Sunday, May 27, 2012
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
Field of Dreams
Man...today got me stumbling all over myself.
We can pretty much agree that the sky is blue and clouds are fluffy-looking and it hurts when you get hit by a car--but what of the different versions of our feelings? The shade of one person's love in comparison to another's? Or embarrassment or excitement? How is embarrassment perceived--where in the body does one feel embarrassed? And where do we learn that from? Did someone tell us or better yet show us how to be embarrassed and we absorbed it, like a twin in the womb?
Yeah. I mean I think. There are many or at least more than one who show us, and it is shocking to really grasp how deeply they have grafted onto you.
A close friend of mine once described a situation where her lifelong friend, Jacob, was very much a part of the development of her senses. Like most of us, we have these relationships that solidify how we see and do things on a daily basis. My friend described a day where she and Jacob were sitting in her car together and she happened to be talking with a pen in her hand. The pen was black. She was playing with the pen while they were in a parking lot, I think--waiting for a friend. Anyway, she said she realized suddenly while looking at the black pen that Jacob could have convinced her in that moment that the black pen she was holding was actually purple. They had known each other for ten years. In that moment, casually, Jacob could just explain that all along she had been incorrect--and that black was in fact purple, and purple was black and she had just gotten it wrong. It would have actually been possible for her to take this as fact, because Jacob's perception of fact she valued as much as her own and the power of this realization she found deeply unsettling. She then started to wonder what subtleties of perception Jacob had already adjusted for her, knowing him since she was fourteen. No doubt there were conversations and communications where something was not as obvious to the world
--like black being purple or vice-versa--something that went on behind the closed curtains of her heart and quickly molded into her very own idiosyncrasy without her permission! Whoosh, instantaneous! And now it was something she couldn't get rid of and had to hold onto forever because it would be too hard to dig it out or even find it for that matter? Like that sewing machine her uncle gave her. She doesn't sew. She realized that Jacob taught her how to love. (It was the pen's fault).
I suppose we all have these subtleties of perception. Things we've learned from people we allow ourselves to care for and have therefore taken for granted. As the self unfolds these idiosyncrasies usually emerge in intimate relationships, where one feels safe enough--if only for a moment--to express the private workings of our brains and hearts. And why not? Intimate relationships are that moment where the stage lights get turned on, or field lights for a night game. It almost feels like everyone is ready and waiting to throw that pitch, just hoping to be asked to show the world how hard they can throw and the second they know the crowd is watching they let it fly. It could be a terrible disaster and you could make all kinds of excuses for the pitch but goddamn you threw it hard, didn't you? Just then? You were throwing because it felt good and you were waiting for the crowd's reaction? Approval?...
I am unclear today. I am dancing around the point. I mean I usually dance around the point but I'm not doing it in an interesting way...we're all secretly wired to throw wild pitches. We have to. We're just waddling around, looking for these specific people who will get to know us enough to allow us the opportunity to flex the good arm--and we really don't know what's going to happen. And I believe it isn't just for vanity. We don't need to hear how great we are all the time--I mean that's nice too, but the opportunity to show strength by throwing the weird pitches--strikes me as so lovely today that I am windless. Winded. I am amazed at human beings. Amazed at the extent of beauty in our bottomless flaws.
And this is why beer was invented. To get people relaxed enough to share the first pitch. My pitch analogy is overly exhausted, but it deals with the posturing and preparation and "show" before the actual throw...this is what I mean. The ritual wind-up. I pray everyone winds up and lets it rip. Say what you gotta say. It's written in your blood. You can fight it, but I will tell you right now that awkward throw will always win the tournament. Because no one has rehearsed its outcome.
~ B
We can pretty much agree that the sky is blue and clouds are fluffy-looking and it hurts when you get hit by a car--but what of the different versions of our feelings? The shade of one person's love in comparison to another's? Or embarrassment or excitement? How is embarrassment perceived--where in the body does one feel embarrassed? And where do we learn that from? Did someone tell us or better yet show us how to be embarrassed and we absorbed it, like a twin in the womb?
Yeah. I mean I think. There are many or at least more than one who show us, and it is shocking to really grasp how deeply they have grafted onto you.
