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Tuesday, March 04, 2008

Today, I
Category: Writing and Poetry

Woke up at nine, worked, and went back to bed for a spell,
Checked emails, social networking sites, and ebay Germany,
Revised my resume, wrote a cover letter, and applied to a job,
Paid the rent to a douche bag with a non-descript Euro accent,
Returned a lame DVD received in the mail (The Brave One?),
Went grocery shopping for water and various other sundries,
Dipped my turkey panini in honey mustard during lunch,
Had three glasses of Benefiber, and dumped out plenty,
Debated rabble on God and subjectivity, purposelessly,
Worked some more; wrote about injustice and injury,
Played thirty games of tennis and lost seven,
Saw her finally in daylight, watching me through the fence,
Drank lots of water, in and out of the shower,
Got invited to watch the Braves and the Magic Tuesday,
Made barbecue chicken for dinner, with all the fixings,
Drank 7 & 7s and vodka cranberries 'til fuzziness,
Got on a scale and ate my last Cadbury Creme Egg,
Worked some more, and craved writing creatively,
Finally finished Twilight of the Idols by F. N.,
Spent around fifteen minutes writing these words,
Was too busy to watch television or get an erection,
Looked forward to what tomorrow will bring.

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Monday, March 03, 2008

March On
Category: Writing and Poetry

Finally, finally, finally…they finished shooting. Finally, all the footage, all the scenes, all the work is done on the movie about the bike—the bike movie. They had an awesome shoot today, casual, innovative, although a tad understaffed; another hand would have come in, er, handy. But, they managed to pull off some spectacular scenes nonetheless. The thing that made today special was the stunts and the poise with which the two adept multitalented bastards executed them. Nothing left but the editing and the scoring, now. After a long-in-productivity weekend, the guy who types these blogs is pretty tired, but satiated, excited, explosive, ebullient, enigmatically energetic, but still, basically tired. He's going to write himself into unconsciousness here. And, though there will be new scenes to come, for those who might have missed it the first time, here is the last shoot for the movie—four months ago!

    The artists celebrated with a trip to one of the actor's favorite restaurants, a pizza joint called The Mellow Mushroom. Good pizza, good brew, and Pink Floyd music—even obscure Pink Floyd music—have the usually critical director completely at a loss for criticisms. However, that failed to stop a cavalcade of criticisms leveled at the "plastic fantastic" Orlando area. After questioning long after the meal whether he was just "bitter," as the actor claimed, the director realized that his criticisms do not stem from bitterness, or resentment, or anything terribly negative (though always construed as such). The criticisms are nothing more than vocalized realization of frivolity and mediocrity, the self-satisfaction of a subjective perspective shared by horny ostriches that think they're peacocks. The director criticizes the incestuous scene, where a monumental artistic achievement pales when compared to a minute capitalist victory. Everything is chains and franchises. Desire is too strong for communal order, reciprocated excellence, requited compassion, and beauty understandable by a toddler to leave him verbally impotent. He sees nothing but deliberate creations by a profit-driven society to do nothing but encourage ignorance, or worst, exclusion amongst peoples. Make lots of money to build a bigger house with higher gates in the best neighborhood in town; when not there, be entertained somewhere, no matter what the fetish. Even politics is entertainment, along with science, tragedy, knowledge. All substance seems lost for shortsighted joy, which the director continuously shuns. He figures his joy is more real, more lasting than most, because he pursues it so deliberately, so consciously, and with reality as his guide. There is no bitterness there, though there may be some confusion expressed with passion. When he gets this way, in essence, critical of a swing set in a supermarket, he would do well to remember his first lover, Victorie, and offer only solutions.
    While an exchange student in France his junior year, the director met Victorie in front of a McDonalds in Paris. She dropped a bouquet of lilies, and he helped her pick them up. They shared a cigarette, a couple bottles of table wine, and a few days in her flat on Rue Descartes. Though she was almost twenty years his senior, she copulated with the energy of an enthusiastic teenager, but with all the passionate skill of an experienced lover. She was his director. One unusually warm November morning, the two sat on her balcony watching the world rise below, and he noticed a pained look in her expression. Through the smoke of her cigarette, he saw her looking straight into another region of existence, one of which he had no knowledge. She said nothing, and the cigarette continued to burn in her motionless hand. He gently asked her if something was wrong, and she smiled and took a final drag of her cigarette. Snuffing it out in the puce ashtray she made the previous summer, she said something that would never leave him: Il est indigne des grand coeurs de repandre le trouble qu'ils ressentent.* If anyone else had spoke these words to him, he might not have believed them. He thought, and still thinks, to not be afraid of the most unworthy may also be greatness of soul; however, when the director feels he's been too critical, he thinks of his audience, then thinks of Victorie, and revises where appropriate.
    Today, everything is done, and he is happy. And, today, everything needs to be done, and he is happy. Happiness is never his goal, only a side effect of a life properly pursued. He doesn't believe in luck, but still has faith in love, even after again and again. He loves producing, creating, speaking, learning, teaching in a way that those being taught never feel it, but learn it. Tomorrow, he gets back to his plan, and sends out a job solicitation to become an "editor." He uses quotes to diminish the importance of "titles." He'll ask for more money than they'll give, because he knows he's worth it. He can't wait to edit the film, and has even begun a search where and with whom to get drunk with during the weekdays. He's entertaining offers now. And, finally, he cannot wait to try out his freshly strung German tennis racket. He took the shortest month as a boon to his existence, and sees no reason to change anything. He took his leap, and now it's time to march on.
    There is no…god, he loves Mondays!

* It is unworthy of great hearts to pour out the confusion they feel.

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Monday, February 25, 2008

...like a dream.
Category: Writing and Poetry

    Someone woke up on the right side of the world today. That same someone decided to stop using first person, mainly because it does little to help with fiction and merely encourages boring journalizing and self-affirmations. Someone really has no time or compulsion to journalize and affirmations can be internal, not verbal. However, someone may be suffering from hypographia, but cares little to cure it with a pill; someone prefers a pen (or a keyboard). Someone decided to take no more than fifteen minutes on the disease, but true to form, that time doubled.
    Someone woke up looking and feeling like a rock star. The sheets on the bed, the clothes on the floor, the air in the bedroom hung heavy in lavender and vanilla and may have contributed to the feeling of freshness and beauty. Someone's beard looked great, perhaps from the subconscious suggestion inspired by the kind words of praise a friend gave the night prior, or perhaps from the strawberries and cream conditioner recently rubbed into it. Someone's hair even looked werewolves of London perfect right out of bed. Why such a great start? Someone realized Monday is the best day of the week, for most people trudge themselves to work and mundanity, while someone usually takes full advantage of freedom on this day. Monday is someone's personal holiday.
    Someone had no projects on the docket, other than cleaning the house, writing creatively unencumbered by obligation, and victories on a personal level. No competition with anyone or anything but oneself and history. However, someone still took a project, managing to make thirty dollars in thirty minutes. Dishes, toilet, shower, carpet, laundry, counters—cleaned, and dust bunnies ruthlessly executed. After, someone took a prized German tennis racket to be restrung for topspin and suffered the only defeat of the day, told it may take three days to be completed. Of course, only others could ever let someone down. But, the weather outside was so amazingly perfect, no defeat so small could affect it. After a delicious lunch consisting of premium sliced turkey sandwich with muenster, lettuce, tomato, honey mustard, on multigrain bread, someone even took a nap. Some chips, a pickle, and a beer complimented the flavors, and the nap, though short, was a terribly sweet dessert. Someone looks forward to playing tennis later, and writing until sleep becomes too powerful to ignore tonight.
    Someone had a dream about New York again. New York seems to be the favorite locale of dreams for at least two years now. There were people from someone's past—high school, and most looked the same. Ironically, it appeared to be reunion of sorts, with most former friends there; but someone literally backed into the crush by accident, turning around to see the same old clique that used to occupy the corner of the stage in the commons during senior year, of course, where all the coolest people congregated. The feeling was indifference, tempered with relief that someone's life took a different path than the failed individuality he saw in the what-could-have-beens. The dream the night before that, someone was in the military looking for a old friend, basic training, if memory serves. Someone got busted by the drill sergeant, and while being smoked, proved to be quite a soldier. Someone's insistence upon wearing a scowl bodes well in sports and the military, making someone seem serious, directed, competent, fearless; lining up to contend with a person wearing a scowl is quite intimidating, especially when sincere. The dream the night before that, someone had a wad of cash similar to the one that sits in the open lavender and vanilla-filled air of the bedroom; in the dream, the wad went missing. The dream house was a large rundown mansion filled with users and abusers, similar to something that would be seen if "Cops" met the "Real World," and someone got very upset with the tattooed occupants and their cynical superiority that merely masked deeply denied emotional damage. Everyone was street smart and worked for the same company as someone, therefore all in direct competition. None had fear, but not in the I'll-kick-your-ass-(as-long-as-all-my-friends-have-my-back)-frat-boy way, but in a genuine I've-seen-everything-horrible-and-nothing-you-can-do-can-ever-scare-me way. However, someone still got angry, and continued to get angrier, more violently aggressive until the others fessed up, which they all agreed not to do. Someone woke up after throwing a particularly obnoxious housemate through a window. Someone was reminded that monumental masculine strength resided within, even if neglected for intellect.
    Someone had car problems lately and knew the formerly dependable one-dollar car had seen better days; the last day could have been today. The transmission began doing all sorts of things transmissions were never meant to do, like vibrating dramatically and missing shifts. One day, two weeks ago, after a few hours of driving and errands, the transmission even came out of gear on busy Highway 50 and someone thought pulling over would be necessary; but it finally caught and someone drove cautiously home. Someone had accepted that the car was going to die and decided to save money to buy a new one, maybe even picking up the scourge of car payments and joining the ranks of the car slaves. Someone tried to have an oil change performed around Christmastime, but the young man at the station explained how the oil was leaking at such a rate they could not in good conscience change it. So, someone asked the greasy boy-man to put oil in, gave him a tip, and realized that as long as the oil was constantly refilled, all that would happen would be leaks on the road and continuously clean oil.   Then the transmission thing happened, compounding the problems. Someone bought some transmission stop-leak fluid designed to reduce transmission wear, and decided to fill the transmission the proper way instead of the usual way; the proper way includes running the car until it become warm, then checking the fluid level. Once doing this someone realized that there was virtually no transmission fluid in the transmission; however, ironically, the engine oil level was fine.   Turns out, grease monkey was wrong, and the oil leak was from the transmission. After filling up the transmission with almost two bottles of fluid and the stop-leak, the car now drives like a fucking dream.
    Someone saw the sunrise for the first time in months this weekend and remembered how amazing it is. Driving in the car on the way to an early breakfast, an amazing soundtrack playing on the radio, the world looked completely foreign, but indescribably beautiful. Someone thought the time just before dawn must surely have been the most magical in the daily cycle. The thoughts were so intense, someone stopped at a stop sign, comfortable that no one was coming up from behind, and wrote some words on a small pad:

