Sunday Morning Thoughts 7.29.12

Run rampant with ambition because the fortunate ones are they who can see what they have and seem to want no more than that. “I am not like that,” he mumbled into the bottom of another glass. He’s been at it all day and he shows no signs of slowing down.

Move along the seemingly endless onslaught of hours until now, or the best possible idea of now. It’s not really endless though, and you don’t quite have the choices you thought you had regarding the whole incident. Fixation upon the screaming shining idol has led to the beautifully distracted creation of a man with worldly expectations for the self and the betterment of the whole. If you did it to help save the world, I would completely understand and by completely I mean not at all and how could you do this for me?

I’ve been spent a lot of time to myself. I’ve been cooking and cleaning and thinking and reading and writing and wandering around. I’m a healthier man, though I have no riches to speak of, aside from a few skills and a few tools to display them on. I’ve managed to start my way on two separate careers, in addition to the thousands of daydreamt thoughts of a happy future. I have nearly graduated from a college where most people know my name, or know who I am. This is of course due only to the pursuit of those little daydreamt adventures, be it writing a column or performing some nonsense on stage or you’ve seen me go on a drunken rant about something at some party and it was moderately entertaining.

I do these things because I love them, but they come often times with a certain amount of attention paid which may drive a man made. Thank science and the natural world for making things as wonderful as beer.

But as the acceleration into yet another cycle of life begins to get where it means to go, so must I and blah blah blah blabbity blah.

I ponder how to make such a mass of shaky and skittish beasts into organic beings with the utmost ability for computing and processing information in order to solve both internal and external conflicts. It surely can’t be easy and just by saying that, I’m sure it is in fact terribly easy to put into play all the necessary characters in blindly poetic and accurately beautiful processions. There is a terrible different in how things are and what they should be and all though the answer may or may not be simple, it is a long way from this point here.

Death and terror are too boring at this stage in the game. We are drowned with the feeling that we are constantly under attack from everywhere and if not from there, it is certainly coming from inside. Dyed red hair is now a clear sign of evil to the bewildered masses who wonder why and why and why, when the answer is the problem in a sense. Justice gets delivered through aggressive means for man, as it seems to be the only way he’ll learn. Still, he makes the same follies upon himself and his neighbor day after night after day.

I got into an argument with several very angry and under my assumption racist strangers on Facebook. Just by how that sentence ended explains why it was such a wasteful ordeal, both between the officer and myself. I won’t go into it though, as it is only perpetuating the issue. However, I will tell you in some way what was learned.

I learned that most people are generally good but are placed under terrible circumstance to keep such thing a thing going. We are conditioned to all sorts of social and spiritual and economical identities that we become aggressive to anything believe to be a threat and unfortunately, an increase in any unnecessary and habitual aggression will result in a decrease in rationality and over all critical thought.

Now in order to reverse such a thing, the process used to create it must be done the exact same sort of way only in the other direction. I told you it was a simple theory but the how is a bitch. My idea at this moment, and for a few several moments both in front and behind it, is that it needs to be an infection of sorts. It will have to start small and will often fail from treatment, but survival is strength. That is more of what went wrong in the first place, so it would have to begin to infect the infections. That makes sense, right?

The best way to do this is through the wealth of knowledge each conscious and capable being can collect. Take all things from your life and share them with who will ever have them. I guess, I don’t really know. There are some things that not everyone can handle and few people who won’t share. Some things you keep to yourself, as your personal little burden, a memento of the infection if you will. An inspiring memory of pain caused by something grand or something like that.

I thought I saw a ghost today, but it was only in my head. The sun has come back out and I’m off to try and conquer some more.

Sunday Morning Thoughts 7.22.12

“The gods are blessed,” said he. “To damn the soul of a man who is firmly and ambitiously at work. There is harmony in the dissonance of such a soul, in that achy and vivid portrayal of beauty. The conquest begins each day from a powerless self proclaimed manic sad man, baring only a meek soul, until in a gradual instant the day is done and all to be seen is the bare self. My hands are dirty with bootleg money and a mild happiness is all mine to indulge. I’m hardly bloated.”

“Tis I,” he continued with a surly boldness. “In the wee hours of the morning and I have come in the belief that maybe, just maybe, something may be said. What it is not important, as it will always be brought to life in the consciousness of the observer by how decorative the whole thing looks. Aesthetics are the creators of flaw in the senses in the same way that the Golden Age of mind was conceived.”

