Sunday Morning Thoughts 7.31.11

So comes the final week. So comes the impending progression as time. There’s no such thing as progress, but who am I to tell you what god to believe? Who am I to be daring? Who am I to be anything at all? Who am I to ask anything?

I am an unbelievably small collection of atoms, that make up this unbelievably small collection of cells, sitting upon this tremendously small collection of rock, spinning around in this rather small collection of stars all encompassed inside of everything, which is all part of something far grander than anything that anyone I’ve ever known to exist has ever been capable of even composing a fraction of the idea that makes up existence.

I’ve been here, on Earth, long enough for it to go around good ol’ Sol twenty times. I have never left this hunk of dried magma called North America. I’ve only left the ground for more than a few seconds a few times. I am small. Everything I have ever known and loved is small. The majority of anything that exists will never know that I did. I don’t know about them either. Isn’t that sad?

Or is it beautiful? There is more out there that is new and exciting than there is the boring old stuff I know by numbers that I could even begin to guess. I would have become an astronaut, if I was better at math. Either way, my hopes would be under constant grouching pressure from today’s world. We’ll most likely blow ourselves up before we ever get close to understanding any of it. This species seems to like destruction and chaos and hatred more than anything else. We kill off most of the beautiful people, or just ignore them. For my entire life I have lived everyday under the threat of some sort of destruction. I was born at the end of the Cold War and have spent half of my life thus far fearing terror attacks on the empire.

I could be drafted if there is more war. People always think there won’t be, but the always can be. The last one just happened, neither reason nor any need for alarm. Just go back home and turn on your television sets. Listen up, very closely now because if you aren’t watching all of the time, you will never know. You will never understand, you will wilt and never grown. Since you’re here, would you like to buy this? I think you need it. No, I’m pretty sure you do, don’t be an idiot. Just buy the fucking thing and throw it out when there’s a new one.

For fuck’s sake, how hard is it to grasp? You live to buy things. You work to live, because you live to buy things. Without things you are nothing. Things are all that makes up your life, nothing more. Life isn’t about sunsets and good books and good music. It’s not about self-fulfillment and enlightenment. Life is not about growth and expansion. And it is most certainly, not about love.

I’m dying for interaction with the opposite sex. The only part of my teenage mind that still works, but then again it doesn’t have all too much to do with the mind. I want warmth, I guess. Sure sex would be swell, but there’s other things. Just holding someone is nice and I can probably do that for longer.


Get it?

Ok. Here’s the promise. Next time I get laid, I will go to an open mic within two days. Three, if two just isn’t possible. I may be busy, but I would need to do it at the first possible moment…

This is another stupid promise to myself. Who in their right mind is going to fuck me?


Sunday Morning Thoughts 7.24.11 Special Edition… I guess

It is now a few hours in. I sit here, at my desk, in the room that I have lived in for 18 years straight. I’m drunkish. I’m tiredish. I’m listening to the Beatles to feel all nostalgic. Although this music was out a good few decades before I was even conceived, it holds value in my own life. My eyes were blue when I was born. My hair was also blond. This chair sucks.

Wait. This isn’t right yet. I don’t know why. This is my last day as a teenager. It’s on my mind. I don’t like it. I guess that I’m a lot more afraid of growing up than I thought I was. Can you blame me though? Let’s be honest here, despite all of my complaining, I have lived a pretty nice life. Especially my teen years. Maybe that’s just because I’m still 19 and this and that and that. It is only a number.

Still, these numbers have been kind to me. My life is perfect. It is perfectly how I truly want it. I’ve always imagined since as long as my memory goes, that my life is a story. I’ve always wondered if this part or that part would look good in a movie with this or that song playing as the background track. I’ve always dreamed of putting on this vast show for all to see and love and feel good about and be inspired and all of those nice things that people can sometimes be capable of feeling. Freud could see it this way, and a psychiatrist today would prescribe me some of that good shit that just numbs you down to nothing more than a vegetable that response to commands. Fuck that. I’ve got until midnight tonight to get all of the teenage angst I’ve got left to summon to wield with how I choose.

So here goes. When I was thirteen, I was religious. I had never kissed a girl in my entire life. The Beatles were however, my favorite band. I had never heard of Iona College. I had no idea where Bay Ridge was. I used to wear this Grateful Dead hat every single day. I wore my Rolling Stones t-shirt every other day. I wore my Let It Be shirt all of the other days. I was quite. I was awkward. I was thirteen.