Predawn Without Obligation

Few things in life bring as much peace,
Solitude, tranquility, as when the sun still sleeps
Everything once sinister looks new and peaceful
The Christian cross even looks harmless
So many old people, like the undead
The true "players" ending their days
I'm the only car on the road not in a hurry
Everyone needs predawn without obligation
To remind them of the natural order
With love, seclusion, and only breathing thoughts

    Someone today may not be giddy like an Oscar winner, with a superiority over others to validate victory. But, someone is giddier; someone realizes that the small victories of the day, and of life, non-competitive, without any need to feel superior, are enough to make life perfect. The car, the food, the drink, the cleanliness, the sanctuary, the freedom, the love—the small things become monumental. And life, no matter how muddled, slow, or fleeting, becomes just...

Next day equalization:

    Someone made thirty dollars in three hours, helped by a mind-numbing topic and losing almost half a project from a power outage. The weather is windy and cloudy, and being trash day, the trash of a random neighbor is blowing in the wind, caught only by someone's fence. The dreams were strange, with family in some sort of tree community that forced someone into confined entryways to get through. Someone did cash a big check, but much like the orgasm after solo sex, the anticipation was greater than the payoff. However, there was one funny thing that happened. Someone got an email from a roommate during the weekend with the subject line: "Someone has new tits and is single." Someone opened it up to find a very fit, very tan girl posing on the beach in a bikini. The pictures looked professional, and someone thought it was Sandra Bullock. Someone dismissed it completely, only to find out through conversation that it was a girl that went to high school with someone. The girl was never fat but always cute, with a female softness to her; now she looks like a caricature, with rock hard abs, rock hard tits, and a tan that would make George Hamilton say, "Woah!" Someone went to sleep last night with a sentence in mind and forgot to write it down, only to have it shaken out by new information. Someone wrote it down, and it has so far been the only creative thing written all day:

Put down the bible and write your own.

    Someone longs for the world where conformity does not exist, which would make non-conformity a non-issue as well. Someone really needs a dialogue with an "eccentric" genius of the sciences, philosophy, but with knowledge of the arts enough to know all the beauty but not be blinded or have the desire to worship any of it. Someone needs not a monologue with writers or artists. Someone feels that it may be time to get back to work, because colorless days like these are more like a fucking nightmare than...

Next day realization:

    Someone realized a way that they can write nonsense in public when needed without necessitating a new blog that tells everyone something of interest has been written. Simply adding onto to another blog is a great way to sneak words online without causing a ripple.
    Someone is all about esotericism (and eroticism).
    Someone missed something recently, but everyone misses something sometimes.
    Someone's finishing a movie this week, which will be perfect.
    Someone is still happy about fixing a car.
    Someone needs to write another email.
    Someone likes one kind of sweetened iced tea.
    Someone has to get back to work, but
    Someone wonders if there's a way to get life to alway be...

Next day conflagration:

    Someone has one day left to meet all goals, then will spontaneously combust in a way that seems...

Leap Day actualization:

    Someone was going to write the last section of the of the last blog before the leap in first person; but instead, someone sat down and said: "I was going to work on final revisions of the screenplay, which is really down to shoring up the format and making every word a razor. But, a friend request to my original myspace made me visit it. It's really been retired since 2006, but I just didn't have the heart to delete the 250 blogs. Ironically, a small percentage of the most important blogs are private, so I can only read them if I login, so I'm at a quandary. All, fucking, though…what better day to leave to posterity than Leap Day? Okay, so that just made up the mind for me. The last day, ever, to login to my original profile is February 29, 2008. It will be permanently in retirement on that day and I will never login and never answer friend requests or messages from it. I can collect those blogs and add them to what I'm working on instead of the screenplay (actually, dummy, you're blogging right now [I know, give me a minute. Okay, 15 minutes. I need breaks sometimes, you know.] Fine, just quit your bitching and finish this bloglet so we can get back to work and stop looking schizophrenic. [It's only words.]), which is the book I may have mentioned before. Semi-autobiographical, a lot of it is culled from letters, messages, notes from the past. And, revisiting the old page is visiting the past. There is a good song, though, on the profile page, which is a great requiem. It really is a nice page, with celestial events and such. I also clicked on the former page of my collaborator, and I found mostly my writing on the profile, in the form of messages. I sent a message almost every day for months and they're all there telling a story. And, here's when I start believing that I got the goods; some of what was written was clever and heartfelt beyond me, perfect. What sustains me the most, is that I'm a huge fan of me. In writing, it helps; but in a lot of other things, it'sa not so gude. Complexity amuses me. Through my study of these past pages, the story is there, perfect, pure aphoristic delight. The book is more organizing than anything, and anything remotely autobiographical (which all the best writing is) is draining when writer's detachment is more difficult to maintain. Needless to say, it sometimes goes slower than fast, which could explain this current diversion. But, I will organize now. The writing, much of the best stuff, is already written, inspired and easy and captured in weird places like retired myspace pages. I just wanted to throw ideas. Had a good talk about writing today, and I love talking to writers. I love throwing ideas about writing and life. I love when people throw them back. Could everything I ever do and say be only because of love? Nah. Just writing."
    Someone looked at the clock and decided to get back to work. A strong feeling of déjà vu was felt, disorienting and almost…

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Friday, February 22, 2008

His Paris
Category: Writing and Poetry

    Where is it, he wondered, my Paris between the wars?
    Sitting in front of the new Starbucks he started frequenting for its convenient location and magnetic draw over impressionable, young nubiles, he felt like cardboard. The comedy of the world seemed pale and the tragedy forced, though no one noticed or cared. There was too much life to swallow, too many lights, too many roads leading away from his Paris between the wars. No one even spoke the language anymore, just imitations of copies of criticisms of actuality. The pawnshop culture underpaid for talent, while true intellect got melted down and recycled. Substance became fashion, and the only Paris anyone knew was an entitled whore. The college girl with the ponytail texted someone about something. He tried to imagine it was a quote from Anais Nin, but he knew better. No one texted literary quotes.
    The Starbucks workers knew him by now, but none bothered to ask him to leave. He never bought anything, just came and sat at one of the bistro tables outside with his leather bag, papers, and two plastic bottles, one clearly water and the other which looked like iced-tea. He sat for hours some days, incessantly smoking Marlboro reds, writing in a blue binder, alternating sips from his bottles. The baristas nicknamed him "Hemingway," mostly because of his unkempt beard and their lack of literary knowledge or creativity. He felt them watching while he wrote; he often wrote about them.
    Though he boycotted Starbucks since the first day he heard of it, for no other reason than his belief that caffeine was the soma of the workaday world, he realized that few other establishments allowed hours of idle sitting at such low cost, especially establishments within biking distance from his house. He turned his trips into semi-daily affairs, whenever he found time to get away from work. The people he observed from under his green umbrella did little to inspire romance within him; their conversations only made his thoughts more pointed and critical. Paris this was not. He sometimes wished the people, the table, the world around him was a dream, but only reality could be so plain, so awkwardly desperate in every regard. No dreams felt like this.
    It was a Thursday when the brunette barista clearing off the adjacent table looked at him curiously, wanting desperately to say something, to ask him a question about his writing, whether he wanted a biscotti, what kind of tea he drank—anything. The other caffeine teens watched her from the inside of the store, knowing that she would chicken out. There was something about his intensity that frightened them far more than the other regulars—skinny fashionable art school drop-ins with their greasy hair and pockets full of trust fund money. The brunette, an English major at the local liberal arts school, believed she was witnessing history unfold when he showed. She thought for sure that he was writing something that the world would come to know, and she wanted to be a part.
    "Excuse me," she asked, much to the astonishment of her fellow coffee slingers. "Do you go to Amherst?"
    He looked up from his last phrase—the infinite confession of a tortured soul.
    "I'm sorry?"
    "No, I just thought you looked like you someone who goes to Amherst. I study English there, and I was wondering if you went there, too, if I might have seen you on campus."
    "No, I don't."
    She stood there for a moment, unsure of what to say next. He smiled slightly and could swear he saw her hazel eyes sparkle. He closed his binder.
    "I actually graduated from a college down south no one's ever heard of. I'm here just taking everything in for now, trying to find my muse."
    "Are you a writer?"
    "Not really. I write, but I kind of just consider myself a human, you know." It had been so long since he flirted with anyone, he forgot how. A sharp microburst of pain exploded behind his eye. Stupid!
    "Nice," she said, paying a glance to her co-workers behind the glass.
    "Are you going to school to be a writer?" he asked.
    "I don't know. I doubt it. I don't know really what I want to do at this point."
    "See, that's why I tell people I'm a human. It's the easiest thing to be and no one can question it. I just wish it paid better."
    She laughed, and he found his Paris in her smile.

