Wednesday, September 29, 2004
Paranoid
'So do you want to know something that is odd. I'll tell you something odd. Remember how I told you that she came home yesterday and she told me she was coming home to put on a pink shirt. Well, she was very delibrate about the whole thing, though I didn't think much of it at the time. But she came home and I was finishing dinner and she ran into the bathroom right away. By the time she got out I was watching Seinfeld and she started running around behind my back and in the kitchen and in the hallway and then she finally sat down beside me and she had on a pink shirt. In her hands she was holding out a yellow shirt that I guess she had been wearing (but who holds onto the old shirt that they had been wearing), but she was holding it way out in front of her like she wanted me to see it and she wanted me to know she had been wearing it. And she kinda directed the whole conversation towards telling me that she had come home for a pink shirt that she was now wearing and she had taken off the old yellow shirt. And then last night, did you notice? She wasn't wearing the pink shirt! So your telling me she came home specifically for something that she wasn't even going to wear two hours later? The way that whole scene at the house went, it was almost like she wanted to be sure that I thought the reason she was coming home was because of the pink shirt. Its was too delibrate. There was something fishy going on.'
Sunday, September 26, 2004
Are you ready for the rain?
The rain is coming and its coming soon. Its coming in the way no one ever suspected. And its not coming from a bunch of reds. Not like they thought. And its not coming from a bunch crazies. Not like we think. No, its coming, but its coming in a way we'd never suspected.
A simple balance sheet. A simple balance of credits and debts. The cornerstone of the system. A measure of those little pieces of paper that make the world go round.
A piece of paper with a ponzi scam behind it. Backed by nothing. Held with nothing but faith. This new, unshakeable faith that it will all just work out. Like the future cares where its going.
But everything needs equilibrium. Everything. You just can't stray too far. It'll come back. It'll bounce back like a clap of thunder. You stray too far, and the storm will brew.
Its brewing. We keep running, but its there on the horizon. And all we can do is run. Because its there now, its right there on the horizon, we conured it up and its not going away.
See, you just can't keep on spending. You just can't keep on printing the notes. And they just can't keep on shovelling it back. It'll all fall apart. And when it does only the joker will be left to stand.
The hard rain is coming.
Saturday, September 25, 2004
Boy Plunger
He had a way with numbers. He could see things in them no one else could. Patterns. Patterns of numbers across a ticker. He'd watch the numbers, and then he'd know.
By twenty-nine he had made his first million. On the market. In time he would make much more. Time and numbers. A matter of betting on numbers and watching them move. The movement of numbers in time. Studying the underlying conditions, understanding the movement, feeling the direction, and then placing your bet.
He lived for the market. He always came back. He'd go away but never for long. He'd always come back. No win was enough. He had to keep showing them, him, he was right.
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The Great Crash of 1929 was his greatest triumph. Unshakable proof that he was right. He had bet against the greatest bull market ever, and he had won. On those two days, Black Monday and Black Tuesday, he made his greatest fortune, as others jumped from their windows and took guns to their heads. But I think he died that day. He actually killed himself some 10 years later. He killed himself when he was 63, a year older then Hemingway. He sat down in a bar in Manhattan, drank an old-fashioned, wrote a few words in his notebook, went to the coat-room, took out his Colt, and pulled the trigger with it aimed at his head. |  |
But I think he died in 1929. On the day of the greatest market move ever, I think he stopped moving for good. After the Great Crash he was never the same. That's what they said. He was bankrupt some 4 years later. He had lost it all. And he didn't seem to care. He had been bankrupt before, of course, but this was different.
This time there was no fight left. There was no movement left. He had already reached the end.
He had been right. Emphatically right. To the greatest extent that one could be right. In 1929 he was as right as one could ever hope to be.
But having put his life to this pursuit, and having finally achieved it, there was now something missing. There was no more motion. There was nothing but a tortuous pause.
He lasted in that pause for 10 years. But no one can live without movement. No one can stand the glare of God.
I wonder if he knew it at the time. Back in 1929, and he was in his office, and the quotes were coming up on the board and each one of them was lower then the last. He was there sitting at his desk, watching his markers put up new quotes, but they couldn't keep up with the prices because they were dropping too fast. So there he was, sitting and watching his ultimate proof come to fruition, the undeniable proof that he was right, and I wonder if he knew it. I wonder if he knew this was really his greatest loss. The end of his movement. I wonder if he knew that this was the end.
Thursday, September 23, 2004
Don't be excited. Don't be down. Don't want the future. Don't want the past.
'Its because it reminded me that at the bottom of it all, the source of unhappiness is wanting and desire. And all this other stuff like meditating and contemplating impermanence and inherent existance aren't, on their own, going to help you if you still feel a clinging and desire towards things.'