A close friend of mine once described a situation where her lifelong friend, Jacob, was very much a part of the development of her senses. Like most of us, we have these relationships that solidify how we see and do things on a daily basis. My friend described a day where she and Jacob were sitting in her car together and she happened to be talking with a pen in her hand. The pen was black. She was playing with the pen while they were in a parking lot, I think--waiting for a friend. Anyway, she said she realized suddenly while looking at the black pen that Jacob could have convinced her in that moment that the black pen she was holding was actually purple. They had known each other for ten years. In that moment, casually, Jacob could just explain that all along she had been incorrect--and that black was in fact purple, and purple was black and she had just gotten it wrong. It would have actually been possible for her to take this as fact, because Jacob's perception of fact she valued as much as her own and the power of this realization she found deeply unsettling. She then started to wonder what subtleties of perception Jacob had already adjusted for her, knowing him since she was fourteen. No doubt there were conversations and communications where something was not as obvious to the world
--like black being purple or vice-versa--something that went on behind the closed curtains of her heart and quickly molded into her very own idiosyncrasy without her permission! Whoosh, instantaneous! And now it was something she couldn't get rid of and had to hold onto forever because it would be too hard to dig it out or even find it for that matter? Like that sewing machine her uncle gave her. She doesn't sew. She realized that Jacob taught her how to love. (It was the pen's fault).
I suppose we all have these subtleties of perception. Things we've learned from people we allow ourselves to care for and have therefore taken for granted. As the self unfolds these idiosyncrasies usually emerge in intimate relationships, where one feels safe enough--if only for a moment--to express the private workings of our brains and hearts. And why not? Intimate relationships are that moment where the stage lights get turned on, or field lights for a night game. It almost feels like everyone is ready and waiting to throw that pitch, just hoping to be asked to show the world how hard they can throw and the second they know the crowd is watching they let it fly. It could be a terrible disaster and you could make all kinds of excuses for the pitch but goddamn you threw it hard, didn't you? Just then? You were throwing because it felt good and you were waiting for the crowd's reaction? Approval?...
I am unclear today. I am dancing around the point. I mean I usually dance around the point but I'm not doing it in an interesting way...we're all secretly wired to throw wild pitches. We have to. We're just waddling around, looking for these specific people who will get to know us enough to allow us the opportunity to flex the good arm--and we really don't know what's going to happen. And I believe it isn't just for vanity. We don't need to hear how great we are all the time--I mean that's nice too, but the opportunity to show strength by throwing the weird pitches--strikes me as so lovely today that I am windless. Winded. I am amazed at human beings. Amazed at the extent of beauty in our bottomless flaws.
And this is why beer was invented. To get people relaxed enough to share the first pitch. My pitch analogy is overly exhausted, but it deals with the posturing and preparation and "show" before the actual throw...this is what I mean. The ritual wind-up. I pray everyone winds up and lets it rip. Say what you gotta say. It's written in your blood. You can fight it, but I will tell you right now that awkward throw will always win the tournament. Because no one has rehearsed its outcome.
~ B
Saturday, May 19, 2012
Shock.
Shock.
If I had to define SHOCK without looking at a dictionary:
1. noun, a sudden blow or happening
2. an
emotional state of complete surprise/astonishment.
3. one’s inability to believe something one knows to be
true.
4. an electrical attack
Or
5. a systemic
response/means of protection against further physical or emotional harm.
I am in shock.
I cannot believe that I am capable of being so surprised by
the behavior of a single person.
With wisdom (here defining wisdom as being in my 30s, and yes a
debatable definition) I believed I would possess the proper intuitive and
logical tools that would enable me to evaluate the individuals with whom I
interact and therefore make careful decisions concerning those I allow into
my mental and physical space. God
always laughs last, because he’s a funny guy (or ferret). And no one is wise.
People are shocking.
They do shocking things.
Why?
Well, to answer my own not-so-rhetorical question, people do
shocking things because:
a. they are acting out/against their own personal character
patterns as a means of expressing duress or confusion.
b. their behavior is not out of line with their character, it is the observer who has changed
Or
c. they are retarded.
I will become transparent. Bear with me.
For now, an anecdote.
There is a young woman in an office who is very
amiable. She is attractive and
smart and easily engages with everyone.
