a new study indicates that containing your feelings after an argument can lead to an early death. to sum up: the nicer and more accommodating you are, the more you are tolerated in the short run, but the more you damage yourself in the long run. I will hazard that a number of factors have led to an increase in niceness, and thereby premature death, in our society, but the most damaging of those factors is the Political Correctness (PC) movement that started in the late nineteen eighties.
I cannot provide hard data to directly back this up, but it would be reasonable to assume that PC has led to increases in lying and dying in this country, as people resort to PC standards rather than expose their true feelings. I am convinced it has also led to more men being pussy-whipped and to men dying younger (for, if my hazy memory of the summary of the study is correct, men are more likely to swallow their true feelings during a fight, especially in the corporate world). recently, following the maxims of Brutal Honesty and other philosophies that trounce PC and champion Truth, I have experimented with freely telling the people around me what I really think, not what I think they think I think they think I should be thinking.
the result? after an initial shock, people tended to more directly address my concerns, they spoke to me as an actual, unique person, and they seemed to have more respect for what I had to say, even if, like most things that escape my lips, what I was saying was churlish balderdash.
niceness is a sickness. too much niceness, like too much sugar, can kill you. I hereby motion to designate one day out of the year, preferably in winter when everyone is cranky anyway, as Angry Day, Trouble Time, or Day of the Flagrant Asshole. the name has to be catchy and, especially, marketable, so that marketers can market the crap out of not being nice and convince a million people to pin a frowny-face on their lapels. just look at AIDS awareness day, or autism awareness day. the people making the stop-AIDS t-shirts and teddy bears with tiny stop-autism t-shirts on them are making big, big money. there are nationalized events, 5k's, telethons and sit-ins (well, no sit-ins, but you get the point). sickness is business, baby.
it is important that we study the negative effects of niceness, and encourage Americans to be less nice going forward. join me, John Paul Roggenkamp, in my quest to spread awareness of the dangers of Mandated Societal Niceness. together, we can repeal the negative effects of Political Correctness. together, we can transform America back into the honest, dreadful, hard-scrabble, speak-your-mind-freely place it once was.
do your part; make the effort to be not-nice to someone today. once you get started, it's hard to stop. it wasn't so long ago that people dueled to the death over words. hey, at the least we would have fewer idiots to have to listen to.
virtuously,
JP
p.s. I'm not a doctor, but you're just going to have to trust me.
americanifesto.com | updated Tuesday, Thursday, Sunday
31 December 2009
26 December 2009
late december
I trudge through the melting snow. birds scold and scatter, flying low to the ground. cardinals, chickadees, and sparrows. they do not trust me, although I fill the container that keeps them alive. they are right not to trust me, for I am man, and man kills. the dead willows are pretty where they lie, felled, by the stream. the blisters on my palms from working the dull ax have become scars.
the tractor won't start. i tried to buy a battery charger but the walmart was, strangely, closed. capitalism should not rest on pagan-inspired holidays. we have electric lights now and need not fear the sun disappearing. the miraculous life of Jesus matches exactly a previous story written by the ancient Egyptians. the hero in that story was called Osiris. his mother was a virgin. he died and rose from the dead three days later. he died to save others and pissed excellence just like old Hey Zeus. don't tell the fundies, though, for they might pull a jihad and stone you to death or curse your seed ad infinitum. beware: any type of fundamentalism, religious or otherwise, is dangerous to society. DO NOT TRUST.
some honey locusts up the stream need cutting. I will give them a taste of the ax when the snow melts and the ground firms up a bit. curse this warm weather. it should be cold continuously, not eight degrees one morning and twenty five the next. all you tens of thousands reading this had better not follow any of this advice. do not believe anything I say. these words are for madmen and for those who generally seek questions, not answers. go see a holy man for answers. do not cry though when you realize you have been duped. do not cry when all your money is gone and the holy man splashes puddlewater onto you as he is driving by in his new sportscar. that was your fault. for trusting him.
I hope I someday have the foresight to teach my kids that they will be betrayed and left in the lurch by those closest to them. complete and total self-reliance is the only sane way to approach life. friends and family are good. they will betray you. they will not come to your aid. they will abandon you and take all your joy as soon as it is convenient for them. they will die on you and leave you in the lurch. this is normal. this is to be expected. therefore, do not trust that anyone will do anything for you, ever.
**BUT**
you must always be there for them. you must never stop giving. never expect thanks, or gratitude. always be reliable. always think ahead and be ready for someone's request before they make it. this will impress them. this will lead to friends. but friends will leave you. or die on you. or make sex to your girlfriend. so just don't trust them. in fact, don't even trust yourself. remain suspicious of your own urges. doubt your own intentions. this is healthy. this slows you down, gives you time to think about what you truly want.
happy holly jolly. JP from Ödenburg, PA, out
the tractor won't start. i tried to buy a battery charger but the walmart was, strangely, closed. capitalism should not rest on pagan-inspired holidays. we have electric lights now and need not fear the sun disappearing. the miraculous life of Jesus matches exactly a previous story written by the ancient Egyptians. the hero in that story was called Osiris. his mother was a virgin. he died and rose from the dead three days later. he died to save others and pissed excellence just like old Hey Zeus. don't tell the fundies, though, for they might pull a jihad and stone you to death or curse your seed ad infinitum. beware: any type of fundamentalism, religious or otherwise, is dangerous to society. DO NOT TRUST.
some honey locusts up the stream need cutting. I will give them a taste of the ax when the snow melts and the ground firms up a bit. curse this warm weather. it should be cold continuously, not eight degrees one morning and twenty five the next. all you tens of thousands reading this had better not follow any of this advice. do not believe anything I say. these words are for madmen and for those who generally seek questions, not answers. go see a holy man for answers. do not cry though when you realize you have been duped. do not cry when all your money is gone and the holy man splashes puddlewater onto you as he is driving by in his new sportscar. that was your fault. for trusting him.
I hope I someday have the foresight to teach my kids that they will be betrayed and left in the lurch by those closest to them. complete and total self-reliance is the only sane way to approach life. friends and family are good. they will betray you. they will not come to your aid. they will abandon you and take all your joy as soon as it is convenient for them. they will die on you and leave you in the lurch. this is normal. this is to be expected. therefore, do not trust that anyone will do anything for you, ever.
**BUT**
you must always be there for them. you must never stop giving. never expect thanks, or gratitude. always be reliable. always think ahead and be ready for someone's request before they make it. this will impress them. this will lead to friends. but friends will leave you. or die on you. or make sex to your girlfriend. so just don't trust them. in fact, don't even trust yourself. remain suspicious of your own urges. doubt your own intentions. this is healthy. this slows you down, gives you time to think about what you truly want.
happy holly jolly. JP from Ödenburg, PA, out
24 December 2009
Governor-elect Blithe - a short story
The newspaper hits the hardwood flooring a moment before the coffee mug. The handsome ceramic shatters, spattering the front page headline with freshly ground Arabica.
"Governor found with mistress bound"
A grainy but unmistakable photo shows Governor-elect Ryan Blithe in a swank hotel room giving a handcuffed young woman a taste of the lash. The article states that campaign funds were used to rent the hotel room. Furthermore, in an interview, the young woman claims that "this was not the first time, not at all," and that "Ryan has always had unusual... tastes."
Governor-elect Blithe tears at the paper, reducing it to limp, stained shreds. Bits of paper get caught in his snow-white bathrobe, staining it. He slumps against the kitchen's marble countertop, his eyes wide as he peers through the wooden blinds for movement in the yard. Who knows where those bastards might be hinding, he thinks. He sinks to the floor and runs a large, soft hand through his greying hair. He slowly removes his finely wrought reading glasses.
"Honey, I'm going to jump in the shower. Could you leave me some coffee?" his wife calls from the top of the stairs. Panic grips him as he lurches to his feet. He shuffles down the hallway, past tastefully framed snapshots of his life, faded gap-toothed smiles, a sun-drenched sandy beach, his first law firm. A snow-white slipper lies abandoned on the kitchen floor, soaking up cold coffee.
The study is cold. The dark wood paneling seems to suck the heat from the air. An orderly stack of pamphlets and folded posters teeters on the desk. "For your files," a note stuck to the top reads. Also on the desk is a bible, opened to Corinthians. The book slams shut and falls to the floor. Re-opening, the pages settle on Leviticus. The stack of papers flies against the wall, fluttering to the floor to pile in chaos. Ryan Blithe glances at the topmost flyer. A full color picture of his face grins back above the headline,
"Vote Blithe - Vote Community - Vote Family"
Pipes stop humming and a door opens upstairs. "Are you all right down there, dear?" Ryan smacks his large, soft hand over his mouth to muffle a whine. "What was that, dear?" his wife asks. "Nothing, Julie, nothing," Ryan yells after a moment. He falls back into the large leather office chair. I'm finished, he thinks. The is the end. She won't forgive me again. Not after Charleston.
