Friday, January 28, 2005
She told me that he didn't like parties. Even when he was younger he didn't like parties. Always he was worried that he would end up next to some polyester insurance salesman from Winnipeg.
But they went to the swerve, with all the other cool cats wearing their funky goggles and silky shirts.
And she told me that he said to her before they went that he just wanted to be with people. And they'd go up to people and just find out what was beautiful there and just grab onto to that a little bit for a moment. That made it all right for her.
It just so happens that some time before he had ended up next to that insurance salesman. And he had been from Winnipeg. But he wasn't at all what you would expect.
And they had fun.
Thursday, January 27, 2005
‘Listen to Johnny.’
That's what I whispered. But nobody was listening.
Johnny was on the stage at the time. In behind him those big, bright, blood red curtains were still swaying back and forth. Johnny was wearing his white face with his dusted pink cheeks and it made his teeth look yellow when he opened his mouth. He was standing there, right there in the middle of the stage, on that old wood floor that kept creaking cuz he was shuffling his feet all awkward like. He was trying so hard not to notice.
He was standing on the same spot where they had hanged Johnson. The same spot where old Fred had been a few minutes before. But now the spotlight was on Johnny, and dim as it was he was still doing his best to make the most of it.
The fellas that were still in the audience, who had stayed after old Fred had let his mouth flap, they weren't much interested in anything at the moment. They had seen enough for one night.
And that’s about it really. That’s about all you need to know to understand the crux of it. Poor ole Johnny, standing up there with his little cards, ready to conjure a bolt of lightning from the heavens, and he couldn't even muster a rumble from them. In a moment he’d be gone too.
Wednesday, January 26, 2005
My grandfather is a great man but now he has alzheimers. Every week my grandmother goes to an alzheimers meeting with the other spouses of alzheimers victims and they talk about the difficulties and try to figure out how they can make it easier. I picked her up from the meeting today, and in the car she told me about how earlier that day, when she was being picked up by my uncle to go to the meeting, my grandfather had asked where it was she was going.
'To the alzheimers meeting' she had said.
To which my grandfather replied, 'Who has alzheimers - you or me?'
We chuckled about that in the car. It was forced, but sometimes you have to laugh at the stuff that really isn't funny cuz that's the only way to deal with it.
Thursday, January 20, 2005
This is one of those nights.
A night to lose myself in character. But not this time. Let's hit this head instead, and do away with justin and deidre and ross.
I want to know if I can enjoy my sorrow.
So what does that mean? Does it mean that sorrow is gone? Or just that now I do not hide from it, not in character, and I embrace it for what it is.
I am crying.
Tonight I learned that the Buddha said that one can know a thing in itself. I have always taken it for granted that I can't. Indict western philosophy, for its all very convincing in between yawns. And so I have believed, in between yawns, in 'a priori' concepts of the understanding, or rules of the understanding, these things upon which our mind works to know things. And the deal with that is this: if our mind has certain underlying concepts, or rules, upon which it views our experience, then we can't possibly ever know the experience itself. All we can know is how that experience is perceived when brought into the context of these rules through which it manifests in our mind. The actual nature of the outer world is a mystery. And we are all alone.
But Buddha says different.
And yes, sure, I know, really, this all seems very profound, and all that fluff, but how does it bring me closer to loving my tears?
I'm not sure. But somehow it seems to. Somehow it makes it ok. It makes it not matter.
Maybe because if we were wrong about this then maybe we're wrong about everything and so who gives a fuck about convention anyways.
Or maybe its because it reminds me how fragile my mind really is, and how I can change it on a dime.
Hmmmm... or maybe its this:
I am no longer seperate. Kant said it was just us. One. And we could never know the other. So I was it. But now that's no. The Buddha says we can know the other.
We are not alone.
And that makes everything all right.
Wednesday, January 19, 2005
'Does a firm persuasion that a thing is so make it so?'
I suppose that really, if we are going to get to the bottom of this fuddle, we might as well face up to it and admit that we will, oh we will, have to answer that in its turn.
But it turns so goddamn quickly.
Sigh... shut up please. Enough with the mongering...
Because well, if these gods and devils really are in our gut, and it just so happens that by some terrible chance the proper procedure has not yet been perfected to detect these beasts, then I guess its up to us to make them in the image that we choose.
But what do we choose?
I choose now.
But what is that? How can you choose now? What in the good lord's name does that mean.
I say it means nothing. Now is nothing.
And then they scoff and the crowd boos and disperses back into their tragic shacks. A few shouts of 'snakecharmer' are heard above the din. When they are gone there is little but dirt in front of me; I am left with only the dust bowls of an empty street, stretching out to the sunset of that inevitable horizon.
Still though, I say it. I hesitate at first, I think of turning around and heading back to that little house in the suburbs to catch a quick lunch and be back to work by 1. But I don't go. I don't and can't and its just too late.
'Fuck it' I mutter under my breath.
