. Dilapidated lofts and plant-adorned balconies. Young and hypnotic. Old and mysterious.
Professional sports team owners and young chaps from the South with their Alabama-slide haircuts...they all look the same. Arm and arm with their girlfriends...they all look the same. Drinking for free is always the way to do it, no matter the company you find yourself in. A clever story, a welcome smile, and a helpful accent are useful tools.
I turned down an interview that probably would've been a bad move anyways. My buddy dodges texts that he don't care to read from a girl that he don't care to read. The other scouts the landscape because he doesn't sleep as much. He eats in bed for the nuclear day. Buying art, chasing people, young South American dentists. Buying drinks. Rod Stewart sings and tells me my fortunes...gulps big purple drinks at Phat Tuesdays. Dirty canastas now have my cell phone number and call it when they wanna warm up to something visceral. We're in pictures of people we don't know. We're in pictures we'll hang on our own walls.
New Orleans is the last great city of Old America.
There are two types of drugs that you should never find yourself tackling in New Orleans. Watch Easy Rider and that'll tell you one of them. Ask me, and I can tell you the other.
Ah, we were killin' old lovers and stuffin' em in boxes. Boxes of booze and pain killers. Driving insanity across state lines. Creole spice and ethanol grade bloody marys. Old world hotels and beautiful dentists on leave from Paraguay. Dilapidated lofts and plant-adorned balconies. Young and hypnotic. Old and mysterious.
Professional sports team owners and young chaps from the South with their Alabama-slide haircuts...they all look the same. Arm and arm with their girlfriends...they all look the same. Drinking for free is always the way to do it, no matter the company you find yourself in. A clever story, a welcome smile, and a helpful accent are useful tools.
I turned down an interview that probably would've been a bad move anyways. My buddy dodges texts that he don't care to read from a girl that he don't care to read. The other scouts the landscape because he doesn't sleep as much. He eats in bed for the nuclear day. Buying art, chasing people, young South American dentists. Buying drinks. Rod Stewart sings and tells me my fortunes...gulps big purple drinks at Phat Tuesdays. Dirty canastas now have my cell phone number and call it when they wanna warm up to something visceral. We're in pictures of people we don't know. We're in pictures we'll hang on our own walls.
New Orleans is the last great city of Old America.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Doscientos (On Every Veiled Word)
Soooooo, there are certainly some elements that you (and your magic book) pointed out that are running a definite parallel with specific entities knocking around in my brain. In all honesty, it’s a little frightening how accessible those things might be just from a dream. The motion of the crowd is definitely career-oriented and probably falls in the arena of “next-step-in-life” projections. What am I doing? Why? To what end? Is it what I want, or is it what someone else wants for me? Of course. The crowd itself obviously would allude to people acting in a sheep-like manner…aimless wandering, thoughtless following, lives void of self-introspection or personal inquiry…certain traits that are all too common in the American social conscious…and to some degree, the idea of removing yourself from that to generate and appreciate your own uniqueness. I gave you the abbreviated version of my dream. An adjunct detail being that I was actually arguing with someone who was in proximate age to me within the crowd. I’m not sure of the reasons for the arguing, but it almost descended into a physical altercation and I just wanted to get away from the whole afflictive spectacle itself. That’s when I noticed you and the house in the hills…further evidence of my desire to exit the current situation. In fact, he followed me up to the house and you wouldn’t allow him access. Of course I can connect the dots to my current career and certain aspirations I have that I may be struggling with as far as standing on a ledge overlooking the possibilities. But the access offered was exclusive and it was for me.
I suppose with any change, a certain amount of apprehension always accompanies it. That’s probably where the dark clouds came from. The white clothes…saints, hero’s, people who have been anointed with a certain amount of freedom or aptitude that I seek? Possibly. I don’t remember it being your house, per se, but you were certainly the one who allowed me entrance and extended the invite. The greenery (trees, new and thriving life) is interesting because with change, a sense of eagerness and hopeful optimism also makes a fitting co-pilot. I think everyone expects (or at least longs for) a possibility of promise when major change is presented.
I think at this point I’m probably just regurgitating everything you brought to light. I think the drugs are probably inane and rather self-explanatory. Unless my subconscious was telling me that my reality was altered...totally nullifying the whole thing! I’m not sure the specific role they played. Do you think Freud enjoyed the occasional mind-bender? I’d be hard-pressed to assume that he didn’t! Wait, don’t you have a psychology degree???