Coming in the top five for the All Time Greatest Memories of One Brian Edward Sears Jr. would be my first time kissing a girl outside of my rival high school. It was April and I was 15. Yes, my first kiss was at 15. But that’s not the point. Her name was Monica, that’s the point. She was something else man. I tried to learn this song by Hellogoodbye for so long because I knew that she liked it. She was a singer. She was an actress. In fact, it was outside of Arlington auditorium after I saw her in Les Mis that it all happened. She was still in costume. The sun was setting. I felt like John Cusack, even I didn’t know who he was then. My sister yelled at me the whole ride home after she picked me up. I didn’t give a fuck. Somebody else liked me man… that was all I needed.

I haven’t seen her in years. She hated me for awhile, but I assume she hardly remembers me. I smoked pot when I was seventeen. I lost my virginity at 18. I met a sweet girl in between those two that I really should have tried for sooner. I’ve, in the words of Mike Ritz, got it in with, pinned, radurgadeeged, or bodabeeped 1/6th of a dozen girls since I lost my virginity. I guess that’s just a fun fact, in case you were wondering.

I did shrooms when I was 19. That was pretty cool. I started smoking cigarettes when I was 18. I guess that was kind of stupid. I’m going to buy a pack of Camels tomorrow, just because that’s what I started on. I did whiskey shots and bought Newports yesterday. I got less than 24 hours man.

So now what? I’ve babbled because I couldn’t think of anything that was worth saying and seven hundred and seventeen words later, I’ve got nothing. I guess I’m scared. I have two years left of college. My dad gave me the application to apply to take the test for the New York City Fire Department exam today. I’ll be taking the Yonkers test too. My mom was asking me about internships this morning. I’ve been doing 8 hours at WacArnold’s for the last like five fucking days. My back hurts. I wish more than anything that this one girl would talk to me like we used to. I have no money. This song is killing any type of good writing. I should change it.

There we go. That is much better.

This is all just a stage. We are in the amber of the moment. Part of me feels like I should shed the mindset of the last few years. Just let go of the aspirations of love and success that a kid dreams up, and just do the adult thing and get realistic. But I saw on the Science channel that our reality is merely an act of observation and that we create out reality.

And in the spirit of creating things, I shall also nurture. When I was twelve I didn’t say fuck all that shit I learned from when I was in diapers. I was like “Yeah, fuck yeah man. I’m a teenager, fuck you. I can curse and I’ll be able to drive soon and I could almost buy cigarettes if I wanted to. Fuck you.”

Fuck you man. I shall not grow up; I will only disguise my childish motives in this growing body. The mind will grow too, but in a way better way. I don’t think it will get hairy or anything like that. I’ve spent my entire life thinking about things, so I can only guess that I will keep that routine up. Why break the habit? I still think about all of the things I always have and can only just pick up new things. I still think about Monica. I still think about you, the sweet girl from that place I like oh so much. If you do actually read this, which I hope you do, I just want you to know that I just have warm memories that I thank you for. I won’t try to do anything; I just want to thank you for keeping my soul alive. I don’t care if you didn’t mean or want to, because you did and I’m grateful. You can take it as a passing compliment if you like.

I’m going to have a cigarette. I’ll be back to wrap this up.

I was thinking about reading this over for mistakes, but that would be the grown up thing to do and I am not going to do that. I won’t read this until Monday. If there are typos and what not, I don’t care. Even after I read it I won’t edit it. I won’t even edit it if it’s ever published.

I will say goodnight because it is dark now as I’m writing this. I will say good morning or good day for whatever other time this may be read. I’ll see you on the other side, my friends.

Plants for Hire

I wonder how often I’m lied to without ever knowing it. I wonder if people even know that they just lie to each other. It seems as though we feel this necessity in creating something that’s different from the reality. How often is someone lied to for their own good, or because the truth is more that the liar or the chump being lied to can handle? The government lies to us, the news lies to us, our preachers lie to us, our teachers, our friends, our families, your boyfriend, your girlfriend… all of them are liars. Maybe there reasons are their own and to whatever diluted sense of justice they have, believe that it is all for the best.

You are dust. I am dust. And someday after that, all of that dust will wither away into even less. It will be nothing. I will be nothing. You will be nothing. If you want to be in love, the person you love will be nothing someday. All of your friends will be gone. The one who got away will never be caught. You can’t catch nothingness.