And then I say it. And I don't say it meekly. I say it with conviction. I say it without fear. I say it as though my bones were already dust, as though my blood had been already boiled, as though my soul were already free.
So yeah, I say it, but I don't yet believe it.
Yet.
Tuesday, January 18, 2005
I am quite frightened of life.
I wonder if there are many people like this. I wonder if I'm the only one. I know lots of people who aren't. I'm often told that change and flux and all that stuff should be invigorating.
I don't find it very invigorating. Mostly I find it stressful.
The worst part about being frightened of life is that its quite a ridiculous thing to be, and yet even the realisation that its ridiculous doesn't seem to lessen the feeling. So instead you just end up being frightened of life and insecure about being so.
To be frightened of life. Sheesh. And it really is ridiculous, absurd even. What makes it riduculous and absurd is the alternative. Death doesn't seem terribly enticing. But I mean, if you're not going to accept the shit of life, well, then I guess you should get off the pot. But who wants to do that?
So its ridiculous to be scared of life. Its absurd. It probably means I'm caught up in some sort of delusion of what life is, cuz I've given it some form that it doesn't possess.
Maybe life doesn't have form. Maybe its like the mind. Maybe life formless.
And you know, maybe that my problem. It would explain the fear at least. Amitting life is formless. That anything goes, so to speak. I don't know.
That's scary to me. That makes me get all shaky and panicky.
But I don't know. I don't know much. All I know is that its damn difficult to accept. That and that I think too much.
Saturday, January 15, 2005
Sweet tropic, warm cancer
If only you were -
To taste your grim fruit
How evil - your cure
The poison - I'm mournful
Of death - to invent
My Minds hollow fall
The netting is rent
So spiral - to blackness
Forlorn clench at the Soul
To huddle the devil
As cold to a shoal
Wednesday, January 12, 2005
Excuse me sir, but do you hear a rhythm?
Cuz I swear I hear it. And I swear its there. Out there. Reverberating through the bitter air. Haunting deep into the ice pack of the merciless snow. And in here. Inside these tortured, hollow walls. Screaming out in silence for an escape that can only come too late.
And yet it doesn't care. It is nothing but a beat.
Only that which exists as process of another. Or so he told me. But what does he know and who am I to say. So yes, I know, its not very good. Not yet. Not terribly coherent, still more like a muddle. Just a vaguely recognizable beat, dripping in the background like a leaky tap. No, no, its not very good at all. Keeps on stumbling over its stool and stepping out of tune, getting caught up in the numbers, and just going too fucking far. But its coming back, and its gaining in momentum.
Listen. I swear I hear a rhythm.
Tuesday, January 11, 2005
...and that should scare them shitless
The world is run by practical men. Men of wealth. These masters, who have reneged on responsibility, who lay idly on their throne, who have coasted to their altar to blasphemy their god to gold.
These are the men who prick the pawns and determine fate.
They are power. They are strength. They have every resource at their disposal. They arm every soul that can be bought.
Yeah, they have all that.
But we have Grace.
Friday, January 07, 2005
Well on this boring friday night when its far too cold to go out and I'm far too lazy to study I think instead I'll write something mostly incoherent, or incoherent to most, whichever fits the best...
What a boat and what a rough and tumbling sea and so close from shore where the argument began.
To one she was an inland soul on her first trip out to sea. She had ventured there alone, from the peaks of a solitairy mountain top. And two he was harboured mate, old and weathered long to the waves. But never had he ventured so much as a league out from the land.
These two would otherwise be strangers, had they not passed by that night and happened unto this boat that promised both eternity but could offer truth to only one.
| They met upon the bow where already the shore could not be seen. She asked of him from where he came and he explained of his and him and of how he held this transport to take him there at once. And he then asked of she her ilk and whether it was the same. After some reflection she replied that though she did not know the barge and could not be sure at once, that still it was the same. He seemed content with this, and he looked on her like kindred with a smile upon his face.
But she was not satisfied by his, and took the look to be not understood, and so she explained that it was not perhaps of name the same from which she had first come, but that it was the same nevertheless. At this, he furrowed his brow at her and looked on suspiciously, and asked her to reveal herself. |
 |
So she explained she came in such a way as he, that it was inside of her just as it was of him, and that she took this boat and risked these tumbled seas in the manner that he did, and so what was it of name to say that they were not the same.
The fellow though, was not satisfied at this. He shook his head with violence and quickly rose in his defense. 'No! No! Its not the same!' he said and cried at her the devil. Frightened she recoiled, but to her credit still tried again. Now though the tide had changed and he, having heard her just, only walked away in disgust, and would have no part of her after that.
These two travellers fell asleep upon the deck that night. She took her root at the stern and he took his at the bow. They both were wary of the other, her for his defense and him for her devil. But sleep eventually overtook them both.
And when the sun came up over the western crest, this old lubber rubbed his eyes and took his feet to the deck. She, however, did not take hers, and was of no place to see.