The election. Campaign funds. Hotel room. Vote Family. Handcuffs.
The rear screen door slams shut behind him. The combination lock on the shed, normally stubborn, opens on the first try. A stubbed toe does not register as pain, but as annoyance. The cylinder is oiled, its action smooth. All six chambers are loaded. He removes a package, a fancy beige jacket for his wife, from a shop stool and puts it on the workbench behind him.
The heavy gun barks, spattering the new beige jacket with freshly spilled lifeblood.
"Governor found with mistress bound"
A grainy but unmistakable photo shows Governor-elect Ryan Blithe in a swank hotel room giving a handcuffed young woman a taste of the lash. The article states that campaign funds were used to rent the hotel room. Furthermore, in an interview, the young woman claims that "this was not the first time, not at all," and that "Ryan has always had unusual... tastes."
Governor-elect Blithe tears at the paper, reducing it to limp, stained shreds. Bits of paper get caught in his snow-white bathrobe, staining it. He slumps against the kitchen's marble countertop, his eyes wide as he peers through the wooden blinds for movement in the yard. Who knows where those bastards might be hinding, he thinks. He sinks to the floor and runs a large, soft hand through his greying hair. He slowly removes his finely wrought reading glasses.
"Honey, I'm going to jump in the shower. Could you leave me some coffee?" his wife calls from the top of the stairs. Panic grips him as he lurches to his feet. He shuffles down the hallway, past tastefully framed snapshots of his life, faded gap-toothed smiles, a sun-drenched sandy beach, his first law firm. A snow-white slipper lies abandoned on the kitchen floor, soaking up cold coffee.
The study is cold. The dark wood paneling seems to suck the heat from the air. An orderly stack of pamphlets and folded posters teeters on the desk. "For your files," a note stuck to the top reads. Also on the desk is a bible, opened to Corinthians. The book slams shut and falls to the floor. Re-opening, the pages settle on Leviticus. The stack of papers flies against the wall, fluttering to the floor to pile in chaos. Ryan Blithe glances at the topmost flyer. A full color picture of his face grins back above the headline,
"Vote Blithe - Vote Community - Vote Family"
Pipes stop humming and a door opens upstairs. "Are you all right down there, dear?" Ryan smacks his large, soft hand over his mouth to muffle a whine. "What was that, dear?" his wife asks. "Nothing, Julie, nothing," Ryan yells after a moment. He falls back into the large leather office chair. I'm finished, he thinks. The is the end. She won't forgive me again. Not after Charleston.
The election. Campaign funds. Hotel room. Vote Family. Handcuffs.
The rear screen door slams shut behind him. The combination lock on the shed, normally stubborn, opens on the first try. A stubbed toe does not register as pain, but as annoyance. The cylinder is oiled, its action smooth. All six chambers are loaded. He removes a package, a fancy beige jacket for his wife, from a shop stool and puts it on the workbench behind him.
The heavy gun barks, spattering the new beige jacket with freshly spilled lifeblood.
15 December 2009
the folly of trying
I have noticed a recurring theme in movies especially but also in books with an American protagonist. The theme is as follows: a person has a dream and doesn't want to follow it or doesn't know what that dream is and but someone close to him convinces him to follow that dream at all cost regardless of the consequences or the validity of that dream whence the person follows his dream and everything comes up daisies. If only this scenario were more realistic. In 99.99999% of the cases in which someone actually tries to follow their dream, that person runs face first into the Reality Wall, realizes that society at large does not give a fuck about their dream, understands that they will not be able to eat or otherwise sustain themselves on their current path, and gives up. they wash out and go back home to shitsville and Nobody gives a fuck about the fact that they even tried because even if they did try they were not good enough or lucky enough or well connected enough to succeed.
I am currently trying something that will more than likely fail, unless there is some serious mojo in my future. I have failed at this many times in the past, mostly because i have not even tried to do it, and i mean really doing it while saying fuckall to the critics and to the world. I have failed before I even started because I am as scared of success as I am failure, consequence of an alcohol father in my youth and an escapist adolescence, which I am now trying Really Hard not to use as an excuse to let myself off the hook. a word to the wise: don't have kids if you're a druggie (and I'm talking ANY drug here, including and especially booze), and don't marry druggies and have kids. the repercussions are vast and never ending and you'll have a kid who Wants to do something revolutionary with his life but who is so afraid of his own Potential that he runs around in circles like a chicken with his head cut off trying to finish a short little novel. Then why am I still doing it? Because I am sick and tired of being a fucking failure, not in the eyes of others, but in the ever-present, all-seeing eye that sees everything I do and gives me no rest if I'm slacking - i.e. my undying inner virtue, my soul, the dozens of facets, the snippets of personality that collectively make me who I am.
The media rarely portraits the actual series of events in the lives of the majority of the American population (i.e. the people living in the boonies or in Flyover country or anywhere that is not a major metropolitan area): 1) you are born. 2) you go to school. 3) if you are lucky, you have smarts or are beautiful or someone recognizes a talent in you and fosters that talent [if none of these apply to you, you are Fucked - skip to step 6]. 4) you leave the boonies to pursue a career involving smarts, beauty or your talent in a major metropolitan area. 5) you spend your life doing what you are simultaneously good and and love to do 6) you die, or wash out and move back to the boonies, which are basically the same thing.
Remember Icarus, and keep on dreaming, kids.
X
I am currently trying something that will more than likely fail, unless there is some serious mojo in my future. I have failed at this many times in the past, mostly because i have not even tried to do it, and i mean really doing it while saying fuckall to the critics and to the world. I have failed before I even started because I am as scared of success as I am failure, consequence of an alcohol father in my youth and an escapist adolescence, which I am now trying Really Hard not to use as an excuse to let myself off the hook. a word to the wise: don't have kids if you're a druggie (and I'm talking ANY drug here, including and especially booze), and don't marry druggies and have kids. the repercussions are vast and never ending and you'll have a kid who Wants to do something revolutionary with his life but who is so afraid of his own Potential that he runs around in circles like a chicken with his head cut off trying to finish a short little novel. Then why am I still doing it? Because I am sick and tired of being a fucking failure, not in the eyes of others, but in the ever-present, all-seeing eye that sees everything I do and gives me no rest if I'm slacking - i.e. my undying inner virtue, my soul, the dozens of facets, the snippets of personality that collectively make me who I am.
The media rarely portraits the actual series of events in the lives of the majority of the American population (i.e. the people living in the boonies or in Flyover country or anywhere that is not a major metropolitan area): 1) you are born. 2) you go to school. 3) if you are lucky, you have smarts or are beautiful or someone recognizes a talent in you and fosters that talent [if none of these apply to you, you are Fucked - skip to step 6]. 4) you leave the boonies to pursue a career involving smarts, beauty or your talent in a major metropolitan area. 5) you spend your life doing what you are simultaneously good and and love to do 6) you die, or wash out and move back to the boonies, which are basically the same thing.
Remember Icarus, and keep on dreaming, kids.
X
13 December 2009
east coast drivers
someone once said about driving in Los Angeles: either you're the bitch, or you're the bitch's bitch. this statement sums up a lot of what Basin driving is all about - the inches-to-spare merging, multiple-lane changing, drive-it-like-you-stole-it, take what's yours and defend it at all cost mentality that makes driving in the city of Angels so much damn fun. the slightest hesitation is ruthlessly exploited. not only are you maintaining your own vehicle's velocity and vector, but you're watching the five people around you to make sure they don't get too close or decide they suddenly need to take over your lane to save themselves from a threat you can't even see. there is so much stimulation on the road that you don't have time to get bored, unless you're stuck in the nerve-grating monotony of motionless traffic. there are so many crazies and power-hungry wannabes, and your time is so important, that unless you actually get in an accident with someone, the last thing you want to do is chase someone down and get in his face about cutting you off or not letting you merge. in LA, you just might get shot. in LA, people know that it's just not worth it.
Pennsylvania, however, is a totally different animal. true to my training in LA, I merge when I feel like it, take what's mine, exert my right of way to the fullest, and forget about the transgressions of others almost before they happen. But I was recently tail-gated for miles coming out of Harrisburg by an irate grandmother who shook her fist at me and drove menacingly close to my bumper, all because I merged in front of her legally in order to jump the line onto the freeway. not a few days ago I was confronted by a young man in Adams County who was furious with the fact that I didn't give up my right of way in a roundabout. I saw him waving and motioning to me in the rearview, and, thinking he might have hit my bumper, I pulled over. he started complaining that he had been waiting to get into the traffic circle and that it had been his turn to drive, not mine. after I explained the rules of right of way to him, he said he wanted to fight me because I had cut him off and hadn't apologized for it. I explained to him that unless there was some sort of contact between our vehicles, I was going to leave, upon which he started calling me many nasty names, all the while shaking like a leaf. I pointed this out to him and he took it as a challenge. when I told him that his words meant nothing to me and that he could kindly go fuck himself, he responded, "no, I want you to fuck me. I'm not going to fuck myself, I want you to fuck me." I pointed out that I was not gay, at which point his face lit up and he sputtered, "but you look like a fag, you fucking homo. Let's fucking do this. I will fuck you up so bad."