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Thursday, February 21, 2008

I’ll See You On...
Category: Writing and Poetry

Ah, the heavens…the heavens…celestial wonder…the things we know not tonight, but may discover in the morning—these make gazing skyward invaluable to philosophers, dreamers, and lovers.

The clouds were against us tonight, conspiring to make it nothing more than an excursion into the outside. My lovely friend Margarita by my side, I tasted her salt on my lips as we watched our collective shadow make a shape on the moon. For nearly two score minutes we watched, waited, wondered if the star of the show, or moon, to be accurate, would reveal itself behind the altocumulus clouds. Dark Side of the Moon played through the window, synchronized so "Eclipse" would mark the eclipse, the climax would meet the climax, sweet climax. But, the uncooperative atmosphere seemed content to ruin our purpose for being.

A few of us spoke about our lands, lives, loves, and their lack. I smoked many a-cigarette as the drama folded, unfolded, and finally broke from the stress. "Fuckin' Florida," someone said. "'Us and Them,' is one of my favorite songs," I thought. Someone remarked about the bugs that could be crawling on us, though I reminded them that if every cell in our bodies became invisible, we would be nothing but a ghostly outline of microscopic organisms that resemble our shape. "Yeah, but at least you can't see them."

The clouds broke! Just around the time "Brain Damage" began playing. I ditched lovely Margarita for my old friend Sam Adams, and smoked a cigarette in celebration of witnessing.

All that you touch… the cigarette's warmth in my right hand, Sam's coldness in my left… All that you see… the penumbra continued its journey… All that you taste… my favorite lager… All you feel… fizzed on my tongue… All that you love… compassion… All that you hate… indifference… All you distrust… them… All you save… myself. All that you give… my time… All that you deal… my space… All that you buy… everything against me… Beg, borrow or steal… 'me' time. All you create… thoughts… All you destroy… preconceptions… All that you do… stand and look up… All that you say… " ". All that you eat… and drink… And everyone you meet… friends… All that you slight… foes… And everyone you fight… sometimes… All that is now… is life… All that is gone… was life… All that's to come… will be life… And everything under the sun is in tune, but the sun is eclipsed by the moon… and sometimes the moon is eclipsed by the shadow of everything we know.

Completion! The moon defied the darkness, incomplete in its totality, a sliver of lightness in the eastern corner. The music faded into a heartbeat, the last smoke of the cigarette rose skyward from the ground, the final sips of Sam Adams circled in the bottle.

"Is that it?"

"I think so."

"Hmm."

Despite the monosyllabic utterances of my companions, my thoughts only spun poetry, and how good it is sometimes, simply just to be.

And, for those that missed it...

Dark Side of the Moon

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Sunday, February 10, 2008

I
Category: Writing and Poetry

    I thought it was such a beautiful day today—a "me" day. Florida winter made a half-hearted attempt to let us know it refused to fade without a fight. A crispness to the air, the sky, the colors of my surroundings overwhelmed me. The bright reds of an airplane as it pierced the clearness made it seem as if it could be plucked from the heavens like a child's toy from a chest. It hardly seemed real, but it was. Ah, how I longed to be long in the elements.
   I spent all day inside walls, covered by roofs. The elements had no place where I sat staring at words I created on a screen, listening to orchestrated sounds from a box created by others. A war documentary showed on a tube, and as usual, I wondered whether life is truly more exhilarating when the specter of death is all around. I wondered if love is more potent when assuaged by consuming hatred. I questioned whether indifference is the natural state of existence, the most powerful, controlled state to which humans can aspire. Indifferent like a tree; indifferent like a god. I wondered if love and hate were nothing more than weaknesses of character, illusions fostered by incomplete intellects and inauthentic beings. I wondered if I wondered too much. A beautiful day never stopped a war.
   I wrote about morality when I woke, and history after that, and cyber crime after that, and gender inequality after that; I defined "culture" as art and as life, like a dead guy once wrote. Then, I went outside and realized that I love, weak or not, and I long, right or wrong, and I hold, clumsily or with grace, to my belief in not believing. I had to write something for free, for me, for we.
   I want all my walls to be clear, and my house, glass. I want access to the world, with observations culled from the electricity in my brain and not of that making the screens glow with advertisements for romantic holidays and suggestions of how life need be spent. Noise. Even the books are loud these days.
   I finally got my invitation to the wedding in late May and figured out my costs. Funny how the celebration of the love between two people costs others so much. Between the flight, the hotel, the gifts, the parties, I will be looking at around two thousand dollars worth of celebrating. At first, I was a bit taken aback at such an expense, but the friend I celebrate has always been a good one well worth the extra work it takes to make these arrangements. So, I amped up my word counts for the coming weeks and have gone insane with work. Ironically, instead of robbing from my creative writing too much, it seemed to encourage it.
   I finally finished my screenplay, for all intents and purposes. I just keep reading it, changing little things, doubting whether I possess genius or some sort of mental deficiency. I think after this, I may give up writing about sports altogether. Ironically, I saw not one sports show, highlight, headline in the last week, and felt a sort of comfort in that. The only reason I ever write about sports, which is not because I possess a deep love for spectatorship, is because I think writing has become (or maybe always was) such a feminized endeavor that I want to go against that mold by tackling subjects interesting to heterosexual males. I want to create poetry that men who scratch themselves and get in fist fights can say, "Shit, that wasn't bad," and their women can say, "That was beautiful." I suppose Papa and Duke have the market cornered, but last time I checked, both are dead. Still, maybe my writing efforts are better spent elsewhere, and athletics need to be saved for exercising. I did actually find out that Orlando has adult baseball leagues one can join for $240 dollars per season; unfortunately, the season starts tomorrow and registration was last month. Better luck next year.
   I found religion, praise be to reason. Before you keel over in shock, the religion I found is actually nothing more than a fervent devotion to my allotted goals for February. I would estimate I devoted at least a hundred hours to work and structured writing last week, a pace I always desired but missed. My screenplay is done and virtually ready to ship, slated for a contest with a leap-day deadline matching my own. I scrapped the novel about the perfect season, for obvious reasons. But, and this is huge to me, I have a novel in the works that is so much more rewarding, though so much more experimental and difficult to describe than anything I have previously attempted. But, the closest thing I can relate it to would have to be something along the lines of Joyce's Ulysses. I have a long way to go until I can improve upon that, but I have over fifty thousand words so far, and I feel I might be halfway finished. This could take up the rest of my month, though I still want to finish my play and revise my dystopian short story. But, despite mustering my own will to continue at a rate that sometimes totals twenty hours a day, I realized I need stimulus to aid my productivity, because sometimes it feels all the writing combines into one long, meandering stream-of-unconsciousness which leaks into the world of the everyday and prevents any reality from flourishing. And, the stimulus I crave is not necessarily the kind I detailed in the scandalously mysterious blog of a week ago; I need to feel the elements around me and know that I exist, and then return to the world of thought with fresh action accomplished.
   I write this as a diversion, on a Saturday that means nothing but more work. I was going to write for myself after this, but I just took another project and I may be able to finish it before tonight, so I have to try. If I sustain this kind of business productivity, I could make forty grand this year as an English major two years removed from graduation. If I sustain this kind of creative productivity, I could make a million dollars next year.
   I will sustain.

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Thursday, February 07, 2008

Ubermensch 2000
Category: Writing and Poetry

WHAT THE AMERICANS LACK

1

Among Americans today it is not enough to have spirit: one must arrogate it, one must have the arrogance to have spirit.

Perhaps I know the Americans, perhaps I may even tell them some truths. The new America represents a large quantum of fitness, both inherited and acquired by training, so that for a time it may expend its accumulated store of strength, even squander it. It is not a high culture that has thus become the master, and even less a delicate taste, a noble "beauty" of the instincts; but more virile virtues than any other country in the West can show. Much cheerfulness and self-respect, much assurance in social relations and in the reciprocality of duties, much industriousness, much perseverance — and an inherited moderation which needs the spur rather than the brake. I add that here one still obeys without feeling that obedience humiliates. And nobody despises his opponent.

One will notice that I wish to be just to the Americans: I do not want to break faith with myself here. I must therefore also state my objections to them. One pays heavily for coming to power: power makes stupid. The Americans — once they were called the people of thinkers: do they think at all today? The Americans are now bored with the spirit, the Americans now mistrust the spirit; politics swallows up all serious concern for really spiritual matters. The United States of America: one nation, under God — I fear that was the end of American philosophy.

"Are there any American philosophers? Are there American poets? Are there good American books?" they ask me abroad. I blush; but with the courage which I maintain even in desperate situations I reply: "Well, Dylan." Would it be permissible for me to confess what books are read today? Accursed instinct of mediocrity!

2

What the American spirit might be — who has not had his melancholy ideas about that! But this people has deliberately made itself stupid, for nearly a half millennium: nowhere have the two great European narcotics, alcohol and Christianity, been abused more dissolutely. Recently even a third has been added — one that alone would be sufficient to dispatch all fine and bold flexibility of the spirit — music, our constipated, constipating American music.