'These other concepts can be used to bring the clinging out for what it really is, but they need the recognization of the clinging for them to work. Kind of like you need a canvas before you can show the colors.'
'I've been having so much trouble staying in the moment lately, but I realise now that's because I was wanting things. So of course it was hard for me to stay in the moment. I wasn't happy with the moment. And try as hard as i might to stay in the moment and concentrate hard it wasn't going to work without my mind seeing the nature of what was keeping me from the moment.'
Its all so simple. Its so simple. To forget. And think it matters.
'And then you start thinking its hard and you get off on a tangent trying to do the hard when the hard really misses the point. But its simple because it is obvious that nothing really matters except for this here right now and that it doesn't really matter what this here right now is and so clinging and desiring is really a silly thing to do. Its so simple that its easy to forget.'
Monday, September 20, 2004
Some sort of city of angels
And I was travelling through traffic, stalled traffic, miles and miles of stalled traffic. It backed up from the rolling hill, travelled deep into the city and out of my sight. I was travelling between stalled cars, standing still, watching myself at a distance. Walking between stalled cars towards the deep of the city. I was walking towards the tower, the tower that I knew was there but I could not see. And it was so bright, unnaturally bright, everywhere it was far too bright, too bright and too clean, too clean and the buildings were too white, a strange and dirty white that could not be that white. He was beside me. We were walking together through stalled traffic and he was walking beside me and telling it to me, explaining it to me before we reached the tower. And I was thankful he was there, because I wouldn't have known what to do otherwise.
Sunday, September 19, 2004
the opera singer sang upon the cliff, high on the ridge, above the yellow green in which I was hidden. And down below, below her and below me, the water rustled with the autumn.
i brought myself down, down to the level of the river, and so i might catch a glimpse of this voice, singing on the ridge. past the water rustling by i noticed the two others, and they floated in their space, away from the current, and they seemed to listen too.
she sang and we all listened. it was sweet and beautiful to see, that not only can we take away, but that also we can give.
Saturday, September 18, 2004
The last time i saw pauly we were walking along the bow, it was cold and shitty out, and he was leaving the next day.
i think we were sitting on a bench watching the water when he told me God was dead.
pauly is the only person i ever knew that had the guts to kill God. the only one. the rest of us, we all denied God, and refused God, and ignored God and did all those games. but only pauly killed Him.
the funny thing about it though, is pauly didn't play in any of those other games we all did. he didn't refuse or deny or ignore or mock or any of that shit. but one day something hit him, and it must of hit him hard.
cuz he decided he had to kill Him.
i always felt guilty about that. i still do. i think i had something to do with it. i think all those words i said that i don't even know if i meant somehow sunk in to pauly. i think pauly took them a little more then i ever intended.
pauly kept on killing Him after he left and went east. i'd hear about it when he'd call. he wanted to kill Him good. wanted Him buried so deep He'd never get out. wanted to make sure He didn't get up and start at it again.
its funny too, cuz since pauly's been gone, and i guess that's almost four years now, well since then i think i've reconciled it all. with God i mean. not pauly's God mind you. he never lived for me. but God. real God. I think i've reconciled with Him.
but i don't know if it will ever end for pauly. i doubt it will. once God has lived in you, you can't ever just kill Him.
i feel bad about it though. sometimes i feel really bad.
cuz I know that pauly will die trying.
Thursday, September 16, 2004
Wonderbread, twinkies and greek gods panning for gold
I can't possibly write. right. I've given in to the dark side and thrown myself at the mercy of two concerns that have a distinct possibility of being no more within the next two weeks. Of course, on the other hand, those little pieces of paper that I have bought also have the distinct possibility of being worth much more in a few weeks time. And that, I suppose, is quite simply, my bet. it will all be clear soon I'm sure and the seconds are ticking by even as I write this, but until I awake to read a headline inferring my doom or my salvation, I must consume myself in understanding interest coverage ratios and convertible hedges and all of that which I need to know so that i don't lose my shirt. I think I'm right.
Tuesday, September 14, 2004
Do you think that Gord Downey will be recognized for the prophet that he really is when New Orleans is sinking around this time tomorrow?
Monday, September 13, 2004
the dark age
'Hello?'
'Its dark.'
'I don't know. I can't see.'
'I said I don't know. I can't see a thing. It's completely dark.'
'I can't remember.'
'Something though. I was doing something. There was something important and I was in the middle of it.'
'I can't remember. Its too dark.'
'I know it was important. It had to be important. I was doing it. Right in the middle of it.'
'Its gone and I can't see a thing.'
'Did I write it down? Of course I did. I said I was doing it. Its right here. Its here somewhere.'
'Damn it. I wrote it down. Its here somewhere. But I'll never find it. There's paper everywhere.'
'I know but I can't see. Not a damn thing. And even if I could. There's paper everywhere.'
'Its too much. I'd never find it.'