As far as your role, well…that’s more interesting…I suppose. It’s the first time you’ve showed in one of my dreams, and the dream wasn’t fuzzy or scattered. It was definitely linear and very, very specific. I think I spilled enough of my own drunken guts to bypass offering up any explanation that would further put you inside my head or make me blush on several accounts, so I think I’ll leave that in the reserve tank! I mean, obviously, our friendship has been more on the social/breezy/unassuming side, so that probably lends itself to you taking certain footholds in my brain that may or may not be rightfully accurate. But the fact that you were there is most definitely intriguing. As you are pretty goddamn intriguing.
I suppose with any change, a certain amount of apprehension always accompanies it. That’s probably where the dark clouds came from. The white clothes…saints, hero’s, people who have been anointed with a certain amount of freedom or aptitude that I seek? Possibly. I don’t remember it being your house, per se, but you were certainly the one who allowed me entrance and extended the invite. The greenery (trees, new and thriving life) is interesting because with change, a sense of eagerness and hopeful optimism also makes a fitting co-pilot. I think everyone expects (or at least longs for) a possibility of promise when major change is presented.
I think at this point I’m probably just regurgitating everything you brought to light. I think the drugs are probably inane and rather self-explanatory. Unless my subconscious was telling me that my reality was altered...totally nullifying the whole thing! I’m not sure the specific role they played. Do you think Freud enjoyed the occasional mind-bender? I’d be hard-pressed to assume that he didn’t! Wait, don’t you have a psychology degree???
As far as your role, well…that’s more interesting…I suppose. It’s the first time you’ve showed in one of my dreams, and the dream wasn’t fuzzy or scattered. It was definitely linear and very, very specific. I think I spilled enough of my own drunken guts to bypass offering up any explanation that would further put you inside my head or make me blush on several accounts, so I think I’ll leave that in the reserve tank! I mean, obviously, our friendship has been more on the social/breezy/unassuming side, so that probably lends itself to you taking certain footholds in my brain that may or may not be rightfully accurate. But the fact that you were there is most definitely intriguing. As you are pretty goddamn intriguing.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Dreaming Alternate Realities (Sighs of Relief)
There's a few things to consider when you've denied all convention and that singular choice has you standing on the edge of mortality. One being the unfortunate regret that you've allowed most of your life to be ruled by your own cock. It's all very elementary and this tragic end befalls too many of one half of the world's population. Too many tragedies. But that's probably not altogether accurate either...
A tragedy is the contradiction of principles. I have no principles.
When my nose exploded and turned into a warm, runny faucet, I understood why they told me not to stumble and fall between legs that didn't belong to me. Just on the outskirts of Camp Pendleton, the cholos who run drugs for the psychos who haven't yet packed their rifles are easy hires. Soldier's wives are nearly as treacherous as the training their husbands receive. Assassins in their own right. It's no wonder military kids are so fucked up. So as I sat tasting my own metallic liquid insides, tracing blind spots in my vision, with my head swelling up like a balloon, I realized the other thing...
I should never have left Texas for a girl.
johnathan rice we re all stuck out in the desert
A tragedy is the contradiction of principles. I have no principles.
When my nose exploded and turned into a warm, runny faucet, I understood why they told me not to stumble and fall between legs that didn't belong to me. Just on the outskirts of Camp Pendleton, the cholos who run drugs for the psychos who haven't yet packed their rifles are easy hires. Soldier's wives are nearly as treacherous as the training their husbands receive. Assassins in their own right. It's no wonder military kids are so fucked up. So as I sat tasting my own metallic liquid insides, tracing blind spots in my vision, with my head swelling up like a balloon, I realized the other thing...
I should never have left Texas for a girl.
johnathan rice we re all stuck out in the desert
Thursday, January 01, 2009
A Slender Flame, A Burning Name
So the world is showing evidence of ending in 2012 I'm being told. At least it can surely be confused as preparing itself for this fate. So I run in the mornings to enjoy the finite sunrises we still have in our account and today I took a withdraw and ran early...long before sunrise.
2008 has reached it's end and drew it's last breath (a heavy one, at that) tonight.
While running Town Lake I noticed several things. Mostly visceral observations that were inescapable. My tendons popping in my knee, leaving me lame for the remainder of the day and reminding me of my ascension in age. 37 degree weather probably doesn't help. Two homeless men sleeping hunched over bobbing their heads up and down from sleep deprivation on the benches of the pedestrian bridge remind me how important constant movement and metabolic rate are to warmth. They seem to be losing their battle with the cold and their breath is tangible and in rhythm with their shivering.