Why so somber so early? Well, I got up around 11 a.m. which is kind of lame in itself and after reading for a bit, I felt compelled to write. I don’t know why, but I never do. Maybe it was to combat the feeling, or lack thereof, of value and worth. Maybe it was to clear my mind of the overwhelming sexual tension the is built up in my mind just from being a man who isn’t getting any. Maybe it’s the whole home thing, although that excuse is also getting rather lame.

I guess I’ll get a haircut today. I miss my car. I could just drive of somewhere with my car, but it’s less than easy to do with someone else’s. I would like to run away. My mind never lets go of stress, so I feel stressed out most of the time. I don’t know if I actually have more stress than most, but I know that I hold on to it for longer. Maybe I should try a sober thing? Maybe I should take care of my body and trust my mind will follow.

I thought about deleting my Facebook today. It’s a good thought, but I assume I’m not strong enough. Which is sad. But I’ll be sad, if only for a bit longer. It would just be better to not use it. Or at the very least not waste my entire life looking at the same pictures of people and shit. Brian, if the girl didn’t like you in high school, you had best just toss the thought. If she didn’t like you in college either, you had best move on while there is still college left. Blah. Blah Blah Blah.

I’ll read more today. I’ll get my haircut. I’ll try not to spend more money than that. I’ll try and not resort to and mind altering substances. I’ll just try and meditate, which has always worked.

You can guess at whether that is sarcasm for yourself.

Sunday Morning Thoughts 7.17.11

I actually read this morning. Before I even got out of bed. My eyes were hardly open, but I read a few poems by Lord Byron. I haven’t had a cigarette yet, but I’m thinking that may be soon to change. Speaking of change… well, I suppose now hardly seems the time and I hardly seem the person to be discussing such things. Especially since change is nothing but an illusion. This that I claim to be creating already was and always has been. It exists throughout the passage of the other illusion known as time. It passes so fast and yet can last for a lifetime. But a lifetime itself is really rather a short and almost futile thing. Your life will only have meaning to other people with short little lifespan, if that. Some people will hate you and despise you for no particular reason. Some people may have a reason. I’m sure there is many a folk who dislike yours truly for good and valid reasons.

But I digress… or do I? I’d like to get the next Hitchhiker’s book… or new Vonnegut. I’d like to become famous someday. I’d like to be in love someday. I’d like to die with a smile on my face and even the faintest sense of satisfaction with what I have done. But I suppose that will be predetermined, since I am just tossed around as a victim of fate. So it would seem that it were fate for me to walk away from this now, although my rhythm has been so nice. I know not when I’ll return, but I know it will be exactly when I was supposed to.

Ok so about fifteen minutes has passes since I sat here last and wrote what came to mind? I had a few shots of whiskey, and yes it is before noon, but only for four more minutes. I should shower soon. I should get on with it already. I should stop fighting the inevitable. I must accept what will fade away. I don’t want it but who the hell gives a shit what I want? Who has ever given me what I want? Or is it that my wants are unquenchable? I’d like to think that my desires will be met, but that would be stupid. I like to be stupid sometimes. I like to be smart other times. It’s rather mixed, as you can obviously tell by how I stated that sometimes I like one thing and at others I like the opposite. It’s silly, but I wish I grew up somewhere else, even though I don’t know if the same person would be before you, embodied in all of these nicely typed words. Maybe there wouldn’t be any type words, or they’d be grammatically incorrect or something. Maybe I’d just be a nice little part of the machinery, never complaining or causing any kind of fuss. Who knows? I’ll do one more shot… then take a shower combined with a cigarette and then return to you. Please be there when I come back, for I don’t know what I’d be without you.

So I’m back, all showered and nicotined up. But the riddle remains, why do I sit here? Why do I type away this silly nonsense every Sunday morning? Is it in the hope that you’ll read an fall in love with me? Or is it so when I’m old and have no one and nothing left, I can look back upon the words I wrote when I was young and oh so full of life? I know not, but trust that life will reveal to me why. And if it doesn’t, I can make up a reason, if there even need be a reason. I suppose there isn’t any need at all, but is there need for any of this? Why do I write and try and create some art that will define the achy soul? Attention, I assume. I just don’t want to be forgotten. I don’t want to drift off into the nothingness. I want to rise to a level of acceptance that I will look back and say “hey, you know what? When I was just a boy, my mind she was so plagued with question and longing that I had to strive for something to fill all that gaps that I made for myself.”