I laughed at him and apologized for refusing him the chance to get fucked by me, upon which he said, "I would so love to break you right now, I would beat the shit out of you." I looked at him and wondered why he hadn't thrown the first punch already, and then it all became clear. He was waiting for ME to start the fight. I had already conquered him in the roundabout, I had no fear of him, I was not shaking in the slightest, I had been polite and rational. My thoughts went back to dozens of arguments I have witnessed that could have been Fights but were instead just Long Talks in which the two parties eventually kissed and made up. After hanging out with the Cali Grunts, I know a thing or two about fights, and if the Other Guy doesn't swing after the third or forth verbal exchange, then you either turn and walk away or hit him as hard as you can, without the slightest warning, in the face. I was analyzing the angles when, thankfully, the guy from the Uhaul place came out and asked us what was going on, to which I responded, "I'm really not sure. This guy wants to fight me about something." The Uhaul guy said we had to leave, so I jumped in my car and drove for the exit, only to find the young man blocking my way. I let the car idle and stared at him as one would stare at a minor inconvenience, like a homeless person taking his time crossing the street, or a three-legged dog stumbling blindly into the road, until he moved out of the way. He threw out his arms as if to say, "I'm right here, let's fucking go." I rolled down my window and said very calmly, "go get laid, dude."
So I made this guy my bitch in the roundabout and his method of dealing with it was to call me all sorts of names and NOT swing on me. to anyone from LA traveling in the country who might just read this (although i doubt if anyone at ALL reads this besides ME when i'm making corrections) do not change your driving habits, just know that people here will not know how to handle your behavior. also, never stop for any reason other that a) you think you hit someone or something, or b) there is a mechanical issue with your car. Basically, stay in LA at all cost. Sincerely, homesick for the terrible majesty of el Pueblo de Nuestra Seniora, JP
Pennsylvania, however, is a totally different animal. true to my training in LA, I merge when I feel like it, take what's mine, exert my right of way to the fullest, and forget about the transgressions of others almost before they happen. But I was recently tail-gated for miles coming out of Harrisburg by an irate grandmother who shook her fist at me and drove menacingly close to my bumper, all because I merged in front of her legally in order to jump the line onto the freeway. not a few days ago I was confronted by a young man in Adams County who was furious with the fact that I didn't give up my right of way in a roundabout. I saw him waving and motioning to me in the rearview, and, thinking he might have hit my bumper, I pulled over. he started complaining that he had been waiting to get into the traffic circle and that it had been his turn to drive, not mine. after I explained the rules of right of way to him, he said he wanted to fight me because I had cut him off and hadn't apologized for it. I explained to him that unless there was some sort of contact between our vehicles, I was going to leave, upon which he started calling me many nasty names, all the while shaking like a leaf. I pointed this out to him and he took it as a challenge. when I told him that his words meant nothing to me and that he could kindly go fuck himself, he responded, "no, I want you to fuck me. I'm not going to fuck myself, I want you to fuck me." I pointed out that I was not gay, at which point his face lit up and he sputtered, "but you look like a fag, you fucking homo. Let's fucking do this. I will fuck you up so bad."
I laughed at him and apologized for refusing him the chance to get fucked by me, upon which he said, "I would so love to break you right now, I would beat the shit out of you." I looked at him and wondered why he hadn't thrown the first punch already, and then it all became clear. He was waiting for ME to start the fight. I had already conquered him in the roundabout, I had no fear of him, I was not shaking in the slightest, I had been polite and rational. My thoughts went back to dozens of arguments I have witnessed that could have been Fights but were instead just Long Talks in which the two parties eventually kissed and made up. After hanging out with the Cali Grunts, I know a thing or two about fights, and if the Other Guy doesn't swing after the third or forth verbal exchange, then you either turn and walk away or hit him as hard as you can, without the slightest warning, in the face. I was analyzing the angles when, thankfully, the guy from the Uhaul place came out and asked us what was going on, to which I responded, "I'm really not sure. This guy wants to fight me about something." The Uhaul guy said we had to leave, so I jumped in my car and drove for the exit, only to find the young man blocking my way. I let the car idle and stared at him as one would stare at a minor inconvenience, like a homeless person taking his time crossing the street, or a three-legged dog stumbling blindly into the road, until he moved out of the way. He threw out his arms as if to say, "I'm right here, let's fucking go." I rolled down my window and said very calmly, "go get laid, dude."
So I made this guy my bitch in the roundabout and his method of dealing with it was to call me all sorts of names and NOT swing on me. to anyone from LA traveling in the country who might just read this (although i doubt if anyone at ALL reads this besides ME when i'm making corrections) do not change your driving habits, just know that people here will not know how to handle your behavior. also, never stop for any reason other that a) you think you hit someone or something, or b) there is a mechanical issue with your car. Basically, stay in LA at all cost. Sincerely, homesick for the terrible majesty of el Pueblo de Nuestra Seniora, JP
04 December 2009
yurt
i really want to burn all the shit i don't need and bulldoze the house and set up a yurt on a platform in the back near the bamboo and have small fires in a small woodstove that vent out the top of the yurt into the night sky and for electricity set up a waterwheel over the stream that will charge a battery that i can use during the nighttime. of course bathing would kind of be a problem in the wintertime but only if you're really concerned about hygienic cleanliness bc you'd have to boil the water over the small woodstove that vents out the top of the yurt and then probably bathe outside so as not to soil the floor of the yurt which would be probably some soft bear skin or other animal hide making it necessary for you to remove your shoes before entering the yurt. it's depressing going through the boxes and finding thousands of pictures from the nineties when everyone in the family was skinny and healthy and alive and making facial gestures and not cooling their cinder heels in tiny boxes six feet under the ground on long island.
fucking shit i'm really missing my dad right now if only because i want to show him that i'm not a failure and that i do love him and that at some point my life will be on track but probably not the track he would have wanted but a track of my own choosing and one that will bring happiness to me and those i choose to have in my life. it just sucks that he smoked all his life and it was cut short and i'm selfish for wanting him to be alive but i loved him as much as i hated him and being in this house with all these memories emerging from boxes is not easy but i really don't have any other choice although i do believe i will be heading back to LA sooner rather than later if for nothing else than to visit friends and people with whom i want to become better acquainted. but i've made the first step really and as Lao Tzu says the journey of a thousand miles starts from where your feet stand and now that i am again working on my book and figuring out how to turn into reality all the changes i have been working out in my head it's a very relieving and very terrifying experience.
and i can't help but think that i killed Dad by asking him for money because the next day he died and i keep thinking it was because i broke his heart by being a failure and not being able to support myself financially and by me asking for money it took his last shred of will to live away and when thados came knocking he just didn't have the stuffing left to tell him to go fuck himself for at least a little while longer. and it's very selfish of me to think these things for i hope they're not true but no one will ever know and such thoughts are counterproductive but they're helping me cry and that's good because i need it right now what with being all alone and quitting smoking and not having a car and not being in great shape and being unwilling to set in stone a plan for my future. i've started talking to myself again but that's better than not talking at all and sulking or something and i keep laughing out loud about stories that i've heard recently or remember suddenly especially Kevin's story about calling the guy Frodo and telling him to go find his ring after the guy got all tough and punched him in the sternum when he was really trying to punch him in the throat. and to top it all off that being the Second fight Kevin was in that night and he being with the married lady who thinks Kev has downssyndrome who ditched her child and family to meet up with him for thanksgiving.
fucking classic, stuff of legends, the stuff that the average man's bad dreams are made of but it only makes me laugh because Kev is such a nice guy and he's so irreverent and he would give you the shirt off his back unless you fuck with him in which case he will fucking break you. that's Cali Grunt mentality right there - kind 'till you cross us, can't ever boss us around, pound for pound can't out-floss us, mind ur biz not ours hoss, plus this rhyme just crashed into the ground. wish i'd have had that one spit in time for T's show at the Cabana tonight, oh well i'm feeling better for getting that terrible rap down and for talking about my feelings towards Dad and all that so i'm going to do some pushups (maxing 300 today) so bigup yourself, respect. X
fucking shit i'm really missing my dad right now if only because i want to show him that i'm not a failure and that i do love him and that at some point my life will be on track but probably not the track he would have wanted but a track of my own choosing and one that will bring happiness to me and those i choose to have in my life. it just sucks that he smoked all his life and it was cut short and i'm selfish for wanting him to be alive but i loved him as much as i hated him and being in this house with all these memories emerging from boxes is not easy but i really don't have any other choice although i do believe i will be heading back to LA sooner rather than later if for nothing else than to visit friends and people with whom i want to become better acquainted. but i've made the first step really and as Lao Tzu says the journey of a thousand miles starts from where your feet stand and now that i am again working on my book and figuring out how to turn into reality all the changes i have been working out in my head it's a very relieving and very terrifying experience.