How much disgruntled heaviness, lameness, dampness, dressing gown — how much beer there is in the American intelligence! How is it at all possible that young men who dedicate their lives to the most spiritual goals do not feel the first instinct of spirituality, the spirit's instinct of self-preservation — and drink beer? The alcoholism of young scholars is perhaps no question mark concerning their scholarliness — without spirit one can still be a great scholar — but in every other respect it remains a problem. Where would one not find the gentle degeneration which beer produces in the spirit? Once, in a case that has almost become famous, I put my finger on such a degeneration — the degeneration of our number-one American free spirit, the clever Jack Kerouac, into the author of a beer-bench gospel and "new faith." It was not for nothing that he had made his vow to the "fair brunette" [dark beer] in verse — loyalty unto death.

3

I was speaking of the American spirit: it is becoming cruder, it is becoming shallower. Is that enough? At bottom, it is something quite different that alarms me: how American seriousness, American depth, American passion in spiritual matters are declining more and more. The verve has changed, not just the intellectuality. Here and there I come into contact with American universities: what an atmosphere prevails among their scholars, what desolate spirituality — and how contented and lukewarm it has become! It would be a profound misunderstanding if one wanted to adduce American science against me-it would also be proof that one has not read a word I have written. For seventeen years I have never tired of calling attention to the despiritualizing influence of our current science-industry. The hard helotism to which the tremendous range of the sciences condemns every scholar today is a main reason why those with a fuller, richer, profounder disposition no longer find a congenial education and congenial educators. There is nothing of which our culture suffers more than of the superabundance of pretentious jobbers and fragments of humanity; our universities are, against their will, the real hothouses for this kind of withering of the instincts of the spirit. And the whole of Europe already has some idea of this — power politics deceives nobody. America is considered more and more as Western culture's flatland. I am still looking for an American with whom I might be able to be serious in my own way — and how much more for one with whom I might be cheerful! Twilight of the Idols: who today would comprehend from what seriousness a philosopher seeks recreation here? Our cheerfulness is what is most incomprehensible about us.

4

Even a rapid estimate shows that it is not only obvious that American culture is declining but that there is sufficient reason for that. In the end, no one can spend more than he has: that is true of an individual, it is true of a people. If one spends oneself for power, for power politics, for economics, world trade, parliamentarianism, and military interests — if one spends in the direction the quantum of understanding, seriousness, will, and self- overcoming which one represents, then it will be lacking for the other direction.

Culture and the state — one should not deceive one-self about this — are antagonists: "Kultur-Staat" is merely a modern idea. One lives off the other, one thrives at the expense of the other. All great ages of culture are ages of political decline: what is great culturally has always been unpolitical, even anti-political. Goethe's heart opened at the phenomenon of Napoleon — it closed at the "Wars of Liberation." At the same moment when America comes up as a great power, France gains a new importance as a cultural power. Even today much new seriousness, much new passion of the spirit, have migrated to Paris; the question of pessimism, for example, the question of Wagner, and almost all psychological and artistic questions are there weighed incomparably more delicately and thoroughly than in America — the Americans are altogether incapable of this kind of seriousness. In the history of Western culture the rise of the "Republic" means one thing above all: a displacement of the center of gravity. It is already known everywhere: in what matters most — and that always remains culture — the Americans are no longer worthy of consideration. One asks: Can you point to even a single spirit who counts from a Western point of view, as your Emerson, your Thoreau, your Benjamin Franklin, your Jefferson counted? That there is no longer a single American philosopher — about that there is no end of astonishment.

5

The entire system of higher education in America has lost what matters most: the end as well as the means to the end. That education, that system, is itself an end — and not "the Republic" — and that educators are needed to that end, and not secondary-school teachers and university scholars — that has been forgotten. Educators are needed who have themselves been educated, superior, noble spirits, proved at every moment, proved by words and silence, representing culture which has grown ripe and sweet — not the learned louts whom secondary schools and universities today offer our youth as "higher wet nurses." Educators are lacking, not counting the most exceptional of exceptions, the very first condition of education: hence the decline of American culture.

What the "higher schools" in America really achieve is a brutal training, designed to prepare huge numbers of young men and women, with as little loss of time as possible, to become usable, abusable, in government service. "Higher education" and huge numbers — that is a contradiction to start with. All higher education belongs only to the exception: one must be privileged to have a right to so high a privilege. All great, all beautiful things can never be common property: pulchrum est paucorum hominum. What contributes to the decline of American culture? That "higher education" is no longer a privilege — the democratism of universities, which has become "common" — too common. Let it not be forgotten that military privileges really compel an all-too-great attendance in the higher schools, and thus their downfall.

In present-day America no one is any longer free to give his children a noble education: our "higher schools" are all set up for the most ambiguous mediocrity, with their teachers, curricula, and teaching aims. And everywhere an indecent haste prevails, as if something would be lost if the young man of twenty-three were not yet "finished," or if he did not yet know the answer to the "main question": which calling? A higher kind of human being, if I may say so, does not like "callings," precisely because he knows himself to be called. He has time, he takes time, he does not even think of "finishing": at thirty one is, in the sense of high culture, a beginner, a child. Our overcrowded secondary schools, our overworked, stupefied secondary-school teachers, are a scandal: for one to defend such conditions, as the professors at Columbia did recently, there may perhaps be causes — reasons there are none.

6

I put forward at once — lest I break with my style, which is affirmative and deals with contradiction and criticism only as a means, only involuntarily — the three tasks for which educators are required. One must learn to see, one must learn to think, one must learn to speak and write: the goal in all three is a noble culture. Learning to see — accustoming the eye to calmness, to patience, to letting things come up to it; postponing judgment, learning to go around and grasp each individual case from all sides. That is the first preliminary schooling for spirituality: not to react at once to a stimulus, but to gain control of all the inhibiting, excluding instincts. Learning to see, as I understand it, is almost what, unphilosophically speaking, is called a strong will: the essential feature is precisely not to "will" — to be able to suspend decision. All unspirituality, all vulgar commonness, depend on the inability to resist a stimulus: one must react, one follows every impulse. In many cases, such a compulsion is already pathology, decline, a symptom of exhaustion — almost everything that unphilosophical crudity designates with the word "vice" is merely this physiological inability not to react. A practical application of having learned to see: as a learner, one will have become altogether slow, mistrustful, recalcitrant. One will let strange, new things of every kind come up to oneself, inspecting them with hostile calm and withdrawing one's hand. To have all doors standing open, to lie servilely on one's stomach before every little fact, always to be prepared for the leap of putting oneself into the place of, or of plunging into, others and other things — in short, the famous modern "objectivity" — is bad taste, is ignoble par excellence.

7

Learning to think: in our schools one no longer has any idea of this. Even in the universities, even among the real scholars of philosophy, logic as a theory, as a practice, as a craft, is beginning to die out. One need only read American books: there is no longer the remotest recollection that thinking requires a technique, a teaching curriculum, a will to mastery — that thinking wants to be learned like dancing, as a kind of dancing. Who among Americans still knows from experience the delicate shudder which light feet in spiritual matters send into every muscle? The stiff clumsiness of the spiritual gesture, the bungling hand at grasping — that is American to such a degree that abroad one mistakes it for the American character as such. The American has no fingers for nuances.

That the Americans have been able to stand their philosophers at all, especially that most deformed concept-cripple of all time, the great Maslow, provides not a bad notion of American grace. For one cannot subtract dancing in every form from a noble education — to be able to dance with one's feet, with concepts, with words: need I still add that one must be able to dance with the pen too — that one must learn to write? But at this point I should become completely enigmatic for American readers.

What you just read (or completely skipped) was the section I recently finished of the book, Twilight of the Idols, by Friedrich Nietzsche, which he wrote over the course of a week one late summer the year before he lost his mind. It just struck me how everything he wrote about Germany seemed applicable to Americans today, so I updated it for my entertainment. What also strikes me about Nietzsche is how funny he can be, with sardonic wit that misses not one beat. I recommend picking up any of his books, as simple wisdom transcends time and distance.