In the great opening of Auditorium Shores stands a 30 foot wooden clock. Lighted from all sides in the blackness of night it stands like a spooky pagan idol just under the skyline of downtown. It's being tended to by a handful of workers who almost seem hypnotized and at the behest of it's ordering and directive, almost life-like nature. It's gears turn and grind behind it's oval face, and it's weapon-like hands move frantically over Roman Numerals. There are artful spires and gothic towers surrounding it throughout the neighboring grounds and they tower above me as well. There are little campfires to either side that are surrounded by it's keepers and ultimately it's guardians. You can hear their inaudible conversations in the quiet, still cold. In time, it will be burned down.
I stand alone and while looking through my own breath, I'm a little spooked by it's presence. It's dark, really dark. There are four or five people tending to this clock and it stands there, like a real-world incarnation of the Clock of the Time-Dragon from the novel I'm reading right now. It's alive. Like it jumped out of the pages of the book I'm reading and landed in Austin.
On the news today, people filed into the park to write down their resolutions and fix them to the clock. Everyone is encouraged to do so. 2008 has left scars on the American psyche and I think we are determined to find a suitable send-off for this year. Write your wishes, your fears, your resolutions, your hopes, and dreams. Your lusts, your sleepy boredoms, your lies, your truths, your demons, your saints, write yourself on this clock, because time is ticking down. The TV news told me today that when it does reach it's finality, the whole thing is going up in a ball of flames. This morning, witnessing it's birth in the pre-dawn hours, I have a feeling it won't go easily, and I won't be there to see it.
In the dark morning light it shines brighter than the moon. Like it's trying to outshine the great lunar orb. Almost as if to exact an ancient revenge from some distant and long forgotten time.
It stands there in abject denial of it's existence as a temporary figure amongst the skyline. I don't think it was gently accepting it's fate, and why would it...set ablaze amidst selfish cheers for wishes and desires going up in its smoke and laying lifeless in it's ashes. It bore little resemblance to the phoenix, but I think if hope was animated, it would rise from the night and pour solid magic on those who ooh'd and aah'd.
A few things remain that I would like to throw on that fire before all time finally stands still.
yawny at the apocalypse - andrew bird
2008 has reached it's end and drew it's last breath (a heavy one, at that) tonight.
While running Town Lake I noticed several things. Mostly visceral observations that were inescapable. My tendons popping in my knee, leaving me lame for the remainder of the day and reminding me of my ascension in age. 37 degree weather probably doesn't help. Two homeless men sleeping hunched over bobbing their heads up and down from sleep deprivation on the benches of the pedestrian bridge remind me how important constant movement and metabolic rate are to warmth. They seem to be losing their battle with the cold and their breath is tangible and in rhythm with their shivering.
In the great opening of Auditorium Shores stands a 30 foot wooden clock. Lighted from all sides in the blackness of night it stands like a spooky pagan idol just under the skyline of downtown. It's being tended to by a handful of workers who almost seem hypnotized and at the behest of it's ordering and directive, almost life-like nature. It's gears turn and grind behind it's oval face, and it's weapon-like hands move frantically over Roman Numerals. There are artful spires and gothic towers surrounding it throughout the neighboring grounds and they tower above me as well. There are little campfires to either side that are surrounded by it's keepers and ultimately it's guardians. You can hear their inaudible conversations in the quiet, still cold. In time, it will be burned down.
I stand alone and while looking through my own breath, I'm a little spooked by it's presence. It's dark, really dark. There are four or five people tending to this clock and it stands there, like a real-world incarnation of the Clock of the Time-Dragon from the novel I'm reading right now. It's alive. Like it jumped out of the pages of the book I'm reading and landed in Austin.
On the news today, people filed into the park to write down their resolutions and fix them to the clock. Everyone is encouraged to do so. 2008 has left scars on the American psyche and I think we are determined to find a suitable send-off for this year. Write your wishes, your fears, your resolutions, your hopes, and dreams. Your lusts, your sleepy boredoms, your lies, your truths, your demons, your saints, write yourself on this clock, because time is ticking down. The TV news told me today that when it does reach it's finality, the whole thing is going up in a ball of flames. This morning, witnessing it's birth in the pre-dawn hours, I have a feeling it won't go easily, and I won't be there to see it.
In the dark morning light it shines brighter than the moon. Like it's trying to outshine the great lunar orb. Almost as if to exact an ancient revenge from some distant and long forgotten time.
It stands there in abject denial of it's existence as a temporary figure amongst the skyline. I don't think it was gently accepting it's fate, and why would it...set ablaze amidst selfish cheers for wishes and desires going up in its smoke and laying lifeless in it's ashes. It bore little resemblance to the phoenix, but I think if hope was animated, it would rise from the night and pour solid magic on those who ooh'd and aah'd.
A few things remain that I would like to throw on that fire before all time finally stands still.
yawny at the apocalypse - andrew bird
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)