Tuesday, November 2, 2010
We'll see how long it lasts. I appear to be Tumblr-resistant. Or at least Tumblr-retarded. But apparently, it's where the party's at.
Shit. I generally hate where the party's at.
Also, now I feel compelled to write something read-worthy.
Anyway, goodbye, blogger. Goodnight moon. Goodnight cow jumping over the moon. Goodnight light, and the red balloon.
I'll see you on the other side.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Sunday, August 29, 2010
In religious terms, the human narrative — birth, life, death and rebirth — has for millennia been relatively straightforward in the West. You were born. You lived. You died. After a judgment you went to heaven (or hell) forever and ever. Eternity was the end: no appeals allowed.
But nearly a billion Hindus and a half-billion Buddhists — not to mention the ancient Greeks, certain Jews and a few Christians — have for thousands of years believed something entirely different. Theirs is, as the theologians say, a cyclical view. You are born. You live. You die. And because nobody’s perfect, your soul is born again — not in another location or sphere, and not in any metaphorical sense, but right here on earth.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Monday, August 16, 2010
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Friday, August 13, 2010
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
The truth is, I have been in a metaphorical cave, investigating the dark, and silence. This is initially not a pleasant place to be, when you first get here; but after some time the dark isn't so bad anymore.
Words can be a terrible compulsion to live with; the worst kind of addiction. In caves, you don't have to narrativize anything, particularly your own experiences. You don't have to investigate various characters and their motivations. You don't feel compelled to draw out the map of your life, and everyone elses, in order to construct a whole. You can nap in caves, become a part of some sort of organic whole. In the English Patient, Katharine Clifton died in a cave. And if you haven't read that book, you really should because it's far better than the movie. I think about Katharine Clifton a lot. Also about death. Sometimes when I am in my cave, I fear that I will die there, that I will be engulfed in silence. But after a while, even this isn't so bad, the idea of being forgotten in a cave. Even hyper-awareness of your own mortality can become exhausting.
I grew up reading an absurd amount of new age-y self-help books. I did this as a child, which I now understand was somewhat precocious, but not necessarily in a good way. I was interested in dreams and analyzing them, in Buddhism, in mediation, in the middle way, in cause and effect, in excavating layer after layer to find some sort of truth. These ideologies still frame my way of thinking, of narrativizing. But sometimes I wish I was free of even all of this, unfettered, unimprinted, unmarked.
This alchemy of personality with environment - I understand that there is something perfect and whole about it. It is a process that unfolds and continues, ad infinitum. So I don't have anything new to say. I am still (unfortunately) the same person I always was. Maybe this isn't so bad. And ultimately, it doesn't really matter.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Friday, July 30, 2010
the catastrophe of my personality
to seem beautiful again,
and interesting, and modern.
The country is grey and
brown and white in trees,
snows and skies of laughter
always diminishing, less funny
not just darker, not just grey.
It may be the coldest day of
the year, what does he think of
that? I mean, what do I? And if I do,
perhaps I am myself again.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Go temporarily insane.
Make a tearful confession to a priest.
Get thrown out of your parents’ house.
Apply for several credit cards using different names; have them all cancelled and each of your fake identities reported to a collection agency.
Sleep 10 hours in one week.
Sleep 24 hours in one day.
Drink lots of whiskey (non-alcoholic for those under 21).
Fall in love with somebody completely wrong for you.
Have your heart broken. Have your heart broken again. And again.
Watch your friends change into people you don’t recognize, either because of some fundamental change in their personality, or plastic surgery, or both.
Give away all your possessions.
Return to the thrift store later and try to get your possessions.
Shave your head and move to Alaska.
Endure the questioning disdain of your friends, family, and mentors.
Worry about things that don’t matter.
Forget to worry about things that do matter.
Sleep through college and wake up with a diploma.
Wonder how that vomit got on your shoes.
Work for somebody who literally blows a whistle to keep the pizzas delivered on time.
Deliver a pizza to Michael Bolton.
Get fired for setting the xerox machine on fire.
Move someplace far away from anybody you know, grow very lonely,
and give your television a nickname.
Experience glorious success in front of thousands of people, let it go to
your head, and experience a rapid change of fortune.
Get booed off a stage.
Get in a fistfight in the alley outside Emo’s.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Is this a collective memory of an unnameable past?
What is the crumbling urban landscape an archetype for?
Does it represent the limits of our perceived notions of time and space? The end of the x and y axis of our collective mind?
Is our greatest fear a landscape (both geographic and psychic) that is wholly created and destroyed by man? Therefore, I suppose, by ourselves?
Why is it so sinister?
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
"Of course it was impossible to connect the dots looking forward when I was in college, but it was very, very clear looking backwards ten years later.
You can’t connect the dots looking forward. You can only connect them looking backwards, so you have to trust that the dots will somehow connect in your future. You have to trust in something - your gut, destiny, life, karma, whatever.
Because believing that the dots will connect down the road will give you the confidence to follow your heart even when it leads you off the well-worn path and that will make all the difference."
Thursday, July 1, 2010
What happens when you realize that all your subconscious notions of relationships and love through most of your twenties were predicated on a misread of approximately 200 viewings of this movie when you were five?
I'm not talking about myself. Just other people I know.
Also, these subtitles are somewhat problematic. My favorite one is "With your vision, this is the complaint. Even flowers create a distance!"
What does that mean? It's like in code or something.
No wonder I misunderstood this movie.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
~Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet, 1923