and i can't help but think that i killed Dad by asking him for money because the next day he died and i keep thinking it was because i broke his heart by being a failure and not being able to support myself financially and by me asking for money it took his last shred of will to live away and when thados came knocking he just didn't have the stuffing left to tell him to go fuck himself for at least a little while longer. and it's very selfish of me to think these things for i hope they're not true but no one will ever know and such thoughts are counterproductive but they're helping me cry and that's good because i need it right now what with being all alone and quitting smoking and not having a car and not being in great shape and being unwilling to set in stone a plan for my future. i've started talking to myself again but that's better than not talking at all and sulking or something and i keep laughing out loud about stories that i've heard recently or remember suddenly especially Kevin's story about calling the guy Frodo and telling him to go find his ring after the guy got all tough and punched him in the sternum when he was really trying to punch him in the throat. and to top it all off that being the Second fight Kevin was in that night and he being with the married lady who thinks Kev has downssyndrome who ditched her child and family to meet up with him for thanksgiving.
fucking classic, stuff of legends, the stuff that the average man's bad dreams are made of but it only makes me laugh because Kev is such a nice guy and he's so irreverent and he would give you the shirt off his back unless you fuck with him in which case he will fucking break you. that's Cali Grunt mentality right there - kind 'till you cross us, can't ever boss us around, pound for pound can't out-floss us, mind ur biz not ours hoss, plus this rhyme just crashed into the ground. wish i'd have had that one spit in time for T's show at the Cabana tonight, oh well i'm feeling better for getting that terrible rap down and for talking about my feelings towards Dad and all that so i'm going to do some pushups (maxing 300 today) so bigup yourself, respect. X
02 December 2009
the drug dealing state of Pennsylvania
The state of Pennsylvania is one of the highest volume drug dealers in the world. the state moves so much booze and beer and wine and the sale of these items generates so much money that you have to wonder why they don't branch out and start selling other drugs too. a drug is any substance that causes addiction, habituation, or a marked change in consciousness, according to Messieurs Merriam and Webster (m-w.com), yet so many people who use alcohol do not consider the substance to be a drug. i always remind people of this and they will fight tooth and nail and get really mad because i call them drug users and make toasts to drugs and how wonderful drugs are and they leave the room and shun me for the rest of the night. this argument is going nowhere but i am fomenting plans to bring a motion before the PA state assembly to change the name "Wine and Spirits Shoppe" to what it should be called, something like "Ye Olde Drug Den" or "Drinkable Drug Shoppe" or "Legal, Addictive, Poisonous Drug Shoppe." Just so people know what they are getting into and so they will maybe just maybe think twice before demonizing users of other substances and look at themselves and go "oh yeah i'm doing drugs right now too *sip* maybe i should just shut the fuck up and soak my head a bit more" but of course no one ever does that because it's so much more fun to poke fun at and criticize others than it is to actually get one's own fat ass in motion and stop all the bad things that society lets you do (and some of the things it doesn't let you do, like sexually pleasure your spouse in whatever hole you see fit in the privacy of your own home).
blah blah a nation of big old hypocrites claiming to love freedom but not granting it, spouting liberty at the same time that legislatures restrict their citizens' ability to act as they see best fit to act. this country can do better. America can do better. every day that this hypocracy continues is a victory for the fatheads at the top, the people pulling the strings and doing as they please, immune from their own laws, laughing at the struggling teeming writhing masses who could in a week retake the country for their own. the hard part is setting up a government that keeps the power out of the hands of the few, like our federal system was set up initially, and prohibiting the alteration of this system by powerful individuals (such as has occurred with our current shift to a strong executive). dear god this kind of writing could get me in trouble. X
blah blah a nation of big old hypocrites claiming to love freedom but not granting it, spouting liberty at the same time that legislatures restrict their citizens' ability to act as they see best fit to act. this country can do better. America can do better. every day that this hypocracy continues is a victory for the fatheads at the top, the people pulling the strings and doing as they please, immune from their own laws, laughing at the struggling teeming writhing masses who could in a week retake the country for their own. the hard part is setting up a government that keeps the power out of the hands of the few, like our federal system was set up initially, and prohibiting the alteration of this system by powerful individuals (such as has occurred with our current shift to a strong executive). dear god this kind of writing could get me in trouble. X
01 December 2009
immersion
i immerse myself in the minutiae of this place so that i don't climb the walls and eat the stuffing out of the chairs. this is not a mechanism for me to flee from the pressures of the brain or the lurking darkness of worry, rather it is a coping mechanism for the somewhat involuntary nature of my current situation. those motherfucking bastards. expletive expletive so expletive stupid shit at some point this blog had to go clean and now that it's fueled solely by the methane coming off of the garbage heap out back (it's a big heap) this motherfucker is GREEN. jk the garbage heap is in front of the house. holy god none of this is true but i just convinced myself for a second there that is WAS true and i was designing a duct system to convey the methane gases into a turbine on the other side of the house that would create energy. i need a car if for no other reason than that i want to go to the goodwill and pick up materials for making my bamboo lighting fixtures but in Reality i probably have all the necessary shit here but it's probably buried somewhere under twenty
year's worth of accumulated junk.
seriously, for anyone reading, do yourself the favor and throw half your shit out (or sell it if you have nice shit), wait a week, comb through it again, and repeat the process until you can fit your possessions into bags that can be carried with relative ease on your person. i'd say about eighty five percent of the shit people have they never use let alone look at or admire so why the fuck do you keep it? with the old daddygrins now died and buried and me going through his accumulated tons of shit i'm finding just ridiculous shit like napkins from an ocean liner cruise in the late fifties and who the fuck cares about that shit? and then i go through my boxes of shit i sent back for LA and i'm finding pictures from the late nineties of girlfriends long since gone and married to others and why the fuck do i keep this shit other than perhaps vanity or a sense of longing for the past? the past cannot easily be accessed from the present, just as the future can be shaped from the here and now but ONLY if you're pure and honest about it and you don't really try but just kind of try and then only if you're not really paying attention and don't really care even though you have to care a great deal. it's very tricky and very difficult and it's good that it is because otherwise you'd have motherfuckers making themselves rich or giving themselves Ford broncos or something fucktarded like that.
it's so hard not to ramble because i'm here all by myself and the walls don't speak and the cats are all dead or stolen and dad's fucking dead too and the sibs have lives of their own and i am hiding out here like a bandit but all good things come to those who keep their eyes and ears open and i think i'm getting close to a breakthrough with the book but i can't push it because it's a very subtle thing but soon soon soon i will have it and then sky's the limit. ultima ratio regum. X
year's worth of accumulated junk.
seriously, for anyone reading, do yourself the favor and throw half your shit out (or sell it if you have nice shit), wait a week, comb through it again, and repeat the process until you can fit your possessions into bags that can be carried with relative ease on your person. i'd say about eighty five percent of the shit people have they never use let alone look at or admire so why the fuck do you keep it? with the old daddygrins now died and buried and me going through his accumulated tons of shit i'm finding just ridiculous shit like napkins from an ocean liner cruise in the late fifties and who the fuck cares about that shit? and then i go through my boxes of shit i sent back for LA and i'm finding pictures from the late nineties of girlfriends long since gone and married to others and why the fuck do i keep this shit other than perhaps vanity or a sense of longing for the past? the past cannot easily be accessed from the present, just as the future can be shaped from the here and now but ONLY if you're pure and honest about it and you don't really try but just kind of try and then only if you're not really paying attention and don't really care even though you have to care a great deal. it's very tricky and very difficult and it's good that it is because otherwise you'd have motherfuckers making themselves rich or giving themselves Ford broncos or something fucktarded like that.