Exhausted words though they may be, they are far too spent to hide many more hidden agendas. I could quit this whole thing, right now. I could just get up and walk away and never do this again. I could go and say that I’m a fucking adult and need to act like one. It’s not even that harsh of an argument, when you think about it.

And yet I still want to have conversations that go perfectly nowhere.

It was now that he went out to sort of celebrate how many trips he has made around the sun, or something like that. This is what the evening eventually resulted in:

Calamity and crime is all that I can think of without such nonsense like love, even in the temporarily sort of way. Maybe this is death and maybe it’s not but who will know other than I? I would be as bold to say no one but then again maybe such boldness is far beyond my reach. I could stand from here and travel on to some sort of meaningless task, but I say again out loud to the empty street that I couldn’t care less, as here I sit without love of any sort to describe besides this grand loneliness.

I didn’t get asked for my ID and I am quite upset about this. Alas these are the problems of a person who was recognized enough to be remembered but not enough to receive devotion beyond the many hours already received.

So what is the standing as of now? Well we have this right here, which is nothing, and the other thing that was over there, which was also nothing. You can try and understand through staggered and vigorous conversation with your reflection in the bathroom mirror. Watch me out play all and then toss my crown right in the center of it the chaos for the scavengers and vultures to prey on. This meat has always looked less than grand to me.

Here comes the new stuff, fresh off of the press today:

There’s a big stretch of many events that have come to show me the way, by means of a gracious and full force shove. It is now the beginning of Friday. It was raining today but it hasn’t always been. So what to believe?

I believe that the threshold has been met and from here shall come the rest of it. Anticipation and anxiety I assume are beginning to turn into something new, if such things even ever were in the first place. I just wish for someone to dance with.

It’s worth noting that as I have reached an age claiming to grant greater freedom, I feel no such thing. I still feel the burden of soul that howls to keep awake, when calling the night would be accepted with much more grace. The sheep goes bah, over and over again.

The power of this here noggin to convince all will come to pass as should be is something else. It is different than a toaster oven and that should certainly say something about that. Dig the nonsense?

What we are left with as a result is the inability to free one’s self without submission. That’s not to say that the beast cannot be slain, but rather is a question of whether there was ever any beast at all.

I’ve come to the understanding that these little chats will fade away, possibly soon. There will always be words I am craving to craft, but the issues will have to start becoming larger. The selfishness of a young man screaming for the attention of the youthful love embodied in beautiful young ladies will have to become the selfless bellows from a man with both passion and mission. I have a very messy world to fix. Or help fix rather. We all have to help, but I may need to start trying harder. If you wake up to a burning room full of sleeping people, do you leave them to crisp?

Now if you don’t mind, could we all repeat after me?

Now we rest both mind and soul,

And nothing at all in between.

Brought forth from a bounty called,

Shown soft and red serene.

Harks hardly for heroes,

Seen nothing clear,

Though that can scarce be said.

 

Of beaten, battered bullwhip fractions,

Haste come to birth bold reactions,

So cyclic be this spin of dread.

     But truly, other than this, I can’t seem to stumble across what I wanted to be seen and as with so many of these seemingly smashing, I believe I shall vacate the premise.

 

Sunday Morning Thoughts 7.15.12

Although I could not say for sure, but I may have had drink taken when this was written:

And here it comes with all the fanfare I knew it wouldn’t have. This will be the mark for the beginning of the midpoint of the first half and I am without a shake or a stutter. I am steel reinforced by jelly. I am decaying rapidly by geological standards. Beauty will indeed be in the hands of the beer holder.

After this sentence comes the few thoughts that I had that were lucky enough to find their way here this Sunday:

There is always a hope that whenever I sit down and begin to think until words begin to appear on the screen that a revelation will fall upon me and my inspired verse will catch the attention of someone that can help me do something about all of this. Now this is when the strangeness of it all originates. I may be so bold to say that these little spurts of recorded thought almost always involve nearly entirely my own woes and worries.

If I were to find most anyone else who was to do the same thing, I’d call them stupid and vain for wasting space and time to sing the virtues believed to be attained from such selfish sentences.

So I ask myself, why would what I do be any different? What is it about what I feel that I have to say that makes it so much more worthwhile over the average two legged beast with thumbs? Look at me. Look at me!