It is hard to get to know this woman, for obvious reasons being so smart
and attractive, but when you are one on one, it seems you are the only man in
the room. I mean in the
world. It seems you share a
complete, unspoken language. You
slowly gather the courage to ask this woman out, thinking the answer will be a
breathless yes, because you share so much together, so much unspoken good
“ju-ju”. The woman agrees
cryptically, but flirtatiously.
She says something like “she was bound to go out with someone from the
office one of these days”. Not a
rousing seal of approval, but certainly not a no, as she said it with smiles
and that same wonderful “ju-ju” in the eyes. And you’re syked, right, because she said she hasn’t yet
gone out with anyone in the office.
Win.
You get ready for your date. You have a sneaking suspicion inside of you that this very
night you are to experience destiny: an event predetermined merely because it
is so awesome, the waves of its greatness have been and will be felt throughout
the ages, so you’ve got a timeline and gps on it because it reverberates in
time and space (i.e. “destiny”).
You are leaving your house to pick her up. You are on your way you are driving to her house with this
great, reverberating feeling inside you.
Suddenly, you hear the phone ringing. It’s her. Could
it be? The awesome beginning so
soon? Perhaps she’s planned a
surprise of some kind?
Giddiness! You pick it up
and she says over the phone: “I’m sorry, did you think we were going out? I thought you were kidding. I just wanted to make sure there wasn’t
a misunderstanding. You know, to
avoid anything awkward”.
Well too
late, you are already outside her house.
With flowers. With the
phone in your hand. The gong of
reverberating destiny in your guts is now the sound of…of some kind of emotion…
1. You’re
disappointed. Obviously. You wanted a date with this woman, a chance
to be alone to show her how great you are for each other and it was cancelled. You were given signals of her
attraction. This is not fair. (ANGER)
2. She
never actually said she wanted to go out with you. The complete failure of the
date and feeling of disappointment was created in your own head. (EMBARRASSMENT)
3. She’s
playing hard to get? Now you know
where she lives…she did tell you that… (GENERAL
CONFUSION)
4. She
has Borderline Personality Disorder. (SHOCKING
TRUTH)
Maybe you won’t get transparency here, but I guess my point
is if someone has been asking you for a steak, and when you bring them the
steak, they say “I wanted the fish”, I feel like punching someone in the
mouth. The problem with being a
man of course is, in addition to being unable to punch a lady in the mouth, I
want the steak, but
prefer you ask for the fish so I can bring the steak when I want to. If you just come right out asking for the steak it’s too much. It’s too…well it doesn’t work,
okay? If that doesn’t make sense I
can’t explain, because my description is terrible already.
Give me steak or give me death. I’ll lick my wounds for a while, if they’re even
wounds. I honestly feel like if I
could just be on tv for something—a small major award, nothing serious—and
after being noted as the most interesting and engaging man of the 21st
century, utilize my acceptance speech to gently, deftly, almost imperceptibly
drain the libido from the offending party (because squelching it forever sounds “too harsh”) while
simultaneously emptying her fridge, living room, and bank account with the
final gift of bestowing on her rank diarrhea for a few months—well I’d feel
much peppier.
Not that I could wish ill on anyone. That’s for people with Borderline Personality
Disorder. Those cats are crazy.
Saturday, May 12, 2012
63
Forgive my brief absence. I've been even more self-involved than usual.
Today is my father's birthday. I bought him a large cardboard box that contained three things: a weber grill, an ape mask, and case of white tic tacs. The man loves grilling and has been doing so on a strange little red number that is falling apart. The man enjoys scaring the Christ out of people, hence the mask. The man also loves fresh breath. I felt this three-tiered attack would be proper for the 63rd year of his life.
I began the day at the dentist (dad receives his presents this evening). The dentist made me think about death far too early in the morning. Firstly, I can't imagine being 63, almost twice as many years as I already have, and further, I can't imagine my teeth falling out. The dentist believes I am on this road, and I am never certain if this threatening is something they learn in school as a means of behavior modification for their patients, or they're sitting on a throne of knowledge and carelessly letting you know you're going to be hideously deformed in a rather short amount of time. Perhaps when I am 63 the art of dentistry will have blossomed to such a place that teeth can be easily screwed back in, taken from baboons, or made out of milk.