Because the gaps are all self made. I make them out of boredom. It must be boredom because I can think of no better reason to ramble on like this partially drunk so early in the day. I just want these words to mean something. I want to have some answer just fall from my mind, but none comes that I haven’t already heard. But I haven’t heard it all, because there is someone out there who will grace me with their wisdom and it will be a wisdom that I have yet to hear. I hope that someday the wonder will overwhelm any and everything else. I suppose it already does, but I want to have it so new that I can just sit and sip on the fresh brew of new thought. But until that new though comes and finds me, I will resort to the old brews, just for the sake of comfort. Comfort is all sentient beings strive for. We all seek that idea of home. We seek that idea of warmth that will save us from the darkness that the mind can’t help and produce. But what if there is no comfort to be found? What if I wake up tomorrow and still want all of those things that I can’t have?

It will just be Monday then. And with every Monday, will eventually fall a Sunday; and with that Sunday comes these thoughts. It may be a cry to understand, or a cry to reach out to some beautiful girl in the hope that she will pull me from my darkness and bring me to a light that will free my soul, if only for a while. But I know Jack never found such things. Even as he coughed up blood on his last day, he found very little comfort outside of anything his own mind could make. So let us see what my mind will make in place of what it craves. The mind is a powerful thing, after all. Let’s see the power that it can actually wield.

Have fun with all the typos I have made and care not to correct.

Sunday Morning Thoughts 7.10.11

I sat outside just now. The sun is setting. Although this is advertised as something for a rising sun, I cannot help when the natural urge to write comes and finds me every Sunday. Hell, sometimes it’s Monday. I even think I did one on Thursday once. I am a man of the West, so sunset will always do.

No matter. I sat outside and thought about my life as a span thus far. I tried to see it as one thing that encompasses the idea of a singular being among all these other singular beings. I started there and thought of people and time passing. I thought about this summer. And then I thought about the last. I thought about all the years in school and the people that were there. I remember a person a few years back in high school, who I consider responsible for opening my mind from being so closed. I haven’t seen him in two years. Last time I saw him, I had never been to Iona College. I had never been to Bay Ridge. I had never done stand up. I was a virgin. I had just gotten my copy of On The Road. I was ready to run into the world. He showed me a new way to think and then disappeared somewhere off into the universe. It may be two miles away. It could be on Jupiter. I really think he was capable of anything.

Then I thought about next summer. And then I thought about the summer after that, the summer of 2013 (if the world doesn’t end before that). But… that isn’t really a summer. That’s life. Come May 2013, it’s the real world for good and it would seem as though a Mayan predicted apocalypse could be the only thing stopping that.

So how is life? Is it worth living? Or is it all just a load of shit that kind of dampers off until it goes out very quietly? I don’t know if you actually know or not, but I figure it’s worth asking because if you’ve never even thought about it, maybe now you will. And who knows? Maybe you’re the one who’s supposed to figure this all out and my place was to just send that thought into your mind. Or maybe I’m the one who’s destined to find some answer or the answer or any answer? Who knows? I suppose if it were either you or I, when the time came, understanding of the fate would become clear. I’ve been told that’s how that works. I could be wrong though.

I have been fighting the urge to look at anything I’ve been writing in the hope that it will allow me to just keep the train of thought going without any type of break or interruption. It’s actually working quite nicely, although I have cheated and looked up a few times. It’s cool to see all the colors that spell check makes on the page. Unintentional art, I suppose. In the effort to control, it has created new beauty, if properly interoperated.

I do feel like there is control in my life, just not mine. I don’t feel as though I’m the wielder of my fate and that doesn’t sit well. I get by with few hiccups, but there is that feeling. It’s what keeps me in bed and away from the day. It’s what chokes my mind and makes me feel slow. But I say fuck it. I say fuck the self help book because even if it’s true that the guy has actually achieved enlightenment, it’s no good to anyone else. Don’t you see that his path will never work for yours? It’s only his; it might as well be a story. In fact, it should be. I’d much rather read about some mental breakdown that leads to this surreal sense of life and after hanging out on park benches, fights crime or something like that.