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Tuesday, February 05, 2008

Edited For Your Protection
Category: Blogging

    So, for the first time on here, I posted a blog for my paying readers only. It's funny, because I thought I wasn't going to blog anymore with all the writing I planned, but I realized if I spend fifteen minutes, I can usually shit out between one and two thousand words; and, it's a good writing enema. I think it's stupid that myspace notifies subscribers that a new blog is up even when they can't read it. The blog was nothing more than a piece I wrote after I finished off the scotch in my flask and drank a few more beers, hoping to get the bad taste out of frustration out of my mouth. The blog was really nothing more than an ode to intense frustration, but I watched Network a few days ago and it was the closest thing I had to going to my window and yelling, "I'm mad as hell! And, I'm not going to take it anymore!" Sure, the game was annoying; I can't lie. Much of the post was about that. The commercials made me angry, as commercials do, and the game made me angry, too. I try to remain objectively removed from every situation, which often makes many situations difficult, but every now and them I insert myself to appear more human to others, ie. my adult sports fandom. But, in reality, the only thing that I found intriguing was the pursuit of perfection and how much resent it caused in everyone else. I realized how the world—the world we Americans remain so ignorant of—sees our country. We're the best, and they hate it. But, we lie and cheat other countries, and we're smug and beautiful get away with whatever we want. But, every now and then, someone flies planes into our buildings. Last night was a football 9-11, and the mightiest took a hit to the cheers of many. I can never remove the social implications of sports, and the whole thing made me think how our country is losing its luster and becoming increasingly ignorant and insulated from truth, not that I begrudge people their subjective reality. Anyone—ANYONE—who really studies history understands how we share so many traits with Rome before the fall, and the spectacle wreaked of deterioration. But, our country is a democratically created system that we can control, and I guess I got frustrated at how we control it—breads and circuses. Do we control it, or does it control us? I found no poetry in the night's "entertainment," other than the hospitality and good cheer of kind friends. That's enough, really, and there need not be a broadcast to have that. Even if my team won, it still would have left me with an empty feeling, because it means so little in my heart of hearts. But, I still wanted to witness history, however slight, perfection, however superficial. Even if I was completely objective last night, I still would have preferred the perfect story to the one that was written, because it was more original, not to mention the book—the book I've already written forty pages of, and which was so dependent upon the perfect season, I have no desire to continue. There is no perfect season, and I really don't feel like doing research on the '72 Dolphins. Though… It could be just as good, if not better. Hmm… Hmm… I'll get back to you on that one. Maybe it's nothing a little revision can't fix.
    Then, I wrote in the blog a bit about dreams. Anyone I spoke to yesterday knows the dream to which I woke. I think I mentioned it in between nips of Vat. I think it represented frustration, obviously, and the added frustration of the night exacerbated every other frustration, including that kind of frustration. You know the kind. I think my bloggish observations ended up just a tad too personal and gratuitous for any non-paying readers to see. I hardly make excuses when I have drinks, though I do tend to get slightly more congenial and far more affectionate. But, I needed to write something loudly. I've been living in words lately, and the latter half of my blog was about how I literally needed some action. Now, who really wants to read that? Exactly. Either way, it was nothing special. Some naughty words used were: sex, bullshit, fuck (18 times), asshole, finger-fuck, pussy, fucking, cunnilingus, fucked, pubic hairs, cock, love, bitch, and it had a couple references to "briny moisture" and coming on a girl's face. Anyone who knows me knows that I would never use such terminology and this blog was an aberration. I'm really such a nice boy. But, still, I feel bad posting any blogs that non-paying readers cannot see for free (though, 35 cents a year to be on my preferred list is hardly expensive at all). So, here is a blog that everyone can enjoy. It's a new day, and no one I know got killed in South Central L.A. I would finish that song, but it looks like my fifteen minutes are about up.
    So, thanks for reading, and here is a little bonus gift to all my loyal reader (I hope soon to be able to put an "s" at the end of "reader"). Ironically, it has nothing to do with reading. It's a movie I made with my nephews one weekend while I was on vacation up north this summer. Last week, it was edited down by two minutes to be able to fit on Youtube. I hear it's being quoted by a bunch of kids in his school. Enjoy!

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Friday, February 01, 2008

Page 73
Category: Writing and Poetry

Most of these words were written during an assembly to celebrate writers.

    I had to go. They were reading my favorite author. I was curious what the Pulitzer Prize winner had to say about the story. I read the work over a year ago, and it stayed with me. Details eroded since, but the feeling, the original assessment of painstakingly perfect genius stayed. Genius is easily recognized by…   When they finished discussing the remedial story of the first girl, the story I came for was finally brought out. The author read the poetic prose of the first paragraph. I wondered if anyone knew what they were getting for free. I was satisfied that I did, and always have. I knew he did, and him. Only hardware, years, and sycophants separated us. When the girl brought up the one part, the part about the baseball player, I had to quickly thumb to the page and reread. Did I miss this, or purposely put it out of my head? "It confused me a bit. Like, I didn't understand who the baseball player was and why he was so oblivious. Was it her brother, or some random friend?" I forgot. Then, I found the page. It found me. I remembered. I remembered hating that character, and it was refreshed. After, the author made sure to tell me that the character was not anyone I knew, but I knew him. I know writers—real writers. I know how they work, the geniuses (the author) and talentless (throw a rock) alike. I know how they shape worlds based on worlds. In one world, the world from which the author came, I might have been him. In this world, I was not. How I hated him the first time we met. How I wished to revise him, make him into a blanket that may have provided warmth, comfort, at least so he could have been in the least bit useful. But, he was a rock, though not in the steadfast, unwavering metaphoric sense. He was the cold, hard, barren metaphor on which the character could break herself if she chose. She never did. Then, I realized the character was necessary. He was alone and reminded her that she was, too. He was me; as she was, as they were, fictional and real alike. There was no revision there—none needed. The story was written. The author was so careful to mention it wasn't anyone I knew. I know this. Why the author writes so well, and always had and will always have my favor is because it wasn't me. It was a me—a single instance of me. Something I gave, for better or worse, to the mind capable of turning ugliness into beauty. It was a part, with shared traits, a shared love for something, a blindness (kindly labeled as simplicity); he was ignorant. He is me. And, how I hated that character, that man who, though capable of offering sincere warmth, didn't. Couldn't. The author reassured me, sincerely yet needlessly, and all I could do is respect the talents of someone that can capture complexity in a word and simplicity in thousand. All I could do is respect someone with eyes wider than most everyone I've met, and hope they never get tired from what they see and look away. I wished I were a blanket.
    Guinness and phone calls.
    I sat there listening, like everyone else, but not really. There was an unsatisfying feeling to it, a masturbatory Doppler effect that only a few felt bouncing off the walls of the room. Shit, maybe no one felt it but the man at the podium and me. He could feel it. He knew it. But, for a writer, praise and a free meal are enough to endure, maybe even grow to enjoy, the prattle of those who merely want a piece of something above them. I sat there watching. Were all these people born to be spectators? I never read him, but saw a movie they made based on the novel from which he was reading an excerpt. It was one of two scenes from the movie that stood out in my mind as amazing, and I appreciated that he appreciated it, too. Ironically, the line that stayed longest with me, he never read. Was it just the addition of the screenwriter? Possibly. It was the part when the despairing housewife commented on her sociable friend's ability to make friends. "You're good at it." "Good at what?" I began to wonder if I was a 1950s housewife. And, he didn't even write it. I felt my phone vibrate, but ignored it. I listened to the writer and the people. I watched and I cringed every time the older ones laughed at the wrong passages, followed by the younger ones who knew no better. Who are they, really? Moreover, why are they? Aesthetes. It's a word I learned. Lovers of words, perhaps? I'll forgive them their trespasses, for they have yet to trespass against me. I waited until he finished reading the passage to pull out my pen, the pen whose coldness, though unfelt physically, burned white hot mentally. The pen I would use to free the world—my world. Our world. Was there some kind of hidden wisdom dying to get out? Would this pen be its means to a beginning? Maybe. What is this feeling? Could it be the desire not to be a lifelong spectator, the loathsomeness I own at such a concept? I sat there, watching, listening, knowing I'm no more…than…a…spectator. I needed to become a writer that instant, and my pen knew it before I did.
    Question and answer.
    Now for the lines. The lines that brought the lines. The lines because of the lines. People loosely assembled in veins running through the room, making their way to the man—the man who wrote the lines that made the lines. I could only think of a wedding and the reception line. It was like that, only with more reverence and more cameraphones. So much joy, but it made me wonder for what? Is it the joy of the words that can never be erased from the page—the words that gave them joy in the quiet of their homes, minds, centers of their being where gravity holds them together and from which every great sensation in life spreads? My favorite author was onstage, and I was happy. Hard to believe this is all because of words. No, it's more than words. Words are never just words. Words are action personified, deified, crucified. Words are thoughts. Though, only the small-minded take thoughts as anything other than action. I look at the scores of waiting people and wonder, "Is there something wrong with me that this does so little?" Yes/no. False doctors, doctors of words, relics of a time when knowledge was as important as… How many writers are really here? I see one, maybe two, certainly no more than a handful. Perhaps, the workday is done and this is how they spend their off time. No. There are hundreds of people here, maybe more. How many are really writers? None? All? I refuse to believe some. I prefer all. Why do they hide it behind spectatorship? Why do I hide it behind… I won't get in line to tell him how much I enjoy his work, how much I respect his words. I'm sure if I read him in detail, I could. But, I was here for a different author. I thought about how, when the day comes and the lines of sycophants point in that author's direction, how it will be handled. Am I a sycophantic follower already? Nah. I've just seen it all, the future included. Elements of it live everywhere—in the present, the past, every word spoken and each that's denied existence. I know how the author will do it—as always, with grace.
    I waited, wrote words with no direction but to affirm I wrote. I was a writer, dammit! In a room full of people, celebrating writing, this was the only homage I could pay to the man. I followed the words. "Inspiration," from hearing the award winner discussing what it takes to be him. "Possibility," from the hope (he made a joke about a bad existentialist, something I often call myself when it comes to how much hope I foster) of one day creating a note to slip into the pocket of posterity. His story could be about me, and I could be him, had I greater sexual confusion in my life. He reminded me that I need to go back to school, because academia is the only place that will ever encourage my kind of nonsense. But, there were many things I had no compulsion to want. Success, perhaps, but I fear I would grow to hate my audience. I would take the free drinks, though. After four pages written, I looked down to see a significant amount of dried blood on my right middle finger. What the hell? I saw the author on stage, the one I came to see. I motioned I was going to the bathroom. The blood was so caked that it took some effort to get off and then started bleeding again. What a strange wound. I went outside to smoke a cigarette, waited for the crowd to disperse, and wondered if my favorite author would share a drink with me. Unfortunately, plans were already afoot to share drinks with the Pulitzer Prize winner. C'est la vie. I was happy, proud, filled, and envisioned the day when my Nobel Prize would get me free drinks on every college campus from Harvard to Stanford (though completely ignored on the street). The best of all worlds. A short ride home, my final cigarette, the last swigs of scotch from my flask, and the final words written on a yellow pad before I get out of my car and greet the unconditional love and acceptance of an eleven-year-old friend and worlds yet unimagined. The blood from the wound continues to flow, but I know it will stop.
    This night had nothing to do with the author they came to see. This night was about the author next to him. This night was about the author in the crowd, stealing words in between random quips about living the life of a writer. His job is never really done. Good thing, he loves his job so.
    This night is about writing.

