Sunday, May 30, 2004
The Libertine
I am a man controlled by passion.
I have no interest in morality. I have no interest in posterity. I have no interest in that claustrophobic nuisance you call integrity. The moment is all that matters to me.
I do not think of the past and I do not think of the future. Neither means anything to me. Each is but a droplet from which I will cleanse myself from its predecessor. But each is nothing more. And each is nothing to me. I do not relish for more than that single instant. I am the dark side of your buddha.
I will take your skin and rip it sound if that does suit my fancy. I will take your lips and taste them hard if that does suit my fancy. I will sit with tears in your darkest depth if that does suit my fancy. It means nothing to me.
I am past your good and evil. I have seen the light of god and looked It in the face and he shrivelled upon my sight. I have met the devil in his lair and stared him in the face as well. But he only turned cowardly and was bought by my gold. I see right and wrong clearly. I see truth clearly. I alone see the horrible nature of truth. I alone accept the horrible truth of nature. And I do nothing about it. For that is what the nature commands.
You will not see me riding along side my horsemen. Nor will you see me in a burst of flames. Nor will I come stealthily in the night to take you away. I am nothing. Thus I am anywhere, always. Beware.
Friday, May 21, 2004
Tartar
Jeremiah Thompson was aware of the risk that he was taking. But he simply enjoyed the taste of rare hamburger far too much.
So acutely aware was Jeremiah, in fact, that he went to some lengths to clarify just how dangerous his actions were. He researched the subject thoroughly. From his studies he came to the conclusion that he was, without a doubt, putting himself at risk; that the rare beef that he was consuming could contain a particular type of E coli that was known to make humans very ill. Jeremiah became frightened, and for the period of a month he began to cook his hamburger meat until it was brown.
But it didn't last. The taste of the brown, dry, overcooked meat was incomparable to that of a juicy rare burger. He disliked it terribly. It began to affect his demeanour. He became grumpy, easily irritable, and despondent among his friends. It eventually got the point that Jeremiah came to dislike the taste so much that he was hardly eating at all.
His friends began to worry about him, as he was becoming quite thin and pale from his lack of nutrition. Finally one of his good friends confronted him. By this point Jeremiah was of greatly deteriorating health. He was verge of starving himself to death. His face was hollow, there were dark shadows below his eyes, and he was beginning to lose his hair; he noticed large clumps of it falling out every morning into his sink.
'Why are you doing this to yourself?' his concerned friend asked.
Jeremiah gave in and confessed. He confessed his hatred of the bland, dry meat that he was being forced to consume. His friend, understanding the predicament that young Jeremiah was in, did his best to console his friend, and after some contemplation of his own, suggested an alternative.
Acting on his friend's advice Jeremiah began to grind his own meat.
He would carefully skin the outer edges of the best cuts of beef, before grinding the rest into a plumpy mass fit for his consumption. This worked well for quite some time, but the beef he was forced to buy was costly, and eventually this unfortunate reality caught up to Jeremiah's pocket book.
Jeremiah despaired. It was clear that he could not continue to purchase such expensive beef. But if he didn't he would starve.
It was in the face of this dilemna that Jeremiah came to his decision. And he decided to let the cards fall as they may. He knowingly took the risk.
So let it not be said of Jeremiah that he did not know what he did. He knew fair well that he took his life in his hands with each and every bite. But Jeremiah made his choice, and that choice was to taste a tender juicy morsel, rather then a lifetime of dried out beef.
The only Real Rhythm of the World
I should be out. Or in. Anywhere but here. Getting laid, working to get paid, trying to be made. But I'm not. I won't. I can't.
Because all I want to do is write. I want to let the rhythm flow, the words bounce, the letters cum. A sweet, perfect melody, one that finds itself, runs itself, and I can lose myself in. I want to sit back and look at my hands and marvel at them stroking over the keys so gentle but too fast for my mind to ever conceive. For it is then, and only then, that I believe in God.
All I want to do is write.
And so that's what I'll do.
Thursday, May 20, 2004
The Sea of Red
In a perfect world I would have written this the moment that the horn sounded. But I was too busy being in the moment when the horn sounded. And then I was too stunned to think about much of anything at all.
We're in the Stanley Cup finals.
I've just spent the last 15 years losing with these guys. I love hockey. I love the speed and the creativity and the sometimes I hate and sometimes I love the awful element of luck.
I hated the element of luck when Vernon let in that stupid shot from Tikkanen from over the blueline.
I loved that element of luck when the puck bounced from Otto to Peplinski and in.