This part was written on Monday afternoon in a library:

Why I am here at all is still a bit of mystery to me as I almost never come here to write. The last time that I remember doing such a thing, I was still a young, dumb and foolish boy. Oh how things have changed.

That is the wonderful thing about the written word. Sarcasm is so much harder to detect. You essentially have to just guess whether it would be or not and if the writer who had written has no intention if revealing the true intent behind the words, as I do, guessing is all you can do. Through such a process, perspective is produced that at the very least has the appearance of being different. Whether it actually does this or not is for the nerds is Switzerland to decide.

As for me… it is unknown and should most certainly be uncared for but that facts are open for interpretation. It’s not really, but how and who would even know if I had not told you? Truth is the most deceiving thing there is in these, such troubled days.

At this point, I just want it to end already. You know, my youth and the hope and spirit that lived within it. It’s all but depleted and it holds me in place because it’s just so damn pretty and when have I been known to control myself? It’s as though there was never anything to begin with because if honesty were still in play at this point, we’d fall short of so many words. Personality is a lie that is built more intricately with the growing vanity of he who first crafted the beast.

What is understood as of now is that this whole ordeal is, for the most part, as pointless as you decide to make it. You first have to comprehend that in the end you will only have to believe the lie for yourself for it to ever have any meaning. Maybe there are folks who are born with such convictions and I may not be excluded from that group. I couldn’t tell you when this peculiar perspective was born, but I seem to always have had it. I could tell you when I became first aware of it, but that was now a long time ago played out with those who may be no more than legend. I’d rather not know that now, but I know at some point I will.

So let’s review. In my dying moments of youth, or the believe of such a situation at least, I have dawned upon some grand revelation that I have had a dozen or so times already in recorded history and despite the proposed conviction, little to no action has taken place. Perhaps that is the curse of a writer. It is the standard for bad ones, I imagine. There’s a nice bit of self-confidence for ya.

Purgatory is ending and really already has. I’m one email away from being part of the machine. I’m three years out from becoming a semi-professional comic. I have a novel to finish, because the only way that story can be done correctly is by making it more than a blog post. Look at me, busy, busy. Sooner or later it will all come into some sort of chaotic light and all will be seen for what it is.

That’s a rather vaguely faithful statement for an atheist. I think at least.

Sunday Morning Thoughts 7.8.12

Ideas can be not too different from viruses. They give you a warm feeling sometimes and could kill you at any moment. There is always one sickness that we carry with us to our graves. Mortality and all that coming from the late bloomer to his own youth, arriving just in time to see and meet, only never to be again. Fate is for the faithless follies of fools.

A fool would say that all things are meant to be and that all things hoped for shall someday come to pass. He would tell you that even the pursuit of noble intention has reward. He would read you poetry that he hardly understood in the hopes that something could be learned. What a schmuck, am I right?

All lazy and full of chemicals, I hope for a dream that will wake me in the morning with a terrible feeling of dreadful loneliness. I want my mind to creatively describe all my man made woes in all their shade and shadow so that they could never leave me without a fear to gnaw at the strings connecting what is to what should be. It’s decadent and fully licensed as such, with vain obsession as the key financial supporter.

I’ll go now to indulge as every junkie needs a fix. Of course when I say now, I mean later, at least to the point where I would have otherwise forgotten it. Yet I ask myself, were there a gun to my head, would I have stones to stand by what I said? It doesn’t matter though, does it?

Next to the words ‘News Room’ on some crap network started by a lunatic with a moustache, is the question of ‘how does Yolanda Adams do it?’ That was about a minute ago and I just looked back and they are still talking to this decrepit old sea hag. I could look her up and find something about her, but I don’t give a royal shit. My finding out who she is would only place more needless meaning into her life therefore sapping the meaning of everyone else. Then comes an underwear commercial, breakfast cereal, crappy porch awnings, pills and finally and ad for what I’d call a 7 out of 10 brunette to pretend that she is really concerned about you and wants to give you the hard information you need instead of the pig slop that you really want.

Here comes the heartwarming tale of a few golden eagles that had survived those wildfires out west in Colorado. The real story would be in how many died and the connection between these wildfires and the environmental irresponsibility of man.

And now they’re talking about the economy so I’ll just leave this be. I’d rather not get all too infuriated at this point, although keeping my cool could be counterproductive.