At any rate, it crossed my mind--as he was pointing to the x-rays explaining how my bone loss would eventually cause my teeth the wiggle themselves out of my face (maybe)--that I have never been able to imagine myself old. In fact, when I was young I always imagined I would die young. I have no basis for this. I wasn't imagining dying specifically, or planning insane things that would activate the many ways in which I might tragically expire, but I just never saw it. Like it wasn't in me. The bone loss thing, the teeth falling out (maybe), showed me my first vision of age and I decided in that moment that I would rather be dead then be toothless. If possible, I am thinking of this only in a philosophical way. Looking at the x-ray, I remembered my childhood feeling of impending James Dean Death and wondered if perhaps there was something woven into my cells to make it so, something of a timeline. Maybe I was a perceptive child (maybe) and I was just aware. Aware.
I was thrilled to live past 27. I thought I was in the clear. I think I am in the clear, at least until this morning. I will try not to think about all this as I sing to dad in a couple hours. My father is a great man. He is a practical joker, a pun-er, a lover of human beings. He probably owns three pairs of pants, he hates change but secretly loves it, and is openly baffled by the things he doesn't understand. He adds glitter to the world like garlands at Christmas. The length of his life should extend and extend, and I will do everything I can to continue adding popcorn onto his string.
It's not that I'm afraid of being ugly. I'm sure I could pull off the yammering toothless man bit pretty shimmeringly. I don't know...I don't know if it's my wonder at the hidden timeline in my bones or my inability to envision my old feet on the earth. I am not as terrified of the future of the planet as many of my peers, so it is not my inability to envision earth or astroturf underneath my chubby feet. I don't know. I wonder if I am brave enough to live without worrying about legacy. Without worrying about witness, as I am to my father and am happy to witness, but can I--as the yammering toothless man I (may) become--sift into the dirt without feelings of regret? No one beside me who is one with my soul, just pleasant memories? Is this so terrible?
I don't know.
~ B
Today is my father's birthday. I bought him a large cardboard box that contained three things: a weber grill, an ape mask, and case of white tic tacs. The man loves grilling and has been doing so on a strange little red number that is falling apart. The man enjoys scaring the Christ out of people, hence the mask. The man also loves fresh breath. I felt this three-tiered attack would be proper for the 63rd year of his life.
I began the day at the dentist (dad receives his presents this evening). The dentist made me think about death far too early in the morning. Firstly, I can't imagine being 63, almost twice as many years as I already have, and further, I can't imagine my teeth falling out. The dentist believes I am on this road, and I am never certain if this threatening is something they learn in school as a means of behavior modification for their patients, or they're sitting on a throne of knowledge and carelessly letting you know you're going to be hideously deformed in a rather short amount of time. Perhaps when I am 63 the art of dentistry will have blossomed to such a place that teeth can be easily screwed back in, taken from baboons, or made out of milk.
At any rate, it crossed my mind--as he was pointing to the x-rays explaining how my bone loss would eventually cause my teeth the wiggle themselves out of my face (maybe)--that I have never been able to imagine myself old. In fact, when I was young I always imagined I would die young. I have no basis for this. I wasn't imagining dying specifically, or planning insane things that would activate the many ways in which I might tragically expire, but I just never saw it. Like it wasn't in me. The bone loss thing, the teeth falling out (maybe), showed me my first vision of age and I decided in that moment that I would rather be dead then be toothless. If possible, I am thinking of this only in a philosophical way. Looking at the x-ray, I remembered my childhood feeling of impending James Dean Death and wondered if perhaps there was something woven into my cells to make it so, something of a timeline. Maybe I was a perceptive child (maybe) and I was just aware. Aware.
I was thrilled to live past 27. I thought I was in the clear. I think I am in the clear, at least until this morning. I will try not to think about all this as I sing to dad in a couple hours. My father is a great man. He is a practical joker, a pun-er, a lover of human beings. He probably owns three pairs of pants, he hates change but secretly loves it, and is openly baffled by the things he doesn't understand. He adds glitter to the world like garlands at Christmas. The length of his life should extend and extend, and I will do everything I can to continue adding popcorn onto his string.