I hated the element of luck when Flaherty turned superhuman for two short weeks.
I loved that element of luck when Steve Smith took the puck across the line off of Grant Fuhr's skate.
And I love that element of luck right now.
Hockey's a lot more like life then most other sports. It just doens't make a lot of sense and you never know what to expect.
I've just spent the last 3 hours wandering around 17th avenue with my best friend, slapping hands and screaming incoherently. With the odd ya-hoo or yee-haw mixed in for effect.
I'm not usually much of a ya-hooer, or ye-hawer, but tonight's special.
Its pretty cool.
4 wins to go.
Wednesday, May 19, 2004
Aesthetics
I don't like the way it looks when I make two posts on a single day. It looks bad.
The posts run into each other and you read one and then you read the other and you can't distinguish that they aren't actually connected and so it reads stupid. I don't like it.
So now whenever I have two posts on a single day I am forced to take one of the posts and put it on one of the previous days where there wasn't already a post. I feel like I'm lying. But what can I do? And it doesn't really matter - its not like my posts are related at all to time. Like Proust :P
But besides, it gives incentive to the reader to actually go back in the history and read the past. And who knows, maybe that already begotten day to which I'm posting on is actually the day where the mental construct formed in my mind, and that it was only later that it manifest itself in the intelligible form of a written paragraph or two. Stranger things have happened.
Anyways, I am convinced that if I use this technique it will correct what I believe to be an annoying feature. But I'm worried what will happen if my posts exceed 365. I may someday be posting before my birth.
Tuesday, May 18, 2004
Jackson
Jackson is a small town, mostly hidden and almost forgotten, that lies amidst a large and rolling prairie. The townspeople of Jackson are for the most part like the people of any town you come across. They enjoy their sunday football, their thursday night bingo, and the morning coffee over at Mel's. They keep their yards tidy, dutifully follow the civic responsibilities, elect their representatives, and always say hello to one another when passing on the street. The only possible exception to this mundane existance is that the good people of Jackson are cannibals.
Monday, May 17, 2004
Albert was writing late into the night, which was not at all unusual. He often wrote until the latest of hours, at times until they reversed themselves completely and became the earliest hours of dawn. He sat at his wooden chair; in his room mostly barren, its white painted walls illuminated by the single candle that Albert had lit early in the evening. Albert wrote. He wrote until dawn.
Friday, May 14, 2004
Chanting
They are chanting again. Make them stop. Make them stop chanting.
If I were a Buddhist where would I go? I'd probably go to the room next to my own, if I were a particular Buddhist. But I'm not particular. Or a Buddhist. You see, the problem I have with it is quite simply this. I don't believe in reincarnation. But that's too emphatic, which is exactly the opposite of what I'm trying to express. How about this instead: I don't believe I can believe one way or the other in anything beyond the beyond. Its like trying to guess what's in someone else's freezer.
Clear enough?
Well if it isn't then what I mean to say is this. It seems that if we have to do what we do on the faith that what we do will affect what we will do in some other body, then we're really just kidding ourselves. Believe it or not that does make sense. Just read slowly.
Why must we get all of eternity involved. Every religion seems to have to throw the baby out with the bath. Its such a bore. And Buddhism? shame! No certainty damnit!
Well, I'm generalizing. The particular species of which I'm now becoming familiar. I only speak of that which I know.
Here's my two cents. Lets make this rule: stick with the life that we know, and let's not pretend that we have anything to say about the others.
If you do that, I'll chant along.
Wednesday, May 12, 2004
He was ranting. Gesticulating wildly. His face was red as a sea?
Huh?
'I missed the first period and a half of the hockey game because i'm a stupid idiot. are you proud to know a stupid idiot? because that's me, right here. stupid idiot.'
she stifled a laugh.
'how could they start the hockey game at 7? it was in san jose. that's like 6 pacific. who starts a game at 6 pacific? its should start at 730 pacific, 830 our time. people aren't even done supper at 6 pacific. they probably lost out on viewers to meatloaf. can you believe that? losing out to meatloaf. how sad is that.'
She tried to calm him, but she couldn't take his tantrum seriously. Her eyes rolled invountarily. Luckily his were to far from their sockets to catch the look.
'I can't believe i missed the first half of the game. i'm such a stupid idiot.'
He was stomping now.
'And of course all the important goals were scored in the first period and a half. so I missed all the important goals!!! and what was i doing? listening to some monk tell me how to make myself happy. you know what would make me happy? i'll tell you what would make me happy. If i wasn't a stupid idiot who missed the first period and a half of the hockey game that would make me a hell of a lot happier.'
sigh...