Well, let’s look at it this way. Were I to get all fumed and vengeful, I would be no step closer to a solution. Unfortunately Howard Beale said to get mad 40 or so years ago and we have missed the boat where the simple act of getting mad will do anything. Now is the time for thought and development of ideas that will be strong enough in themselves to stand up and defy all that stands in the way of its own perceived righteousness. Dig?

How, is a tricky question that refuses to be ignored any longer. There exists an inevitability that will naturally begin to fall to action before our very eyes. Man will be put to the test but the only judgment shall be cast by the natural harmony and our willingness to comply with such demands. Thou shall not kill your neighbor or steal his things or at the very least not for any stupid reason like money or power. Thou shall not try to trick or trap those whom you meet. Thou shall not believe the word of any god that tells you that you are special and different from anything else. There is only your perspective and consciousness but you are decaying organic matter and you had best act accordingly.

But why go through all of this? Well it is quite simple, mah boy. You see there have been humans who have had thoughts and they took them and wrote them is some form or another so that someone else could see it. In these words were suggestions in varying strength and profound insights that lead to the peace that all seek yet none can give a name to. Here are a few examples of such things.

It is a firm belief of mine that exploration of the mind is the only way that human beings can progress and overcome problems that exist externally. I feel that peace in the world is not only possible but is required if we plan on living past the next century. Peace does not mean that all will be calm and everyone will get along because that is a childish belief but to have a general harmony with the other living things where any negative energy tossed in the mix is greatly outweighed by the positive.

I believe love is not necessarily a thing that means happily being with someone. Love can be to any type of idea and it could very well tear you apart as long as somewhere within that idea is the inspiration of beauty and appreciation for the intricate and chaotic madness of life. Love can be a grand lie in the same way that every painting is a lie. Love can be never fully realized and could be better off that way.

It may not be much but those are the thoughts that could make or shake something in this world. That is why I feel that my ability to conceive of and express these ideas is some sort of poetic prose is an obligation that I have no choice but to fulfill. The only truth from my muse was grown from the darkest and most meaningful portion of the heart. The lessons to be learned will carry on further than any bond to the soul of another. Or so I’ve been lead to believe.

Jameson and Gingers

Desperation can sing such a sweet melody and I’ll be damned if I’ll deny myself something that I foolishly believe is my right. It’s not of course, and that would be why I stare away at the ceiling with thoughts of days past delusions of such grand and forgotten proportion. Romantic ideals are difficult to live up to.

Wonder is all I can do and at the same time the last thing that I would ever want to wish upon anyone. This is my penance or something of the sort. It has to be. It can’t not be, right?

So why am I here with an aching head trying to string together some shapes that make sound in your head? What it really boils down to is the understanding that my fantasy appears to be constantly better than anything that could actually come to be. I’m not ashamed or disappointed, although I am both of those things. I am simply caught in the most beautiful brainwashing scheme that one could ever devise. It’s all my own creation and although many see a monster, I see something beautiful. And I see this again and again and again and again until the roll of film runs out at which point I close my eyes and it plays before my eye lids. I honestly couldn’t tell you if that has happened or not yet but the possibility is always there for anything and everything.

But look at me, because I’ve got all the moves. I’m a smooth talker and a charmer and I go home by myself through the empty aching streets. I wake to find that none of the answers are there because not a person has asked a question besides myself and all I can and am doing consists of shouting and hooting and standing outside with a cigarette, daydreaming that all the things that plague me will be solved as someone turns the street corner.

But for all of this charm, the boy remains in his boxers writing nonsense that no one will see, least of all anyone who can do a damn about it. I’ll keep wandering or something like that. Vague encounters to feast of flesh will get me by until I can stand apart from all this or further apart as I already stand with myself and to myself and by myself.

So go ahead sweetheart, pour me another and I’ll spend a few moments trying to make you laugh. My apologies friend, was this lady your company? I do apologize, just let me get her all riled and wild and then send her of to only have thoughts of me. It is my gift to share the curse that I have, but in the meantime, I say another round for me and my friends as we all march towards inevitable graves that will be marked and cost anyone left alive who cares about what we did quite the sum of money.

I bid you fare the well with a few more words that will mean the same as those above which is nothing, of course. I wish only to have a wish other than those I carry around with me. That is a lie and a terrible one at that. I imagine I could carry on like this until the end of time or the end of my time and the difference between the two is still to hazy to make out. I swear to you know, I’ll die in this place with this heart and there’s nothing that should be done about that. In the meantime, I’ll just crunch the numbers.