I don’t mean to shoot down the idea, but I am. But I want to do it respectfully, I suppose. Actually, no I don’t. I am on my path to enlightenment and that requires a heavy amount of not giving a fuck. It’s a level that I have yet to achieve, which explains the woes accompanied by a wandering mind. But some day I shall reach the glorious horizon. Perhaps not in this life, but it shall be met.

Do you hear me? I say to you now, that I will not be tossed into the realm of existence to wallow around in confused delusion. I will rise above all that weighs me down and my soul will be free. I shall do this, even if something like this can’t be done. If it is impossible, then I will just have to go on for eternity. I may see you again at some point between now and the end of time. I would be pretty cool for that kid from two summers ago to be around again. Both of them.

Doesn’t make sense? Well, I guess it wouldn’t. Sound pretty though, doesn’t it? And like all pretty things, it is fleeting from sight and sense. It will dull and die, I suppose eventually. I’d like to have a run at fighting that though.

47 Comedies, One Million Laughs (via The Schleicher Spin)

47 Comedies, One Million Laughs It's the long overdue return of The Schleicher Spin's Guest Blogger Series! The gauntlet was laid down, and guest blogger Nicky D was asked to make a list of the best comedies of all time. Which of these films will top Nicky D's list? [capt … Read More

via The Schleicher Spin

Sunday Morning Thoughts 7.3.11

I suppose it is all in an attempt to talk to you.

I slept on the train Saturday. I don’t ever sleep on the train. When I woke, half in a dream, there was music. I had left it on, but I don’t recall what song. I looked out upon the world and didn’t really know much of anything. All that was in my mind wasn’t. I just wondered, for the sake of wonder and lack of a desire to do anything else.

Yesterday it rained all day. I did nothing yesterday.

Today, I worked from seven this morning. Happy Fucking Independence Day. It’s kinda hot out too. And some dumb fat bastard was bitching about having to wait more than five fucking minutes for the first time in his most likely, short and I suppose meaningless life, I guess. Yeah it was mean, but he was fucking mean. I want to yell at them. I used to be able to yell at work. Bummer right?

And I told you about my past two and one half days for the distinct reason that I can’t think of anything to say. It’s stupid because it always happens when I actually try to do anything. It’s kind of counterproductive and a bit hypocritical. I suppose I’m just cranky from getting my teeth pulled.

That’s another update in my life, btw. Yeah that’s right, I said btw. I’ve completely downgraded. Fuck writing because it has value or beauty. Break it down into just pointless communication. Why bother? Right? Who the fuck even reads this? Hi Maureen.

But I do have something I thought about writing on the train when I was falling out of dream. I guess it’s not that bad, but it really fucking is. I’ve been better than I’ve been but believe me, but ol’ B-ri wastes a lot of time thinking about stuff. And I waste a lot of time thinking about nothing. The only thing that has been poking at any kind of spark is good ol’ Sammy Clemens. He makes a point about how when he wrote this autobiography, he didn’t want it released until one hundred years after his death, which was in 1910. Do some math, and then know why he did that, and no it wasn’t for any type of bullshit afterlife fame, I mean maybe a little, but there was an artistic reason also. He thought that if you write something, knowing that no one you know now will ever be able to read it, wouldn’t you feel more free to write? He figured out a way to truly express his suppressed thoughts and release only the purest truth that his mind could produce.

So in the sense of that, without concern, I will tell you this much. The thought on the train was to write to one specific person. I am not now, because I am just writing. And I kind of doubt if this will even get read so there’s that too. I don’t even think that one person would read this. They could just end up wasted words and boy, do I hate that.

Why waste expression? Yet we do everyday. Even in the arts today, beautiful expression is wasted in so many ways.

Why waste anything beautiful? If anything has any kind of true grace or essence or anything else that sounds kind of spiritual, it should go to waste. But it does and we do little.

Happy Fucking Independence Day. I napped, ate, showered, went to space, had a cigarette, read this and now I’m back. In the spirit of the men who fought, sacrificed and died so I can sit on my computer and whine about people at McDonald’s and girls (Whether you notice it or not), I should do something. But what? I suppose live freely, that’s what they wanted. And I suppose protect the freedoms of others, as best I can. I don’t want God to bless America. I want America to be it’s own blessing. I’ll do what I can, as a true American citizen and not some political or religious nut case, to keep the world I live in free. Free love man.

But seriously, what’s so funny about peace, love and understanding?