it's so hard not to ramble because i'm here all by myself and the walls don't speak and the cats are all dead or stolen and dad's fucking dead too and the sibs have lives of their own and i am hiding out here like a bandit but all good things come to those who keep their eyes and ears open and i think i'm getting close to a breakthrough with the book but i can't push it because it's a very subtle thing but soon soon soon i will have it and then sky's the limit. ultima ratio regum. X
29 November 2009
tyrant capitalism
a tyrant is haunting the world. the tyrant capitalism! the mightiest nations in the world have fallen before it's promise of worldly riches and temporal power. the milling masses worship no longer at the altars of godly might, rather at the boutiques of consumptionism, offering up their dearly earned wages not for the promise of eternal salvation but on the fleeting satisfaction of the newest communications device or this season's clutch-bag. to protect their wealth and property, the richest few arm themselves and build high walls around their homes. to obtain this wealth some arm themselves and scale these walls and stop at nothing, not even killing, to take from these richest few what they think they need. a wise man once said, "locks only keep out friends." the only way to make your house reasonably safe from bandits is to board up all the windows and doors and never leave but sit by the front door with a shotgun in your hands, shooting first and asking questions later. this of course makes the house unlivable and is a total waste of time if for no other reason than that you can't be outside your house making money to buy more things.
the capitalist financial system operates like a drug addict, never satisfied with the status quo, always looking for the next spike in profit or pleasure, without regard for long term safety or the condition of those it exploits for cheap labor, without regard for the damage done to the land by strip-mining or pollution. the laws of the most powerful nations are written to protect the wealth of those closest to the wealth-teat, and even when they destroy, in their greed, the livelihoods of those beneath them, the powerful and well connected allow their companies to fail but not before bleeding them dry and thousands are plunged into ruin while the few wallow fat and bloated with more money than they could possibly need to survive day to day.
those who were not born with great wealth rarely if ever obtain it. those who must work everyday for their bread and butter are subjected to a constant barrage of images of the wealth and easy life their labors could provide for their grandchildren if only they and their children work themselves to death and save every penny and live wretched hopeless lives in squalor. rarely do they consider the hopelessness of their situation, for hope springs eternal in the minds of the proletariat, even when they earn barely enough to eat on a day's hard labor.
should hundreds of thousands of children go hungry in America when on the same day a fathead buys a single car that is worth more than their parents will make in five whole years? all men are not created equal, not in the eyes of capitalism. though they bear no titles, the richest one percent of America's millions are the new aristocracy, laughing while the rivers burn, purchasing entire islands while a single mother counts pennies to buy food for her prematurely born baby. ultima ratio regum. X
the capitalist financial system operates like a drug addict, never satisfied with the status quo, always looking for the next spike in profit or pleasure, without regard for long term safety or the condition of those it exploits for cheap labor, without regard for the damage done to the land by strip-mining or pollution. the laws of the most powerful nations are written to protect the wealth of those closest to the wealth-teat, and even when they destroy, in their greed, the livelihoods of those beneath them, the powerful and well connected allow their companies to fail but not before bleeding them dry and thousands are plunged into ruin while the few wallow fat and bloated with more money than they could possibly need to survive day to day.
those who were not born with great wealth rarely if ever obtain it. those who must work everyday for their bread and butter are subjected to a constant barrage of images of the wealth and easy life their labors could provide for their grandchildren if only they and their children work themselves to death and save every penny and live wretched hopeless lives in squalor. rarely do they consider the hopelessness of their situation, for hope springs eternal in the minds of the proletariat, even when they earn barely enough to eat on a day's hard labor.
should hundreds of thousands of children go hungry in America when on the same day a fathead buys a single car that is worth more than their parents will make in five whole years? all men are not created equal, not in the eyes of capitalism. though they bear no titles, the richest one percent of America's millions are the new aristocracy, laughing while the rivers burn, purchasing entire islands while a single mother counts pennies to buy food for her prematurely born baby. ultima ratio regum. X
i don't really play that game
it's not that i don't play that game, it's that everyone plays the game but few know they are playing it and some have actually convinced themselves they know the rules and are beating the system when in reality they are completely and hopelessly ensnared in the grinding tearing cogs. many times during the day i see people and watch them enjoying simple things or shopping for things they don't need or things they think they need and i see joy on their faces or satisfaction and i feel the need to vomit because they are so pathetic in their simple little ways but it's not really their fault because they grew up seeing everyone else around them acting in the same way and trying to find joy and satisfaction in life when in my reality i try to crush joy and stamp out satisfaction so that if it does happen to stumble across my path it will be a pleasant but fleeting surprise and i can bring my inner self back to emptiness and nothingness and yearningly hopelessly work on staying out of the rut and smiling like an amused infant or staring blindly like a child which has not yet smiled and this runon sentence is very long but no one reads this shit anyway so why the fuck do i worry about form or syntax but i have to because i'm a fucking writer and a professional transcriptionist and this is what i DO. X
13 November 2009
emptiness
and so here i sit now in westwood, one of my more frequent stops on my second goodbye tour through LA in the past year. i just can't seem to manage to stay here. some might call it a sign, but i don't believe in that bullshit. i love this city and i have given a lot to her and she has given a lot to me. just like with Leslie, i have given a lot to her and she has, perhaps in her own particular way, given a lot to me. that whole situation is pretty messed up, mostly because she has stopped speaking to me altogether for reasons i can only guess at.
i said some things i should not have said in the days before my father's funeral and mentioned that i was thinking of going to south east asia next year. i made a comment about her situation with her father, something i should not have because i will never be able to fully understand her situation with her father and because i don't have a father any longer so my frame of reference is all screwed up.
the way i see it, there were four things causing stress in her life. the first was her car, which had been damaged in a wreck. the second was her tooth, which she had chipped eating a pretzel. the third was her job, a stressful occupation in sales. the fourth was me. so i totally understand that she chose me as the easiest way to remove stress from her life. that doesn't make it any easier to deal with her total Funkstille, but what the hell am i supposed to do? i have left text and phone messages and attempted to contact her on social networking sites, all to no avail. and the reason i can't just forget is because i pledged my fealty and support to her before the powers of the universe, on my virtue and honor, and that is not a pledge that you just violate any time you want to because it's my fucking honor and virtue on the line but if she won't talk to me then what the hell am i supposed to do? i refuse to stalk her or wait outside of her office at closing time and try to waylay her or anything because that will only make things worse and make me feel and look like a scumbag.
but she really didn't give me much to go on the second time around, and all my advances were roundly refused and every time i tried to do anything it would just be awkward because she wants to be free and party and fuck young guys right now and i really don't mind that she wants to do that, but i'm afraid now that there will not be a third chance for us because of something i said or mentioned in the depths of my grief from my father's passing and because she's not talking to me. so i have decided to write a letter explaining my position but my track record with letters isn't great and it will likely only make things worse but i miss her so much especially in the mornings and this morning was really bad because i woke up dreaming that she was turning away from me and ignoring me totally which is what is happening in real life but now that it's happening in my dreams too it's not letting me come to peace and just move on with my life. i very much want things to work out so i think i'll just give it a year and let her have a JP-free life for a while and see if she's ready at a later date and then maybe we can have some semblance of a normal or healthy relationship without all the miscommunication and walking on eggshells all the time.
but i need to send her a letter reinforcing my pledge to her so she doesn't think i have abandoned her or anything, even if she rips it up and never reads it i still need to send it on the off chance that she does read it and knows that i'm still faithful to my pledge even though i said some stupid things and was stressing her out and even though she has stopped talking to me and is likely raging right now and out at the clubs and doing whatever the hell she pleases.
the situation is all kinds of messed up and i feel really bad for saying what i did and postponing my arrival in LA by two weeks so i could go out and get busted and put on probation but that's the way shit works sometimes and i can't apologize to her because she won't talk to me but maybe she'll read this and if you do Leslie please know i'm sorry and my pledge still stands (as you are the only one who can absolve me of it) and i miss you terribly and hope that maybe some time in the future we can make beautiful hoppa kids together and have a great life together. ulitima ratio regum. requiescat in pace GHWR. X
i said some things i should not have said in the days before my father's funeral and mentioned that i was thinking of going to south east asia next year. i made a comment about her situation with her father, something i should not have because i will never be able to fully understand her situation with her father and because i don't have a father any longer so my frame of reference is all screwed up.
the way i see it, there were four things causing stress in her life. the first was her car, which had been damaged in a wreck. the second was her tooth, which she had chipped eating a pretzel. the third was her job, a stressful occupation in sales. the fourth was me. so i totally understand that she chose me as the easiest way to remove stress from her life. that doesn't make it any easier to deal with her total Funkstille, but what the hell am i supposed to do? i have left text and phone messages and attempted to contact her on social networking sites, all to no avail. and the reason i can't just forget is because i pledged my fealty and support to her before the powers of the universe, on my virtue and honor, and that is not a pledge that you just violate any time you want to because it's my fucking honor and virtue on the line but if she won't talk to me then what the hell am i supposed to do? i refuse to stalk her or wait outside of her office at closing time and try to waylay her or anything because that will only make things worse and make me feel and look like a scumbag.