Sunday Morning Thoughts 7.1.12

And so it has come to this, yet again. Profound inquires are to be left at the door please and huddle the masses on the hill to see and listen. Read aloud some sort of love letter inscribed on the inside of a book that boldly proclaims that it hold nothing but beautiful lies. Toss the dirt on the casket and mumble something to yourself reassuring the mind that you did all you could. It doesn’t seem like enough though, does it? No, it never ever really does.

I hope I don’t seem morbid, as I am trying very hard to do you the courtesy of at least disguising it well. You can tell me how I did at the end.

I struggle too much to understand things that I know have been going on. Cynicism consumes innocence like nothing else.

All things must come to an end and here it is and here I am. There’s a haze and a daze and if there was anything at all that I could have done it should have been done ages ago, when we were younger and I was less jaded in the real sense. I was only pretending then. Alas, it wasn’t meant and it couldn’t have been set up more perfectly to go hand and hand to guide the creation of a mad man.

 

You have to understand, that I am rapidly approaching my last year of playtime. Even within all this time, games have been ending to make way for jobs that need to be done. It is enraging and infuriating and just the way things seem to be. One more year and you could hear from me yet.

I would ask about the view but I don’t care to know. I would ask about anything but I’ll just find those, whadda ya call em? Answers? No that’s not it. Solutions? No that’s even further off. Tourniquet? Yes, I believe that’s what it is. Life is a wound that bleeds unless you make it stop, although it may cost you an arm. Regardless of what you call them, I will find them and it shall have to be on my own.

 

I want to go ahead and say that it won’t always be on my own but it will. All things that live will die and they will do it by themselves. Any thoughts you can produce at the credits will be yours and yours alone.

 

They will be mine and mine alone no matter how much I fancy the idea of having it done otherwise. It’s just not practical.

 

There are believers in gods and deities and fates and destinies. I couldn’t tell you if any of those things are or are not but if I had to place a bet, I’d go with the latter. There is comfort in them, I know. I spent most of my life believing those things. When I was learning so many of the things I know now, I thought there was a friendly and vengeful old man in the sky. I remember that I used to pray a lot.

 

Surprisingly, most of the time it was for unselfish things as was the case when I would pray that people in my family would stop aggressively and destructively arguing over stupid things. I would also ask god to help me with girls, which is dumb on many levels. Baby faced and wide eyed, I used to believe that happiness was something that would be had. My understanding of the thing now is that the only time I feel I will really need such a terrible thing as happiness is at death. Any bouts of that business before then are doomed to only be sadness. Even the love of your life will die someday but if I stay on schedule, I would never hear about it.

 

So if it is not happiness that makes me be and sends me forward, what the hell do I live for? Why should I feel that I need to do anything, let alone my dreamt up ambitions for changing the world? Well I don’t know why, but I’ll be damned if that’s going to stop me from telling you something anyway.

 

As of now, I strive for control as all conscious things do. I want dominion over my reality to have it sculpted to what my idea of good is. That will fade though and it only does because the control has been had this whole time. Reality is nothing but impulses and chemicals and electricity with some sort of melody and harmony about them. We are nothing but mold growing on rocks. Sophisticated moss, if you will.

 

Does that make our lives less beautiful? Of course it doesn’t, don’t be an idiot.

 

The simplicity is the beauty. I am a simple thing. I like colors and food and feeling comfortable and nice. I’d like to feel loved and I do in some ways. There are smells that please me and sounds that do the same. I have pictures in my head about things that I thought happened and most of them are grand. They’re all grand actually but I get testy and complicated about some. There are flaws in my design as it is still in the test mode.

 

Mistakes will be made and if you manage to get involved with me, I will cause some sort of ruckus in your life. It all depends on how close you choose to get. I am some sort of man which means I will crave things like feast and flesh. I don’t imagine I can go further than flesh for some time, which is funny if you knew me when I was a virgin. At first, I thought I’d wait out the long haul. Those were in my silly praying days. It has since come to something much more sinister, in a sort of sad way. Don’t try to get close and figure it out, I don’t imagine that you’ll like what you see.

I always used to write about how I stood on the ledge and was looking down at the fall. As of this very moment, I’ve come to realize that I have already made the fall and whether I jumped or was pushed is no longer important. I have the time in between where I am and the ground to learn how to fly or something of that sort. This will be another one of those things that will have to be done without much help. Without any, really.