Thursday, January 06, 2005
| Guided Imagination
'I think I've been on the wrong course.' 'Oh yeah?' 'I think that all that stuff I've been doing was missing the point.' 'That doesn't sound good.' 'It could be better.' 'You don't seem very upset by it.' 'Yeah. I guess I'm not.' |
 |
'Uhhuh. But it doesn't bother me that much.'
'Really? Don't you feel like you've lost a bunch of time.'
'No. Not really. I don't look at it like that.'
'How so?'
'Because I think I've found the point.'
'Oh yeah?'
'Yeah. And so it seems to me I've gained time.'
'Gained time?'
'Yeah. Because if it's the point I think it is, then really, time has just begun.'
Tuesday, January 04, 2005
Love Actually
No. Shit actually.
Quite seriously, if you liked this movie, then you should go up to the corner of the page and click on the little escape icon out of here. Because there's no point reading any further. I don't mean it rudely. Its just that this blog will be a complete waste of your time. I'm doing you a favour. I might even post it as a disclaimer at the top.
Its a bad movie. It's a waste of time. It's just so wrong.
But apparently people like this schlock. A friend of mine was confronted today in an elevator by a pack of seven 'Love Actually' enthusiasts. They became violent when she mentioned that it didn't give her warm fuzzies and she didn't find it 'cute'. She narrowly escaped with her life. I don't usually get so up in arms about a movie, but when it becomes a rallying point for ignorant mobs, I think something has to be done.
I was quite surprised that there were seven 'Love Actually' ethusiasts in the world. I always overestimate humanity. I should really stop having such high expectations, because I am inevitably let down.
What is it that makes people like such obviously bad movies? Movies without a single redeeming quality. I don't get it. And there are others. Unfortunately there are so many others. 'Hollow Man', a pukefest of a movie that's only redeeming virtue is its title, which aptly described anyone who liked it. Dogma! It should have just been called 'Dog'. My god. It tried so hard, and did it so poorly.
And that's the crux of it I think. That's what makes a movie really bad. Any movie can just be bad. There's a lot half-assers out there half-assing it, so there's no shortage of half-ass art. But that special quality that makes a movie really bad is that it isn't half-assed. Somebody tried really hard, and just failed miserably at it. That sort of care is something special. Its unique. You can't reach the pinnacle of shit unless you really believe its worth reaching deep into the toilet.
The best way I can describe Love Actually is as an emotional wank. That's what it is. You fondle your emotions, trick them into thinking there's something real going on, and let them get all tingly until you spurt it all out and need to clean yourself up. The movie has no redeeming value, no insight, no character development, no plot - my god, this movie is over 2 hours long and it has no fucking plot. That deserves some kind of reward. 'Congratulations Sir, we didn't think it was possible to string that many words together without making a single coherent idea.' Even monkeys hit the right key eventually.
So yeah, that's enough. I've said enough and it really doesn't even deserve to be contemplated this much. Its not even worthy of hate. But a warning. If you agree, be careful what you say. One of the 'Love Actually' mob might overhear.
Monday, January 03, 2005
Pray
He is in the hospital tonight, unaware of the nine hours of surgery that he has just been through.
To think that on Christmas day I spoke with him for the first time in five years.
And now... a single wrong step made on a dark night atop of an icy spot in a climate where the ice has no right to be. And that's it. One minute you're there, and the next you're out of control, down a flight of stairs to the sting of salt water below.
From that moment you're unaware. Not of your mother, crying in the waiting room, unable to stand the torture of hour upon hour of not knowing, thinking it can't be good for this to take so long. Not of the doctors, rushing about you, trying to stem the wound, trying to hold in your life force. Not of your family, the pacing, the midnight phone calls, the flourishes of anger brought on by an inability to cope. Not even of... well what of that - not even of prayer?
I don't know. But I do know that I prayed my guts out last night and this morning I was told he was going to live. And maybe its delusion or wishful thinking or something I just want really bad to be so, but I believe that he was aware of it. Of all of it sent out to him. That we wouldn't let him go.
Saturday, January 01, 2005
The only thing i can think to write is the monologue that keeps me from writing at all.
Some nights I am full of energy to create and understand. I read and research and write unconsciously. Time isn't lost because those hours are timeless. It never occurs to me that time will end. And I never ask the question - Why do it at all?
On other nights that question burns like God in front of me. In terror of the answer, I cower and take flight. Why? Its just too much to face. And so it becomes a wall between me and everything I do. Why write? Why read? Why eat? Why move? Why?
To this I am defenseless. I've racked my brain since the time it first became, a time I don't even remember when, and I have no retort to it. All I can do is accept it, and try to stifle the effect.
So both of these beasts exist, both inhabit my soul, and I cannot deny that. They are there. But from that I can go no further. All that I am able to do is wonder without hope of an answer - which of them is truth, and which is mere delusion?
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