but she really didn't give me much to go on the second time around, and all my advances were roundly refused and every time i tried to do anything it would just be awkward because she wants to be free and party and fuck young guys right now and i really don't mind that she wants to do that, but i'm afraid now that there will not be a third chance for us because of something i said or mentioned in the depths of my grief from my father's passing and because she's not talking to me. so i have decided to write a letter explaining my position but my track record with letters isn't great and it will likely only make things worse but i miss her so much especially in the mornings and this morning was really bad because i woke up dreaming that she was turning away from me and ignoring me totally which is what is happening in real life but now that it's happening in my dreams too it's not letting me come to peace and just move on with my life. i very much want things to work out so i think i'll just give it a year and let her have a JP-free life for a while and see if she's ready at a later date and then maybe we can have some semblance of a normal or healthy relationship without all the miscommunication and walking on eggshells all the time.
but i need to send her a letter reinforcing my pledge to her so she doesn't think i have abandoned her or anything, even if she rips it up and never reads it i still need to send it on the off chance that she does read it and knows that i'm still faithful to my pledge even though i said some stupid things and was stressing her out and even though she has stopped talking to me and is likely raging right now and out at the clubs and doing whatever the hell she pleases.
the situation is all kinds of messed up and i feel really bad for saying what i did and postponing my arrival in LA by two weeks so i could go out and get busted and put on probation but that's the way shit works sometimes and i can't apologize to her because she won't talk to me but maybe she'll read this and if you do Leslie please know i'm sorry and my pledge still stands (as you are the only one who can absolve me of it) and i miss you terribly and hope that maybe some time in the future we can make beautiful hoppa kids together and have a great life together. ulitima ratio regum. requiescat in pace GHWR. X
27 August 2009
the wages of trust
How is it possible to miss someone so much as I miss Eliza? If I do not get this constant yearning under control I will mess things up in some way, call her too much or text her too much or just plain miss her too much and make my life a constant state of torment. I must be an adult about this. I must pull myself together, concentrate on the task at hand, and trust in the fates to weave their skeins as they see fit. But I yearn so for her presence, for the soft simple words from her which I so long to hear, the words that will seal our futures into one. I cannot explain why I love her so fiercely, why I bound myself to her the night that I swore on my virtue to the Universe that I would never abandon her side. It was the right thing to do then, and it still makes sense to me now. I pledged my eternal allegiance to her that night, before the Great Unknown, and I must come to terms with the fact that said pledge was given without demand of recompense, that said pledge was given purely, from the deepest regions of my soul, amidst the purest blossoming of love and the under the banner of ardent sincerity.
By giving that pledge, I abandoned any sort of control. By presenting that pledge to her, I placed my life, my soul, in her hands. I entrusted to her my virtue, and now, in this trying time, in this moment of weakness, so far removed from her presence, my trust in her must be absolute. The future is just that, a dim possibility, the faintest, tiniest chance that all the effort and resolve, all the tears and torment will lead to happiness. My feelings for her are unequaled in my life. I have never met anyone as perfect as she is to me, her simmering humanity, her sharp wit, her twinkling smile, her cunning, her kindness, her fragile strength. If I should find myself without her, if my efforts have been in vain, I will live out my life in tragic discontentment, knowing always that the Perfect Woman chose another man over me.
I will not lay blame. I will not point fingers. My virtue will be intact until the day I draw my last breath. I will never abandon your side, Eliza. Under neither duress nor coercion will I lay aside my proclaimed duty toward you. My heart is in your hands. It has been broken before. It has been crushed many times. A spark burns within it, however, the spark of loyalty, of kinship, of trust. I put that spark there the night I made my pledge, and only the Eternal Tao can stamp it out.
Sleep well, my darling. JP
By giving that pledge, I abandoned any sort of control. By presenting that pledge to her, I placed my life, my soul, in her hands. I entrusted to her my virtue, and now, in this trying time, in this moment of weakness, so far removed from her presence, my trust in her must be absolute. The future is just that, a dim possibility, the faintest, tiniest chance that all the effort and resolve, all the tears and torment will lead to happiness. My feelings for her are unequaled in my life. I have never met anyone as perfect as she is to me, her simmering humanity, her sharp wit, her twinkling smile, her cunning, her kindness, her fragile strength. If I should find myself without her, if my efforts have been in vain, I will live out my life in tragic discontentment, knowing always that the Perfect Woman chose another man over me.
I will not lay blame. I will not point fingers. My virtue will be intact until the day I draw my last breath. I will never abandon your side, Eliza. Under neither duress nor coercion will I lay aside my proclaimed duty toward you. My heart is in your hands. It has been broken before. It has been crushed many times. A spark burns within it, however, the spark of loyalty, of kinship, of trust. I put that spark there the night I made my pledge, and only the Eternal Tao can stamp it out.
Sleep well, my darling. JP
26 August 2009
milkweed
My mood today has been strangely stable. I have not had to rebuild after a devastating attack of self-torment. I can suddenly feel my future stabilizing. The lines of fate spreading from the present appear less torturous and knotted than those stretching into the past. I have not suffered a wave of sorrow regarding Eliza. Perhaps this is because I understand her reasons for calling things off. Perhaps I finally trust that she and I will one day be together, regardless of how much I want it to happen immediately. Perhaps I have finally stopped trying to control the future, and have come to terms with the fact that things will happen as they are supposed to happen.
Just a few weeks after my father passed away, I now inhabit his country estate, a verdant valley packed full of deer, frogs, hawks, and all manner of insects. A thousand different shades of green assault the eye each morning. Buzzing, clicking, and chirping insects fill the air with constant sound. The good dark earth parts easily under my spade. The stream, clear, swift, and full of tiny living things, gurgles twenty feet from the front porch. The light blue paint curls and chips off the pine shingles, and a small bush is growing out of the rain gutter over the rear patio.
I am separating the wheat from the chaff, the things of emotional or material value from the detritus accumulated over time. My father was a child of war rationing. His house is full of things that would be useful if the world went to shit tomorrow. The barn is full of tools and books for planting and maintaining crops. The .22 rifle, with scope, is lovingly oiled, a box of bullets nearby. His ashes sit in his bedroom, fifteen feet from where I now sit. I have placed his flag and Navy officer’s cap atop the small but heavy wooden box, something I think he would like. I miss him dearly, more than I ever thought I would. I still expect him to come through the front door, or come stumbling out of the bathroom in his robe, but those memories will fade with time.
When I moved here at the end of last year, a single milkweed had sprouted from under the concrete in front of the basement door. My father explained what the plant did, and made it clear that it was not to be disturbed. Today, after rebuilding my modest wattle-and-backfill dam across the stream, I stopped to examine the plant. What started as a small plant not four feet tall has grown into two stalks eight feet high, each sporting numerous healthy pods. A bit of movement caught my eye. On closer inspection, I discovered five Monarch butterfly caterpillars lazily drinking sap, their tails wiggling every so often. I take this as a final nod from my father. This is his last gift to me, the glorious transformation of these small wriggling things into stately masters of the air, right on my doorstep. I will monitor their progress. I will protect the plant, and when they depart, I will rejoice as their red and black wings bearing my father’s soul to rest in heaven.
Requiescat in pace, GHWR. X
Just a few weeks after my father passed away, I now inhabit his country estate, a verdant valley packed full of deer, frogs, hawks, and all manner of insects. A thousand different shades of green assault the eye each morning. Buzzing, clicking, and chirping insects fill the air with constant sound. The good dark earth parts easily under my spade. The stream, clear, swift, and full of tiny living things, gurgles twenty feet from the front porch. The light blue paint curls and chips off the pine shingles, and a small bush is growing out of the rain gutter over the rear patio.
I am separating the wheat from the chaff, the things of emotional or material value from the detritus accumulated over time. My father was a child of war rationing. His house is full of things that would be useful if the world went to shit tomorrow. The barn is full of tools and books for planting and maintaining crops. The .22 rifle, with scope, is lovingly oiled, a box of bullets nearby. His ashes sit in his bedroom, fifteen feet from where I now sit. I have placed his flag and Navy officer’s cap atop the small but heavy wooden box, something I think he would like. I miss him dearly, more than I ever thought I would. I still expect him to come through the front door, or come stumbling out of the bathroom in his robe, but those memories will fade with time.
When I moved here at the end of last year, a single milkweed had sprouted from under the concrete in front of the basement door. My father explained what the plant did, and made it clear that it was not to be disturbed. Today, after rebuilding my modest wattle-and-backfill dam across the stream, I stopped to examine the plant. What started as a small plant not four feet tall has grown into two stalks eight feet high, each sporting numerous healthy pods. A bit of movement caught my eye. On closer inspection, I discovered five Monarch butterfly caterpillars lazily drinking sap, their tails wiggling every so often. I take this as a final nod from my father. This is his last gift to me, the glorious transformation of these small wriggling things into stately masters of the air, right on my doorstep. I will monitor their progress. I will protect the plant, and when they depart, I will rejoice as their red and black wings bearing my father’s soul to rest in heaven.