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Saturday, January 26, 2008

Taking A Leap
Category: Goals, Plans, Hopes

Dear myspace,

This is when I'd slip into bed, kiss my wife on the cheek, whisper into her sleeping ear that I love her; and she'd roll over, smile, and wake slightly, enough to ask "How'd it go?" And, I'd tell her that I'm almost finished with my screenplay and I can't believe it. She'd see the excitement and joy, gently touch my face, and with all words already spent, we would more than know the meaning of life—we would be it.

An alternative to that is writing this, after earlier writing that, and that, and this again, and that. There is much to do these days. I've engaged in an orgy of writing, which I tried to explain in my last post, rehash post. No time for blogs, Dr. Jones, yet here I am. I've got such a weak will. And, though all this writing makes not one other responsibility disappear, it's good to do. My baseball script—the baseball script—will finally be done this weekend! It's inspired changes in my sleeping habits as of late, as I follow the muse wherever and whenever she leads. That's the real reason I can't really blog much, especially the little microfiction stories, although to believe that you must completely disregard this current blog negating my un-bloggingness and dripping with irony. Maybe I just want the immediate gratification of whispering into the sleeping ear of the internet. I'm just excited, is all. There's so much good to do, and I've got three-quarters of my screenplay edited, though it will tip the scales at 160 pages. In the next week, possibly two, I'm finishing a book. The week after that, I'm finishing a play. The week after that, I'm finishing a short story, proto-novella. Then, I'm done. You see, beginning on the Leap Year Day, I'm taking a leap. I'm giving myself until then to finish all the writing I haven't finished, at least enough so I have a portfolio of completed works of which I can be proud and shop around. Then, I'm getting a job I can love, no matter what it pays. Finances are precarious, but my dedication is sincere. I'll allow myself only one screenplay to work on after that, a very conventional love story with a twist of lemon, and the rest of my time must be spent working at a job I love, and working at my current job to supplement my income, and working on Before You Submit, an amazing business that just got an amazing boost from an amazing addition. There will definitely be more to come about this, and in case anyone here doesn't know about it, be our myspace friend while we finish our website: www.myspace.com/beforeyousubmit

So, I figure 40 hours a week minimum to BYS, possibly 40 at a love job, another hard 20 writing projects for money. Anything over eighty hours a week may seem like a bit, but if I do it right, only 20 hours will feel like work. Like right now, I want to work on BYS for a bit, but I'm writing this blog, and I'm goddamned tired, but there's just so much to do. On my old profile, every other one of my blogs said the same things—about how much I had to do. There's much to be done. Tomorrow, I'm writing a master's paper on advanced organizers in writing. Sunday, I finish my screenplay. Fuck it! I'm going to work on BYS for a bit right now. There's so much to do, and no time like the present to do it. Sleep is overrated, especially with nothing to spoon but a pillow or a very annoyed cat. One thing at a time, bub…one thing at a time.

Hugs and kisses,

- J

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Thursday, January 24, 2008

1-23 (Random Anniversary)
Category: Writing and Poetry

I've been meaning to talk to you for a while. I know I've been kind of removed lately, distant—aloof. It's nothing personal; it's just that I think sometimes my time here does me no good. I mean, I had fun with you, always; trust me, it's been a barrel of laughs, and you've helped me through some confusion, allowed me to create, reminded me of certain things. But, I've just been giving my best words to someone else, lately, because it's beneficial to what I need to achieve. I know this leaves us little time together, but it really is for the best. I mean, what good does it do me to complain to you anyway about ignorance, conformity, illusion, faith, sexual frustration? I gave you that for years. Though, I also gave you poetry, sweet stories about love and redemption, I showed you my dreams, and sung truest of all. I elevated you, and you gave me a place to stay when my bed was too big to endure. I know you'll always be there for me, and I you. So, don't take this as anything other than an apology and a promise. I will, always.

Sunday, January 23, 2005 - Drinking From The Stream

I can't spend any more than ten minutes on these, so from now on they'll be even more random and stream-of-crunchiness. Gotta read about 10,000 pages before April, and write a few meself. These posts will mainly be about me practicing my typing skills. I noticed that I often leave off "s" at the end of word, and the "r" from "your." Sometimes, I even fucking up my contractions by completely leaving them off. Righting school.

I can't remember when my computer ran so well. It's a completely non-frustrating experience now. I recommend to everyone that if their computer starts running poorly or gets infected by viruses, reformat the hard drive and reinstall Windows. Of course, if you save all of your important programs and files on a disk or removable storage device first, then all it will take is a couple of hours and your computer is brand new. And then you can start from scratch and carefully select the software you install. All I can say, is that at this moment, I have no pop-ups at all and I am prompted at almost everything that looks suspicious. Hackers are queer and viruses suck. That is why I recommend to everyone that they reinstall Windows as regular maintenance. It rules.

It's so comfortable to be practical. It's so nice to keep things in order. Life is so groovy when you know what will happen next. Even if we don't know, we know. Plans…

Action.

Action is confused. There's nothing but action. All is flux. Inaction is impossible. Consciousness is all that matters. And, what is consciousness? The bright eyes of the family cat? The senile vegetable? The microscopic bugs on your pillow? The parasites on your skin? The bacteria in your mouth? The grass in your yard?

Life seems to be something to be nurtured. But, it seems like an equation doesn't exist to explain in what doses. If we save all the life we can, how will we eat? Some people eat only things that die of natural causes, like the apple people. They collect the apples that fall out of the tree and nothing more. How do the hardcore Buddhists eat? Is killing wrong? Is it foolish to value all life equally? That creates hypocrites and dead men.

Combine all the natural laws into a single breath. This needs to be the goal of every generation. We need to know, regardless of what propaganda dictates. We all need to know…everything. Knowledge is only ever good.

I've heard my life will end once. I've seen death happen to other people, plants, and animals, so I assume this is correct. How much consideration is too much to pay to wondering about it? For people who don't believe popular myths about it, it becomes a source of motivation and fear. It seems like death is the unknown. But, is it? Did we not already come from there and are not we just going back? Even the popular myths suggest this, and observation of nature reveals cycles everywhere. Eternal recurrence? I don't know. But, I'm actively pursuing it.

If you knew when you were going to die, would you be doing anything different right now?

Obviously, not.

Yesterday In A Click

Time is never plural.