Saturday, May 08, 2004
This really needs to be read after Ego I to get the effect. But who am I to get knit-picky?
Nietzsche's Ego II
I believe that great men are created perhaps a few times in a generation. It is rare. I would go so far as to say that their Genius is Holy. that through it we are able to gaze momentarily at the grand theory that is at work in our universe. Nature, in her abhorance of conformity, continually creates new blends and versions of souls, and every once in a while she hits upon a combination with the ability to unlock her abyss. A child who understands his mother. This soul sees his world with a clarity that the rest of us can only imagine through his imagery, and though we know the truths he tells immediately when they are conveyed to us, they are but water in our hands, and we can only hope to grasp them for a moment, before they siphon through the cracks between our fingers and palms. But that moment that he creates, that clarity that he allows us to glimpse, is like a transport to a cloud, if only for a moment, that leaves an impression upon our beings, allows us to live our life more honestly and more true to ourselves, and effects the decisions that we will make forthcoming. That we have risen to the clouds means that we shall never return completely to the earth, and we should walk, after such an event, a bit higher then we had walked before it.
It has been said by some philosophers that man's goal should be to cultivate and develop these minds, that it is these minds who will be able to take hold of the collective soul of mankind and drag it to new heights that may have not otherwise been reached. I don't pretend to believe that this is true, I've learned in my life that to judge one individual from another is a dangerous game of dice, and like most games of chance, the outcome is as uncertain as the stakes are high.
And now My Ego
Whether the world should be run by great men is a question of little consequence, because it is inevitable that even if such a great man were to be found, that he would be undoubtably manipulated or removed by lesser but more cunning sorts. The only true legitimacy is in the masses, who hold the most hope for some truth and honesty to prevail.
Thursday, May 06, 2004
well, now i've got an excuse. And that's all i really needed. on saturday night i am supposed to go to a par-tie. a lavous (sp?) affair to be sure, with many beautiful little and big and thin mostly likely, party girls, and that's why I am supposed to go. because i have to meet girls and be socially correct and socially aware and not socially inept like i get along just fine being so i can get married and have kids and get on with my life so i can die. because that's the way that it works. but i don't want to go to the par-tie because i don't want to die. no, no, im being all melodramatic, sticking needles in my veins. It's not really true. Well it is true, i mean who wants to die, certainly not me, but that's not the reason i don't want to go. i don't want to go because the thought of pretty par-tie girls doesn't arouse me enough to make me get off my butt and struggle to make conversation with people i probably won't have anything in common with. and now i have an excuse. so what should i do? i don't know.
Sunday, May 02, 2004
Nietzsche's Ego
The development of an artist is a precarious event. The mind of an artist is such that he must walk the thin line of sanity, and to produce truly great art, to produce art that is an embodiment of Truth, the artist must confront his own and his society's demons without prejudice or delusion. He must look into Medusa's eyes as to be able to regard them in their detail.
Such a journey is always a perilous one, it takes a certain individual to have the fortitude to withstand the suffering and despair, the burst of joy, the fit of complacency. There are overwhelming odds stacked against the individual who attempts such a journey, who is willing to go deep within the psyche, within the framework, and pull out a rare gem of Beauty that may be put on display.
It is perhaps a blessing that so few bother to take such pains, and that most of those that do dedicate themselves to a life of creation do so within a narrow border. Such walls are necessary, and I am not one to critique such a choice. To be sure, there are many accomplishments that have been created by men with eyes half closed, many pleasing visions, melodic sounds, clever ideas. These have their place in the world, and many of these will naturally be appreciated by the majority. And the artist himself will not suffer an intolerable existance, or at least he need not. He only needs to delve so far into the flames as to taste their biting tongues. In fact, such an artist could very well lead quite a happy life. He could have riches and fame, women and clothes, any wish that he might conceive.
So I am not concerned with this breed of artist. He will find his way, make his contribution, if he is lucky he will taste a moment from the kings glass, and if he is very lucky he will linger in memory after his body is reduced to dust. He will live as he will live.
He who concerns me rather, is the Other, the rare breed of artist that tries to push against the limits of Truth itself, hoping that he might be able to inch it back just a morsel further, so that he might glimpse a piece of its wisdom that has not been seen before. It is this artist whose journey is so perilous, whose sensibility is so fragile. It is this artist that concerns me.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons License.