Requiescat in pace, GHWR. X
10 August 2009
shifting fortunes
How does one deal with shifting fortunes, with the highs and lows of daily life? My first instinct is to blame myself, falling into patterns of thought and behavior that lead straight to heartbreak and woe, self-torment of the most vicious and destructive sort. How do you let someone go who you consider to be the ultimate person, that woman with whom you want to spend the rest of your life? How do you act when she tells you that she is not ready for you now, that she enjoys her life without you in it more than she would enjoy it with you in it? Is it courage that keeps me from calling her, that prevents me from reaching out, or is it the knowledge that any action on my part will lead to naught, to further damage to our potential common future?
I am exhausted from her constant refusals, from the weeks of hanging on a thread, hoping beyond hope that she will come around and say to me that she is ready for Us to begin. It was selfish of her to keep me guessing, but I am also to blame, as I refused to read the writing on the wall and accept her unwillingness to commit. She has always had every right to do what she pleases, and I was a fool to hope I could convince her of my worth, my ability to provide her with a bright and shining future, just by being around her, by sharing time with her. Losing my job did not help things, for my ability to invite her to dinner or pay for activities virtually disappeared. I have never been good with money, and I did not reach the point where I was saving enough each paycheck to allow me not to have money for any extended point in time.
For these two events to occur so closely together is a blow from which I am still reeling, a shock to my self-esteem, my self-image, my faith in myself as a functioning member of society. I need her in my life. Her presence gives me great joy. I love every ounce of her being. It has been extremely hard for me to visualize my life without her. Will I settle for a lesser woman? Will Eliza find another man, one who can fulfill her needs without placing any demand on her for the fulfillment of his own needs? Or is it something about me that kept her from committing? Is it my lack of a career, of a clear and chosen path which I will follow? Why has my writing been suffering so? Is it because I was so focused on winning her that everything else in my life took second fiddle? Perhaps. Constant refusal leads to constant reevaluation of self. I cannot imaging working on the book in any serious capacity, although I know it can be successful, that my desire to transform America as we know it still burns deep within my soul. The confidence to work on the book will come with time. As the pain of losing her creeps out of my heart of hearts, I will be able to pour more effort into a more practical future, the realization of my dream of life as a writer. For now, however, I will ease my way back into it. This writing is a start. I wish her the best. Her happiness is more important to me than many things in life, and if this path leads to the fulfillment of that happiness, my loss and my suffering is worth it. May the winds of fortune shine upon you, Eliza, and may you remember me fondly. Perhaps we will make a fresh go at it, a new start at what we both know could be a bright and happy future. I cannot hope for you to return to me, only that I can find the reasons to love myself enough to be ready if you ever decide that you are ready.
Tao chapter 48:
To win the world, one must renounce all.
If one still has private ends to serve,
One will never be able to win the world.
I am exhausted from her constant refusals, from the weeks of hanging on a thread, hoping beyond hope that she will come around and say to me that she is ready for Us to begin. It was selfish of her to keep me guessing, but I am also to blame, as I refused to read the writing on the wall and accept her unwillingness to commit. She has always had every right to do what she pleases, and I was a fool to hope I could convince her of my worth, my ability to provide her with a bright and shining future, just by being around her, by sharing time with her. Losing my job did not help things, for my ability to invite her to dinner or pay for activities virtually disappeared. I have never been good with money, and I did not reach the point where I was saving enough each paycheck to allow me not to have money for any extended point in time.
For these two events to occur so closely together is a blow from which I am still reeling, a shock to my self-esteem, my self-image, my faith in myself as a functioning member of society. I need her in my life. Her presence gives me great joy. I love every ounce of her being. It has been extremely hard for me to visualize my life without her. Will I settle for a lesser woman? Will Eliza find another man, one who can fulfill her needs without placing any demand on her for the fulfillment of his own needs? Or is it something about me that kept her from committing? Is it my lack of a career, of a clear and chosen path which I will follow? Why has my writing been suffering so? Is it because I was so focused on winning her that everything else in my life took second fiddle? Perhaps. Constant refusal leads to constant reevaluation of self. I cannot imaging working on the book in any serious capacity, although I know it can be successful, that my desire to transform America as we know it still burns deep within my soul. The confidence to work on the book will come with time. As the pain of losing her creeps out of my heart of hearts, I will be able to pour more effort into a more practical future, the realization of my dream of life as a writer. For now, however, I will ease my way back into it. This writing is a start. I wish her the best. Her happiness is more important to me than many things in life, and if this path leads to the fulfillment of that happiness, my loss and my suffering is worth it. May the winds of fortune shine upon you, Eliza, and may you remember me fondly. Perhaps we will make a fresh go at it, a new start at what we both know could be a bright and happy future. I cannot hope for you to return to me, only that I can find the reasons to love myself enough to be ready if you ever decide that you are ready.
Tao chapter 48:
To win the world, one must renounce all.
If one still has private ends to serve,
One will never be able to win the world.
04 June 2009
the storm abates
Now that the storm of torment is broken, I realize that, in my selfishness and undignified manner, I have neglected to consider that Eliza could well be having as a hard time dealing with this whole situation as I have. Lost in the forest of my soul wrenching butchery, I have blinded myself to the greater purpose of my life, and the beauty and wonder all around me. After all, it was she who suggested we should part ways, as her situation would not allow for intimacy. It was she who, in what I realize now to be a very brave and kind manner, told me all the things that are hardest to tell someone you hold dear.
Perhaps she yearns for my company as much as I have been yearning.
Perhaps her heart is as confused and sad and lonely as mine has been.
Perhaps she wonders, as I wonder, what the future holds in store.
At least I have passed the hardest test, the perhaps cruelest form of punishment known to man - shameful self-loathing. Bones heal, skin mends, but a weakened, tortured soul destroys itself in the end.
"Only simple and quiet words will ripen of themselves.
For a whirlwind does not last a whole morning,
Nor does a sudden shower last a whole day.
Who is their author? Heaven-and-Earth!
Even Heaven-and-Earth cannot make such violent things last long;
How much truer is it of the rash endeavours of men?"
Lao Tzu, Tao Te Ching, Chapter 23
Perhaps she yearns for my company as much as I have been yearning.
Perhaps her heart is as confused and sad and lonely as mine has been.
Perhaps she wonders, as I wonder, what the future holds in store.
At least I have passed the hardest test, the perhaps cruelest form of punishment known to man - shameful self-loathing. Bones heal, skin mends, but a weakened, tortured soul destroys itself in the end.
"Only simple and quiet words will ripen of themselves.
For a whirlwind does not last a whole morning,
Nor does a sudden shower last a whole day.
Who is their author? Heaven-and-Earth!
Even Heaven-and-Earth cannot make such violent things last long;
How much truer is it of the rash endeavours of men?"
Lao Tzu, Tao Te Ching, Chapter 23
03 June 2009
kalaalit nuunat
there lives in the far north, in the wild expanses of that vast island known as green, in a cave of shining crystals, bedded on a great white bear rug, encased in an eternal shell of clear beauty, a quiet but beautiful young beast, whose tender hands tell tales of past and future, never once hinting at the present, but calmly regarding the world through her steel blue eyes with the languid pleasure of one who knows that the precious essence of man lies within.
hope springs eternal
X
hope springs eternal
X
15 February 2009
on dolphins and famous people
Dolphins are similar to famous people in a few ways. First, as air breathing mammals, they both bear live offspring. Second, they both live in isolated, highly structured social groups. Third, their personal space should not be violated, but if they seek you out, mingle.
Certain laws in
Breaking bread is a memorable occasion that deepens the bonds connecting individuals. Carrying a sack of dead herring while swimming in coastal waters is impractical and potentially dangerous. Dolphins have been known to attack and kill sharks, but why risk it? You wouldn't drag a deer carcass into bear territory in hopes of attracting the bald eagle, now would you? Do not serve herring to famous people, unless it has been preserved in a nice mustard sauce. Lighter, more palatable fare is preferred, but stick to foods you can quickly prepare. Have an assortment of alcoholic and non-alcoholic beverages on hand, with enough cups and ice to go around. Nothing keeps people around like tasty snacks and fine drink. If the food is as good as the company, you are on the right track.
The coveted party will often appear without warning, drink his fill of the foolishness, and promptly leave. Cherish such short encounters as you would a child's first laugh or a perfect sunset: covetousness leads invariably to trouble. Remember: relationships cannot be rushed; they are built over time. Invite the famous person to your next gathering, and offer to keep them on the up and up – you just might get their contact information.