It's not that I'm afraid of being ugly. I'm sure I could pull off the yammering toothless man bit pretty shimmeringly. I don't know...I don't know if it's my wonder at the hidden timeline in my bones or my inability to envision my old feet on the earth. I am not as terrified of the future of the planet as many of my peers, so it is not my inability to envision earth or astroturf underneath my chubby feet. I don't know. I wonder if I am brave enough to live without worrying about legacy. Without worrying about witness, as I am to my father and am happy to witness, but can I--as the yammering toothless man I (may) become--sift into the dirt without feelings of regret? No one beside me who is one with my soul, just pleasant memories? Is this so terrible?
I don't know.
~ B
Sunday, May 6, 2012
Find the Dead Body Installment #1
I would like to play a game.
I've discovered that one of my favorite things to do is look at catalogues and choose where the dead body would be hidden, if there was a dead body.
I feel this is a good picture to start with, for reasons I'll reveal later. Please weigh in.
~ B
Friday, May 4, 2012
DISRUPTION
"Man...never perceives anything fully, or comprehends anything completely. He can see, hear, touch and taste; but how far he sees, how well he hears, what his touch tells him, and what he tastes depend upon the number and quality of his senses."
- CG Jung (Man and His Symbols)
The quality of his senses? His sense to be sensitive? Forgive two consecutive quotes, but DaVinci wrote in his notebooks:
"It should not be hard for you to stop sometimes and look into the stains of walls, or ashes of a fire, or clouds, or mud or like places in which...you may find really marvelous ideas."
I think we can all agree the quality of sense in this man was of the original variety of magnificent. According to a mind of artistic, mathematical and general creative greatness: the mud makes us see. The ash and fire. No wonder I am thrown for a loop in this city. Our mud is graffiti or advertising, our ash is starving men on the subway, our fire is a street exposed argument between lovers. Our buildings are our clouds.
Jung also said: "As anthropologists have noted, one of the most common mental derangements that occur among primitive people is what they call the loss of the soul--which means, as the name indicates, a noticeable disruption...". Losing my soul here is, indeed, my greatest fear. I am able to lose things...
But ideas are more immediate here because they have been skewed and sewn into secret daily rituals of our own (mostly ridiculous) making. Attention everyone: We Have Endeavors! We have shit to do! So much so it can be seen from space! We walk and eat and avoid humanity, all while walking and talking of eating and longing for the humanity we are avoiding. These events are more on fire, more dangerous, because we say they are. While I long for a soul that does not feel disrupted or dislodged, I feel sometimes I would be less useful to myself were I to move away and be at peace. How strange that peace can seem selfish, or at least dull...no, terrifying. But again, "Our psyche is part of nature, and its enigma is limitless". To be disrupted, to be on fire in this cramped space, is an invitation for nature to use me in its excesses. I suppose when I can take no more, I will be "selfish" and move away.
"An ability to control one's emotions that may be very desirable from one point of view would be a questionable accomplishment from another, for it would deprive social intercourse of variety, color, and warmth."
Good luck, my friends.
~ B
- CG Jung (Man and His Symbols)
The quality of his senses? His sense to be sensitive? Forgive two consecutive quotes, but DaVinci wrote in his notebooks:
"It should not be hard for you to stop sometimes and look into the stains of walls, or ashes of a fire, or clouds, or mud or like places in which...you may find really marvelous ideas."
I think we can all agree the quality of sense in this man was of the original variety of magnificent. According to a mind of artistic, mathematical and general creative greatness: the mud makes us see. The ash and fire. No wonder I am thrown for a loop in this city. Our mud is graffiti or advertising, our ash is starving men on the subway, our fire is a street exposed argument between lovers. Our buildings are our clouds.
Jung also said: "As anthropologists have noted, one of the most common mental derangements that occur among primitive people is what they call the loss of the soul--which means, as the name indicates, a noticeable disruption...". Losing my soul here is, indeed, my greatest fear. I am able to lose things...