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Wednesday, January 02, 2008

The Last and the First
Category: Writing and Poetry

    There was blood in his urine, and he coughed up blood regularly. He refused to go to the hospital and died in the earliest hours of 2008. He was 51. He was my Uncle Bobby.
    We were never really close, and in fact I remember him being angry with that adorable kid from the picture, me, about making too much noise or being too happy while visiting my grandmother's house. He must have been in his mid 20s at the time, and I always took him for a hippy, with his long hair and lazy demeanor. I knew no better. I guess he just liked to party. My mom called him a "druggy," but not in a derogatory way. When she said it, it was with pity for him and disappointment in herself for not being able to save him.
    She called yesterday afternoon, greeted me with unusual determination, wished me a happy new year, and told me "Uncle Bobby died this morning around six fifteen." I assumed the extra detail was her way of adding more reality to the concept. He was the first sibling of hers to die, the baby no less. He was the youngest of eight, the fourth son of 57-year-old Joseph and 39-year-old Anita. My mom said their dad never paid much attention to Bobby. He was an afterthought, though her regret over such a thing prevented her from parsing it as such.
    I saw him for the first time in twenty years during a reunion in Fairhaven, Massachusetts this July. Last time he saw me I was ten, and he had no idea who I was. He was wearing a red Dice-K shirt and a white Red Sox hat. His thin frame and white goatee made him look years older than he was, like an elderly relic of the "love" generation instead of a middle-aged relic of the "me" generation. I could never get over thinking he was a hippy. Until yesterday, that is, when all my definitions no longer mattered.
    "The pain, Jason," said my mom. "He was in such pain. That's what I feel worst about." Apparently, the night of his death, my Uncle Norman, with whom Bobby was semi-permanently crashing, came home after work to find his brother absent from his usual spot on the couch. According to my mom, Norman, a Vietnam vet who never left the bush behind, resented Bobby for encroaching on his life and space and they barely shared words or time together. Bobby worked decades for the water department from the time he turned 18, only to be fired a few years ago "because of drugs," claims my mom. Norman got him a job driving a truck for his company, but he was fired after not too long—"drugs." He collected his unemployment and spent his time doing, um, drugs one would guess?
    As an enlightened adult, I have different values concerning drugs from many. Always thinking him a hippy, I assumed he smoked pot, which never gets people raped, killed, or remotely ambitious, so it passes my acceptable drug test as non-dangerous. I knew he smoked pot, because one of the traditional stories associated with him was that he was caught growing pot in my grandfather's garden sometime in the 1970s. But, my mom and my aunt, when trying to figure out how he died, wondered if he might have contracted hepatitis from using needles, though this could very well be their naivety concerning drug use. Still, I could not imagine that he did much more than drink, smoke, maybe tooted, but this could be my naivety concerning his intelligence or his will to live.
    Norman found him face down on the floor upstairs. He suggested they go to the hospital, but Bobby refused. Instead, Norman helped him downstairs to the couch, and then went to bed. Norman had known Bobby was sick for a while, but could or would do little to help his brother, who obviously cared not to be helped. He heard him that night coughing, sometime around five in the morning. When he woke up an hour later to check on Bobby, he found him motionless on the couch with one eye open and locked in a dead stare, a trail of dried blood leading out of his mouth and caked to his cheek. Who knows how many dead friends followed Norman around, their faces crying out to him every time he closed his eyes. He now had the dead stare of his baby brother to join the collective.
    Twenty years separated me from my Uncle Bobby. In our respective families, we were both the babies, though I never felt unloved or unwanted as he did, quite the opposite. However, during my rebellious years, when I grew my hair long and "I don't care" was my mantra, my mother would compare me to him when she was mad. This always stuck with me. He never married, never accomplished anything significant, lived with his mother until she sold the house when he was in his mid-thirties. On my worst days, I could feel the comparison and almost believed it, but never really did.
    My oldest brother was born only a year after Bobby, and their lives could not have been more different. Their life choices reflected mostly in their faces, both of which I observed at the reunion in July, my brother's face young and virile in his fiftieth year, Bobby's face ancient and worn in his fifty-first. Life is a series of choices, no matter what anyone deigns to tell you.
    During Christmas, as I almost unconsciously seem to do, I initiated a heated conversation with my mom about nothing and everything. I referenced how she used to compare me to Bobby, and how it hurt me, maybe more than I ever realized. We came to no conclusion but to love and accept each other, and proceeded to look at old pictures, something I never do. In fact, during my rebellious years, I refused to let anyone take my picture, perhaps because I lacked joy and wished to hide the weakness from posterity. But, looking at the old pictures, seeing the old me's, I realized that I was still in my rebellious years. I was still a rebellious child, ensconced in childish things, childish concerns, childish impudence, though I had almost completely buried all the beautiful traits that once inhabited the spirit of that little blond boy I used to be. Just because I rejected the need to remain an eternal child under the protection of an eternal Father, I had not become an adult. I was still a child, and it was no longer desirable.
    The night of Christmas, I stayed up late into the early morning writing about and for me. For the next week, I added to this writing, capturing every hope, fear, desire, pain, joy that I possessed. I wrote elaborate declarations for my actions in the new year, planned my attack, my priorities, my resolutions. Adding fuel to this self-examination, in addition to the obvious year-end recollection, were boxes of my childhood retrieved from my parents' house. I found all my old baseball hats, trophies, newspaper clippings, prom pictures, love notes, post cards, my very first computer—an Apple IIC (which powered up on the first try, and played every disk I had, including disks of my saved adolescent writing). I realized, in George Bailey-like clarity that I indeed had a wonderful life. I was loved, protected, spoiled even, and I had no adult reasons to resent anything or anyone. I realized that I was always resentful for moving to Florida, forgoing all the opportunities I had up north, better education, my friends, the Red Sox (ironically, my self-examination was compounded by discovering a childhood friend became a director of player affairs for the Red Sox last year and got a World Series ring this year). I have childishly resented Florida for years, giving it more control over my joy than it merits. I wondered what I was fighting and why I let it get in the way of my joy. So, I changed…back. And I captured every thought in this transformation. Thousands and thousands of words later, I realized that it was time to put aside childish things and pursue adult life with all the passion I can muster. I was going to post my grand expository experiment here, but I decided to keep those words for myself, as a reminder of my final rite of passage into an adulthood defined by authentic action and not years.
    Hours after his body was removed, Norman found all of Bobby's important papers arranged neatly on a desk, evidencing the departed's knowledge of his end—his life insurance, 401K, the remnants of who he was on paper. Now, Uncle Bobby is to be buried in the frozen ground of New England this weekend, to join the uncountable masses. I am in no way him, but I could be. I refuse to be. I know little about his life to say it resembles mine in the least, but what he left behind speaks volumes about a life poorly lived—stories of how he never showed up, never married, procreated, succeeded, or tried. Perhaps, effort is the true mark of adulthood—the effort one makes continuously to learn, to improve, to become. I wonder if Uncle Bobby knew any non-medicated joy, or if he was truly joyless as the story goes. I refuse to be joyless, nor am I ignorant enough to believe I can force joy or take any without making any. I will work, and find joy and purity in my production. I will write. I will never complain again (though my observations are often misconstrued as complaints). I will never wait for life to come to me. Or death.
    If you know me solely by my words, nothing will change; but, if you know me by my actions, you will have no idea who I am, unless you knew the little blond boy from the picture. Some of you do.

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Tuesday, January 01, 2008

Resolute
Category: Life

The little boy woke up one day and decided he was a man.

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Monday, December 31, 2007

Perfectly Opposed: A True Story About Resentment In Sports Fanaticism
Category: Sports

LOGUE

    Esparatazza walked into Publix around dinnertime because he needed to pick up onion rolls and some fruit. After picking up a basket, he walked by a trio of teenage cashiers discussing nothing in particular by their registers. One of the pimple-faced teens said, "I hate you." It took Esparatazza a few steps until he realized that the object of this hate was he, forcing him to stop and turn around.
    "Oh, really?" he asked, remembering the New England Patriots hat he wore. "Oh, yeah. That's cool. Who do you follow?"
    The pimple-faced teen that expressed his hatred seemed scared, because Esparatazza obviously wanted nothing to do with the conversation and his brusque demeanor could easily pass as hostility. Pimple Face answered, "The Giants."
    "I'm sorry," Esparatazza said, then wasted the next two minutes of his life talking football with someone that opened the conversation with an expression of hate—and, all this because of a hat. He left before the conclusion, of which there was none anyway, and got his shopping done in seven minutes. Though there were only two registers open, he chose the one away from Pimple Face.
    Esparatazza realized that his hat would only inspire hatred in Florida, or at least more than camaraderie. Few sincerely shared his allegiance, which was more to an area than a sports team, more to a mentality than an area, more to an ideal than a mentality. His fandom was beyond the reach of most in his town, save for the few students of humanity that happen to see the poetry in every play and the truth in every score. How he longed to be among the literate, historic, revolutionary hills of New England, currently ensconced in a sustained strange success of its many storied sports franchises. His romantic view of the region opposed the growing resentment it faced by sports fans from other parts of the country, with the latest hatred inspired by the historic undefeated regular season just completed by the Patriots, 16-0. Such a feat had not been witnessed in generations. It was poetry, glory, human cooperation at its finest to achieve perfection. It was life affirming to him, though it inspired resent and hate and feelings of inadequacy in others. He wondered why and how anyone would despise perfection in any form. To him, the achievement of perfection was inspirational and life-affirming. To others, it seemed, perfection was nothing more than a reason to hate those that accomplished it.

PROLOGUE

    Great Chewbacca continuously hounded Esparatazza about sports. Chewbacca loathed the teams that Esparatazza followed, with the latter passionately fervent as a child in New England, but instinctually reflexive as an adult in Florida. He tolerated sports because in the five years he rejected it, he found no comrades but instead resentful unathletic outcasts that envied the success of the sporting culture and its philosophies of winning. He found few allies on either side, but abandoned all the resent for things beyond his control.
    When Chewbacca would visit Esparatazza, he would make snide little remarks about the Red Sox, or the Patriots, or even the city of Boston in general. "Boston's gay," was the sum total of Chewbacca's argument, with no evidence to back it up, whether by literally proving Boston to be homosexual, happy, or lame in the colloquial sense. Many a debate arose from Chewbacca's charge, mostly inane though often argued intelligently only by Esparatazza.
    One day, Chewbacca decided that the reason for the Red Sox winning two World Series in the last four seasons, after an eighty-six year drought, was because they spent the most money on players, along with the New York Yankees. He cried for a salary cap for players' salaries, like in professional football, basketball, and hockey (which led to a year and a half strike by players). Esparatazza cited the fact that baseball players were traditionally the most intelligent of the four majors sports, and they had a strong union that protected their value, perhaps one of the strongest unions in the entire country. Chewbacca, in his "parrot technique" of arguing, insisted that baseball was unfair and needed a salary cap. He refused to listen to Esparatazza's reasoned logic about the business of professional sports, its use as an opiate of the masses, and the fact that the smallest market team could achieve success through hard work and good sense.   Chewbacca could not look at sports objectively, and therefore could never see past his own prejudices.
    Chewbacca created a fantasy football league, and Esparatazza reluctantly joined, planning allotting fifteen minutes a week to yet another distracting website. Choosing most of the players from the Patriots, he soon found himself annihilating the rest of the league, like the Patriots who were undefeated on a historic season. This enraged Chewbacca even more, and he developed a new hatred for the quarterback Tom Brady, known affectionately by friends and even enemies as the "Golden Boy." The Patriots, even in a salary-capped league, represented absolute perfection and domination, despite a swirling drama that surrounded them since the first game of the season. Chewbacca began a new round of the "Boston's gay" debate, only this time online in passive aggressive web posts in his fantasy league.
    The following is a transcript of a portion of this debate, with respective team names parenthetically noted:

12/5 5:09 pm "Who is right now?" by Great Chewbacca (The Great Chewbaccas)

http://proxy.espn.go.com/espn/page2/polling?event_id=3279

There wouldnt be a reason for this poll if everyone SANE wasnt thinking exactly what Ive been saying.

Although 39% said the Marlins owner is a cheapskate, 29% said baseball needs a salary cap and/or more revenue sharing. Dont forget most of these votes generally come from the northeast + California.

Baseball BLOWS FAT COCK thanks to the greediness of several teams. They have skyrocketed the price for DECENT talent to the point that small market teams can only afford "prospects" or 1 star and the rest shitheads. Now the Red Sox are gonna get Santana for almost nothing (Marlins-esque trade for "prospects")? I am on baseball strike. I wont watch a game and I wont play fantasy next year.