31 January 2009
Fists of Jagged Concrete
Let us start at the beginning. It is a very good place to start. I however do not know the beginning. I only know what the young man told me. When you are forced to share a cell, it is hard not to tell all. Mostly it just happens. You talk to forget the pain, the hunger. Something clicks and you have to talk; you might be dead tomorrow.
I slowly came to hate him in that cell; he hated me from the get-go. Something about my face, he said, being just plain boring. I always look now, for the boring, fearing I too will one day see it. I hated him because he never accepted his lot as cast. Ever. He never just did things the easy way, the way I had done my whole life. I slowly came to love him in that cell; he loved me from the get-go. Something about my soul, he said, shining bright and pure but always secretly yearning for the Big Sleep. I loved him because he refused to forfeit his integrity but, in the end, always managed to do just that.
He was a mess; so am I. We talked about the way things had been. The girls and the booze and the stagnating wonder of America in a dangerous new century. The days were theirs; the nights belonged to us. In slivers of moonlight I taught him chess on chips of concrete marked in our own blood. It was all we had, really: concrete and blood and the dry Southland heat.
We had only been trying to help, to clean up and rebuild after the San Andreas Fault had finally shifted, and churned the Los Angeles Basin into a froth of concrete and twisted steel. The aftershocks had been fierce, relentless. Our Sons of the American Revolution chapter had called up a ‘Phoenix Brigade,’ thirty fearless men eager to help their most desperate fellow countrymen, regardless of color, craft or creed.
We were ambushed in the smoldering rubble somewhere south of James M. Wood. Scrambling they came, the mad rush of a fearful starving mass. The very earth seemed to spit them forth, machetes flashing in the sunrise.
Why the two of us were spared is unclear. We were tortured, but what could we realistically have told them? That the Valley was still burning? Simply look to the hills, to the north, for that still-expanding wall of smoke. That FEMA was now hopelessly overwhelmed? That agency hadn’t been right since Katrina. With wildfires and extreme weather ravaging the Union, their resources had been already stretched far too thin. Maybe our captors enjoyed the torture; perhaps it becomes easy, if you push a man far enough. Maybe, they did it because someone told them to do it; maybe I will never know.
I would fix his wounds as well as I could. One day he found a needle. He learned to fix me up too, but my stitching always healed better. We scratched the walls to mark the days. They stopped feeding us. We didn’t really miss the burnt tortillas, but food is food, plain and simple. Desperate, we ate cockroaches and drank our own blood. We sucked fresh air through stress fractures in the reinforced concrete walls. Water seeped up sometimes from a broken pipe, to pool in the corner.
Like a warrior couple of antiquity we nursed, scolded, wept. We had bared all and shared all: our bond was complete. We were as close as two men can become and not want to fuck each other. Weak from hunger, we knew the end was nigh. “Jump them with fists of jagged concrete,” we whispered to each other in the dark. “Kill or be killed; at least go out swinging.” Secretly we each prayed to die defending the other. Our hearts were noble and pure and sang as one.
“Tomorrow... tomorrow.”
The next morning, twenty days after the ambush, the young man was gone. The steel door to our cell stood ajar. Drag marks and splattered blood led outside. Sparrows erupted into blinding early light, scolding me in their fright. Shifting mounds of bricks. Rubble and smoke. To the east, the Library Tower rose tall and straight amongst its crooked neighbors. I cursed myself for not having awoken in time. Wailing and tearing at my hair, I fell to my knees, cutting them among the jagged red brick. Tears rained down to mingle in the dust with the fresh blood. Gasping, my heart broke. I grabbed a brick and slammed it into my head over and over.
When I awoke the sun stood at azimuth. Blind hope flooded my being. I stumbled back inside. “He’s just hiding,” I repeated to myself, “he’s still here.” I searched for hours in the dusty heat. The needle was gone; he was gone. The crude chess pieces scraped and rattled in a pocket of my tattered fatigues; I dug a small hole and buried all but one.
As the last handful of soil drained through my fingers, I vowed to all things right and true to keep his memory – his stories – alive. Fresh tears welled. The shard of concrete marked with my blood, his blood, our blood, pulsed in my fist. I searched the heavens for some sort of sign: spotlights stabbed suddenly skyward into the failing light, caressing the Griffith Park Observatory in slow circuits.
“If only I can make it there, I will live,” I thought sadly to myself.
My name is Colonel Reginald Steele. I dedicate this to you, Luce Baine Jutland. Forgive an old man if he misses a detail or two, here and there.
If you still live, know I love you.
If you are dead, may you rest in peace.
I slowly came to hate him in that cell; he hated me from the get-go. Something about my face, he said, being just plain boring. I always look now, for the boring, fearing I too will one day see it. I hated him because he never accepted his lot as cast. Ever. He never just did things the easy way, the way I had done my whole life. I slowly came to love him in that cell; he loved me from the get-go. Something about my soul, he said, shining bright and pure but always secretly yearning for the Big Sleep. I loved him because he refused to forfeit his integrity but, in the end, always managed to do just that.
He was a mess; so am I. We talked about the way things had been. The girls and the booze and the stagnating wonder of America in a dangerous new century. The days were theirs; the nights belonged to us. In slivers of moonlight I taught him chess on chips of concrete marked in our own blood. It was all we had, really: concrete and blood and the dry Southland heat.
We had only been trying to help, to clean up and rebuild after the San Andreas Fault had finally shifted, and churned the Los Angeles Basin into a froth of concrete and twisted steel. The aftershocks had been fierce, relentless. Our Sons of the American Revolution chapter had called up a ‘Phoenix Brigade,’ thirty fearless men eager to help their most desperate fellow countrymen, regardless of color, craft or creed.
We were ambushed in the smoldering rubble somewhere south of James M. Wood. Scrambling they came, the mad rush of a fearful starving mass. The very earth seemed to spit them forth, machetes flashing in the sunrise.
Why the two of us were spared is unclear. We were tortured, but what could we realistically have told them? That the Valley was still burning? Simply look to the hills, to the north, for that still-expanding wall of smoke. That FEMA was now hopelessly overwhelmed? That agency hadn’t been right since Katrina. With wildfires and extreme weather ravaging the Union, their resources had been already stretched far too thin. Maybe our captors enjoyed the torture; perhaps it becomes easy, if you push a man far enough. Maybe, they did it because someone told them to do it; maybe I will never know.
I would fix his wounds as well as I could. One day he found a needle. He learned to fix me up too, but my stitching always healed better. We scratched the walls to mark the days. They stopped feeding us. We didn’t really miss the burnt tortillas, but food is food, plain and simple. Desperate, we ate cockroaches and drank our own blood. We sucked fresh air through stress fractures in the reinforced concrete walls. Water seeped up sometimes from a broken pipe, to pool in the corner.
Like a warrior couple of antiquity we nursed, scolded, wept. We had bared all and shared all: our bond was complete. We were as close as two men can become and not want to fuck each other. Weak from hunger, we knew the end was nigh. “Jump them with fists of jagged concrete,” we whispered to each other in the dark. “Kill or be killed; at least go out swinging.” Secretly we each prayed to die defending the other. Our hearts were noble and pure and sang as one.
“Tomorrow... tomorrow.”
The next morning, twenty days after the ambush, the young man was gone. The steel door to our cell stood ajar. Drag marks and splattered blood led outside. Sparrows erupted into blinding early light, scolding me in their fright. Shifting mounds of bricks. Rubble and smoke. To the east, the Library Tower rose tall and straight amongst its crooked neighbors. I cursed myself for not having awoken in time. Wailing and tearing at my hair, I fell to my knees, cutting them among the jagged red brick. Tears rained down to mingle in the dust with the fresh blood. Gasping, my heart broke. I grabbed a brick and slammed it into my head over and over.
When I awoke the sun stood at azimuth. Blind hope flooded my being. I stumbled back inside. “He’s just hiding,” I repeated to myself, “he’s still here.” I searched for hours in the dusty heat. The needle was gone; he was gone. The crude chess pieces scraped and rattled in a pocket of my tattered fatigues; I dug a small hole and buried all but one.
As the last handful of soil drained through my fingers, I vowed to all things right and true to keep his memory – his stories – alive. Fresh tears welled. The shard of concrete marked with my blood, his blood, our blood, pulsed in my fist. I searched the heavens for some sort of sign: spotlights stabbed suddenly skyward into the failing light, caressing the Griffith Park Observatory in slow circuits.
“If only I can make it there, I will live,” I thought sadly to myself.
My name is Colonel Reginald Steele. I dedicate this to you, Luce Baine Jutland. Forgive an old man if he misses a detail or two, here and there.
If you still live, know I love you.
If you are dead, may you rest in peace.
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