But ideas are more immediate here because they have been skewed and sewn into secret daily rituals of our own (mostly ridiculous) making. Attention everyone: We Have Endeavors! We have shit to do! So much so it can be seen from space! We walk and eat and avoid humanity, all while walking and talking of eating and longing for the humanity we are avoiding. These events are more on fire, more dangerous, because we say they are. While I long for a soul that does not feel disrupted or dislodged, I feel sometimes I would be less useful to myself were I to move away and be at peace. How strange that peace can seem selfish, or at least dull...no, terrifying. But again, "Our psyche is part of nature, and its enigma is limitless". To be disrupted, to be on fire in this cramped space, is an invitation for nature to use me in its excesses. I suppose when I can take no more, I will be "selfish" and move away.
"An ability to control one's emotions that may be very desirable from one point of view would be a questionable accomplishment from another, for it would deprive social intercourse of variety, color, and warmth."
Good luck, my friends.
~ B
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
Tuesday, May 1
I cannot wed the sides of myself. They are warring planets that have no language between them. Nothing but fireworks and longing. If we must not seek our completion outside ourselves, then what are we doing?The living and giving with others seems to be the only worthy contract, many an inspirational poster has told me so...so very good! True happiness in actuality exists outside the self. One's bliss is met, at long last, in the sharing with and giving to another after we hang in there, like a good kitty.
Monks are here to remind us to gaze inward and be silent, be still. Other people too, but I like monks so lets talk about monks. Buddhists monks are these orangey energy fields walking around shining light on everything. It's splendid. But if humanity wasn't such a glorious basket case they'd have no one to remind to be mindful of our own darkness. They'd just be tapping the most annoying monk on the shoulder, the one they like the least, to be better at all his monk stuff.
I am not a monk. I wish I were much of the time. But not today.
I have felt for the longest time the most selfish of creatures. I am so choosy with my love. Love, the finest of things, should it not be given away always, often--as fully as any contract or commitment can be extended? I realize that all humans are woven differently and thankfully our tastes and fancies are not all one thing or another, and even if set and chosen in any given month do change like air pressure...but I have always, if not any one thing, been...well changeable. Changeable and somehow fixed with the desire to catch fire or not live at all. How can such a person finish anything? Even if I look really good in orange?
I rarely do. That's why I get so excited for the small things I do on a somewhat regular basis: pay bills, floss, call people. I tend to begin and begin, hoping the new road is right, the new one is the path, through the earth, the one I needed to dig for and only found what for all the starting and starting.
While one must burn, he may wish to have the substructure to support him; to rage as hot as he can. Plant his feet in the earth! Free from stray saliva from angry mouths ready to minimize him, even his most effervescent parts. His smoke and shadow and ash...the good stuff, really. The secrets about yourself you never admit to anyone and simultaneously realize are the very reason you are alive. Damn it.
Going to a lecture about science stuff tonight. Maybe I'll want to be a monk again tomorrow. We'll see.
~ B
Monks are here to remind us to gaze inward and be silent, be still. Other people too, but I like monks so lets talk about monks. Buddhists monks are these orangey energy fields walking around shining light on everything. It's splendid. But if humanity wasn't such a glorious basket case they'd have no one to remind to be mindful of our own darkness. They'd just be tapping the most annoying monk on the shoulder, the one they like the least, to be better at all his monk stuff.
I am not a monk. I wish I were much of the time. But not today.
I have felt for the longest time the most selfish of creatures. I am so choosy with my love. Love, the finest of things, should it not be given away always, often--as fully as any contract or commitment can be extended? I realize that all humans are woven differently and thankfully our tastes and fancies are not all one thing or another, and even if set and chosen in any given month do change like air pressure...but I have always, if not any one thing, been...well changeable. Changeable and somehow fixed with the desire to catch fire or not live at all. How can such a person finish anything? Even if I look really good in orange?
I rarely do. That's why I get so excited for the small things I do on a somewhat regular basis: pay bills, floss, call people. I tend to begin and begin, hoping the new road is right, the new one is the path, through the earth, the one I needed to dig for and only found what for all the starting and starting.
While one must burn, he may wish to have the substructure to support him; to rage as hot as he can. Plant his feet in the earth! Free from stray saliva from angry mouths ready to minimize him, even his most effervescent parts. His smoke and shadow and ash...the good stuff, really. The secrets about yourself you never admit to anyone and simultaneously realize are the very reason you are alive. Damn it.
Going to a lecture about science stuff tonight. Maybe I'll want to be a monk again tomorrow. We'll see.
~ B
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