'Yeah, well you can't write that sort of thing down anyways. You have to just sort of live it.'
'Yeah, that's right.'
'Well its gone. And its too damn dark to tell.'
'Anyways, I gotta go.'
'Bye.'
Sunday, September 12, 2004
More terrible beauty
'We're trapped by too many words. There's nothing left to say. Any idea that you might have has already been drained. Our epidemic, our lackluster choice, our lack of choice, our choice to ignore, our ignorance, our treeless cement and rows on rows of what and who and not much at all. Our endless two-lanes, treachorous alleys, and that eery, unnatural glow. Our washed up, beat up, burned out days and our drunken, slothen, senseless nights. Its all been said. Its all been written. There are no hopes, only cliches, the odd plagiary if you're willing to try. But even that's too much work for what you get. All that's left is reality and this stubborn economy of life.'
'But surely there must be something new?'
'I don't know. I don't think so. You need change for that. We don't have change. We've created stability. Stability to preserve our economy of life. Blah. Boring. Stability. We stretch and claw. These half hearted attempts at sex and drugs and money and power and something, anything, anything new. But even that has all been done. Its not new. Sex is old. Drugs are stale. Power's an illusion and money is passe. Its all been done. All of it. I want something new. Something to grab onto as my own. Something I've created.'
'There's nothing?'
'Not that I can see.'
Saturday, September 11, 2004
Why the long face. Dark and deadwood. Streetlights caving like some kind of flood. Why the long face? It doesn't matter. Morals are drowning at night.
Lift up that dress. It doesn't matter. take it like that and pull up the blind. Why the long face? It doesn't flatter. Prick me that thorn and get off.
Read your drawl poem. Clap and applaud. Sink the leotard into your couch. Why the long face? It doesn't matter. And neither do you and that's all.
Friday, September 10, 2004
PJ just lost a bet with me.
I'm really curious what the response will be when we show up at husky house tomorrow morning and he insists on ordering a grilled cheese, hold the cheese.
Whatever it is, I bet it'll be good.
Thursday, September 09, 2004
'Do you think its possible that we know all along what's right.'
'Its possible I guess, but it seems kind of unlikely given how much of the time we're wrong.'
'Well, just because we know it, doesn't mean we admit it. I'm not saying we always do the right thing. Just that we know what that right thing is.'
'Why wouldn't we do it if we knew what it was?'
'Because we're in such a muddle. Everything is confused.'
'Yeah, I know. The hardest thing sometimes seems to be able to seperate what you think from what all the other voices in your head are thinking.'
'Yeah, that's exactly what I mean. So maybe we always know what's right. Maybe you know she's wrong, but you just can't admit it.'
He thought about it for a moment.
'Yeah. You're probably right.'
Wednesday, September 08, 2004
It was a little coffee shop on the corner. I walked in there with a friend of mine who I hadn't seen for some time. I ordered a decaf and I think she ordered something chia. I can never order a chia. I did once, and it came out tia chea. So now I can never order a chia. The decaf was a little less then two bucks. I threw the other fifteen cents into the tip bin.
She ordered a date square. I didn't know she had it until we sat down. I wanted one too. So I got up and ordered a date square. Its two dollars. That's a lot for a date square. I only had a dollar eighty five. That was all I had. But there was the fifteen cents I threw into the jar. It was the same girl at the till. She knew it was me. So I told her i'm a little short and i need to take back the fifteen cents. She says no, you can't do that. I say, but its my fifteen cents. I just put it in there. She knew I threw fifteen cents into the tip jar. She gave me the change. She says that doesn't matter, if you don't have enough you can't buy the square. I didn't get the date square.
The rest of the night was pretty mellow.
Saturday, September 04, 2004
To whom it may concern - Part II
So yes, I have taken it upon myself to climb the fence. What else am I to do?
It is not as easy as my first expectation. The enthusiasm with which I embarked today was soon quashed by the reality of my weak and frail bones. I climbed perhaps 30 feet before it became clear, painfully clear, that I could climb no further. For if I did my grip would have soon given out. There would be a quick plunge to the depths and that would be that.
So I edged myself back down with not a little bit of difficulty and though I struggled I did reach my beginning in a single piece. Still, I was very discouraged by this first attempt. But I have vowed not let it deter me. To say I am driven at my task is an understatement. I am driven both through boredom and through fear, and therefore even such disappointment as I have felt today will not dissuade me from further attempts.
The roots of my boredom are obvious; I am quite alone and am at the mercy of my own thoughts, which can be wicked when left to fester for a time. As well, there is that sneaking suspicion that I am slowly creeping toward insanity from this condition; and as I am fully aware of this, i am most afraid of the inevitable end. I believe it would be impossible not to lose one’s sanity in such circumstance as I find myself in. I do not think that I am a special case. A person cannot be expected to endure such isolation.
So tomorrow, though I cringe as I look down at the broken blisters of my hands, and the bleeding splinters across my arms and legs, still I will attempt again to climb this wretched fence.
S
Friday, September 03, 2004
Today I left my underwear in my cubicle.
Let me explain. I commute. I bike to work. Today, because I was feeling lazy and no one was around, rather then going to the washroom at the end of the day to change into my bike gear, I decided to change in my cubicle.
When I got home I ransacked my backpack but came up empty one pair of underwear.
The underwear are lying on my cubicle floor.
Obviously, people are going to notice a pair of underwear lying around. They probably already have. I probably have co-workers right now telling their wives about the underwear they saw in S~'s cubicle.
And they were briefs, not boxers.
why couldn't they be boxers!
I guess I'm going back into work tonight. But I think the damage has already been done.
Thursday, September 02, 2004
I just got loaned this book by an acquaintence. So I open up the book and notice there's a piece of paper in it. I open up the paper and its this inkjet printout of, well, of a pretty explicit scene.
I'm not sure what to do.
Obviously it was left in the book by accident, for whatever reason I don't want to know. But the question is... do I put the picture back in the book and return it with it in there? Is that just going to embarrass the lender? Do I take the picture out and throw it away? What if he wants the picture back? Maybe it was a bookmark? Do people really bookmark books with porn? I think that's a sign of a real addiction. When you're bookmarking with porn.
This is awkward. I wish I never borrowed the book. Its not even very good.
To whom it may concern;
What a predicament! I am trapped. Like an animal in a zoo. I do not at all understand this strange, new surrounding. And though there is much (almost all!) that I am uncertain of with regard to this condition, I am quite certain of one thing. And that is that I am trapped. There will be no escape.
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I must explain myself. I am surrounded on all sides by a white picket fence. I realize that this sounds quite silly; I questioned it myself at first, but it is sure enough a white picket fence. There was a time when I had just such a fence around the front yard of my home so I am well observed to draw such a conclusion. Of course the picket fence of my memory was only two feet high. I often would step over it when it suited me, ignoring the hindrance of the gate. A gate for such a fence seemed trivial to me, an unwanted nicety to keep up appearances but that served no purpose from my vantage. For what purpose could such a gate possibly serve? To keep out rodents? I have seen many a rodent in my lifetime and have witnessed them climb walls that might seem to be impenetrable, made of a material far harder to scurry than a simple, wooden fence. Rodents are clever creatures, they are given far less credit than they deserve. But I should be so lucky as to be blessed with that skill, or, for that matter, to have one of those frivolous and useless gates. For it would serve my purposes well in this current predicament. But I have inspected every inch to my own satisfaction and so please believe when I say, there is no gate. |  |
Of course, the picket fence that encloses me now is by no means similar in stature to the fence of my memory. Unfortunately the fence before me is quite like a fortress. If I look up I cannot see the top of the fence. It seems to extend as far as my eye can see. It must be at least a mile high, or further I suppose, since I cannot see its end. I have scaled the fence for a distance, in hopes of catching a glimpse of a possible crest, but have had no luck, for the fence’s height does not seem to be bound by the limit of my sight. Not that I should have expected it to be so. Instead, even when I climb - and let me say that it is difficult to climb this fence, for the cracks between the boards are extraordinarily small and getting a firm grip, is quite painful - well even when I climb this difficult fence, I see no end to its height. It is, I suppose, quite like the tower of Babel.
I imagine some nights, before I drift off into the dreamless sleep that engulfs me of late, that I am climbing the fence, that I see its top and a wave of relief engulfs as I break out sobbing in tears of joy. But curiously, even in these imaginations of mine I am unable to reach the goal and climb to the top of the fence, as it does not fail but for sleep to steal me from my dream.
I am writing this now, this first entry, to record what will be my first true attempt to climb this fence. I do not plan to come down. For now I do not attempt its height with the curiousity of seeing its end, but with the hopes that I may find my way out of this terrible cage, before it brings to me my end.
S
Wednesday, September 01, 2004
jimmy was sitting in the corner like he always did, and he was just saying it again. you know. just saying it again.
'i need to start talking and it'll all just come out. it'll just come out. it'll all just come out.' over and over. like he used to. just saying it, that's all.
that's what jimmy did. you know. that's what he did. I was on the bed, and i was listening to him. listening to him talking.
i think there was a storm outside. i don't remember. it doesn't really matter much i guess. it seemed like that kind of night is all. the lights were flickering on and off. so it coulda been the storm. it coulda, but the lights flickered anyways, it seemed lately at least. So it coulda not have been the storm too.
i wasn't really paying much attention anyways. you always think i am, you always think i am but i wasn't then. i was just listening to jimmy, and he was just talking. and i don't know. there might have been a storm. it doesn't really matter now. i guess.
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