Why wont there be a cap? Because your big 3 or 4 teams and the players association wont let it happen. They are making too much money! Well, not from me anymore.

Notice how the question about the NL winner's high vote is "DOES IT REALLY MATTER". Well, it doesnt. We can guarantee that one of 4-5 teams will win the Series next year.

The oddsmakers know more than we do, lets see what they say. Hmmm.

The Red Sox are favored at 7-2, Yanks and Tigers at 5-1. The next best is 10-1 (Indians and Angels).

Great, so the Red Sox have a 29% chance of winning when there are 32 fucking teams in the league. 32 into 100 is barely more than 3%.

Add that 29% with the two 20% teams and 2 10% teams and we have 89% chance of one of these 5 teams winning the world series.

I expect this from basketball, but not from a game that is supposed to be a crap shoot on a nightly basis.

12/5 8:08 pm "Re: Who is right now?" by esparatazza (Nuclear Bombers)

Okay, I had to reply to this, mainly for two reasons: yeah, the Sox may get Santana and that just seems crazy; and, I just finished reading Nietzsche's Genealogy of Morals and have a better understanding why "leveling the playing field" is nothing more than resentment borne from a weak morality that envies the strong. This morality is the basis for all altruism, socialism, and religion, and does nothing but encourage people to blame the successful for their own failures. More on this some other time, but back to baseball.

You forget the intangibles, how despite all the bullshit stats and retarded polls (and they really are fucking retarded), there is always the possibility of a team coming from nowhere to win it all. It can happen and does. And as for the Vegas odds, just look at the Pats lines the last two weeks--all the lines did were inspire the teams they played to do their best to beat the fuck out of them, and it almost succeeded. So, odds are also retarded. But, yeah, there are a few teams that look really good on paper right now, and they happen to be the ones with huge fan bases, in big markets, with lots of money. Welcome to America.

All I can say, and I've said it before, is support your team and quit bitching about other teams. Go to the games, buy their hats, shirts, join their websites. Increase their revenue; help them become a team motivated to get better, with a strong fan base and a wallet that can afford to attract the best talent. The Red Sox won five World Series in the first decade and half of the 20th century, then sold their biggest asset. You know the rest of the story and how that shrewd move created a dynasty for New York. They had won shit before that. Any team can do this to become one of the best.

If I had more time, I would go on, but I really don't have any answers that would make you feel any better. I guess if you don't enjoy the competition, stop watching like you said. Just realize the competition is not just on the field--this is a business you're talking about, dependent on customers, loyalty, and mucho dinero. Maybe you can tell me how you would solve this "problem" of some teams having more money and more fans and better players than others, because I can't see any reasonable solutions that aren't anything more than bullshit. Salary caps are total bullshit, and other leagues don't give a fuck about the players and have weak unions, which is why they get away with that shit. Seriously, look at how hard the MLB Player's Union fights to keep the steroid shit down; meanwhile the NFL Player's Union lets their veterans become cripples and barely do shit about it. Slave morality versus master morality, man. That's all this argument is. Which morality would you prefer to have?

12/6 12:58 am "Im not fucking reading that..." by Great Chewbacca (The Great Chewbaccas)

Im drunk, but I do like what La Russa* said: "The idea is to accommodate the St. Louis Cardinals, our team, our responsibility to our players and to the competition."

Particularly the part about "responsibility to the competition"

I think this part has taken a backseat to money and the business. It is truly unfortunate.

Baseball needs to take responsibility for what baseball has become, and that is a joke. I talked about this with several people around the bar tonight and they all agreed that baseball needs a salary cap and needs to clean its act, PERIOD.

They started a segment about the Marlins trade with the Tigers tonight with "at least we have something other than the Yankees and Red Sox to talk about"

Great, baseball is officially a bidding war. Examples: Dice K and any other SOB signing a $100+ million dollar contract (Dice K especially). Now because the Yankees or Red Sox want Gil Meche as a shitty 5th or 6th starting pitcher (shit, or even as a seat warmer for Santana or Beckett), a team whom truly needs him has to pay stupid amounts of money to get him.

Thats the other side of the business part ponchy. The side of losing to a MONOPOLY where you cut costs and sell assets. There are only 2 classes of products. The cheaper and the better quality. If you cant sell a better quality product, then you sure the fuck better make it cheaper than the name brand you are competing against. What have the Marlins and Reds and other teams who cant hang with 200+ million salaries per year do? Cut costs, make their product cheaper. That's the other business part of it and it sucks that baseball has come to be the same as a can of soda at the market. Take a business class or two, you may learn something other than the difference between parity and parody. I learned that shit for free.

Man, I am drunk. Time to kill bitches.

*St. Louis Cardinals manager Tony LaRussa was arrested for a DUI earlier in the year, and the day after this post was in the news for viscously insulting one of his players.

12/6 1:45 am "I Can Give You The Audiobook" by esparatazza (Nuclear Bombers)

I guess if you're drunk and driving, then you really are like LaRussa.
Still, ask 10 people if God exists and 9 will say he does, which is pretty much how I think of the bar survey about salary caps: it means nothing and proves nothing. There are no monopolies in baseball, unless you're talking about each monopoly every team has in their home town market. They call sports teams "franchises" because they're all part of the same money making corporate machine. Some do much better, again, because of fans, good ownership, and a dash of luck.

Those Marlins you keep mentioning have won 2 World Series in the past ten years, as many as the Red Sox and one less than the Yankees. Who are the Red Sox trying to trade to get Santana? Homegrown prospects. It's just a good organization with owners who wanted to win and because of their good business sense, they increased the value and popularity of their team exponentially. So, they should be penalized for their success because the Reds or the Pirates are inept? I just can't agree.

I can agree that the whole money aspect of sports is retarded. No argument there. But, I won't pretend to say it was better when players were making only a mil a year instead of ten. I just think the problem is way more complex than limiting the salaries of players, which to me is like paying waiters less at a restaurant so the owners can make more. It does not create parity, because in the end it comes down to the priorities and responsibilities of the organization. Here are some salary cap teams: Patriots, Steelers, Colts, Spurs, Suns, Mavericks...this list goes on. But, it should prove that a franchise that values their team, their fans, and WINNING will naturally be successful, whether they limit how much they pay their players or not.

In the end, it all comes down to the media brainwashing people into giving a shit about things that don't really matter (how fucking huge has sports become in the last half century?) and continuously talking about the same things, even if there is nothing really to talk about. The media, the sports teams, the Red Sox, the Reds, the Marlins, Walmart, NFL TV, your neighbor just wants your fucking money and that's the bottom line. I told you before I give my money to my sports teams, because other than my time, it's all I can give to help make them better. And to tell you the truth, I bought three Red Sox hats in early 2004. I gave them sixty bucks and helped raise awareness all season, and I think we know how that campaign turned out.

I refuse to adopt the whiny mentality that I'm owed anything by anyone. I realize that sports like life is a competition and everybody wants to win, whether on the field or financially. And, I just happen to think that penalizing the successful is weak and detrimental to mankind. And, truthfully, I could give a shit less if people got so fed up they stopped watching sports, because we all know that ain't going to happen. I would actually prefer it, but it's hard to break people out of their habits, which is why I suppose so many people choose to make the strong weaker rather than to become strong themselves. The slave morality strikes again. And, I was a business major until I realized all it was doing was teaching me how to be a mindless automaton. The only thing that gets me is that they didn't have any socialist business classes when I went to UCF, which surprises me that the business major is now pumping out communists who support limiting revenues. Go Knights!

12/6 12:59 pm "I can tell by the length of your arguments that..." by Great Chewbacca (The Great Chewbaccas)

... Im getting under your skin with this. And Im not reading that last one either, only if an exam on the info is to follow.

And as for my bar argument, it included at least 1 Yankee fan. Oh, and he agreed with me. You are right, it didnt include 10 red sox fans. If it did, we would call that a TAINTED sampling pool. Your opinion is 100% bias. The irony is that you were bitching about how shitty sports were until the Red Sox won the world series. You flip flop more than a fucking politician. You argue that cats are better than dogs because you have a cat. You would argue that heroin is a medicinal drug if you were a heroin addict.

Marlins 2008 projected salary: 10 million. "The Cheaper Product"

Red Sox and Yankees combined projected salary 400+ million. "The Quality Product"

Have fun with the business, Im glad you are making bookoo cash from it.

Again, baseball is corrupt from top to bottom. They cannot juggle the business aspect and the "respect for competition" aspect at the same time.

Oh, and it is the most boring sport in the world now, hands down. I would rather watch curling. Shit, I would rather play badmitten.

12/6 6:01 pm "Re: I can tell by the length of your arguments that..." by esparatazza (Nuclear Bombers)

The only thing that's really getting under my skin is weakness disguised as strength. By claiming to be righteous and correct about this, by offering unscientific evidence and popular opinion instead of trying to logically argue points, you merely represent the weak resenting the strong. Couple that with your insistence to always make things personal, and it's just an attempt on my part to have a debate that isn't and never will be there. Actually, I was hoping someone else would chime in one way or another and offer an objective opinion, but I don't think anyone really cares either way.

12/11 12:24 pm "Fukudome" by Great Chewbacca (The Great Chewbaccas)

Uh oh, Japanese baseball stud Fukudome is coming to the majors. I wonder who is going to win the bidding for him...

HMMMMM....

Any team in NY, the Red Sox, or the Angels (to a lesser extent. it is probably safe to leave them off this list).

Its ok people, it is business and business comes before the fans and respect for the competition.

12/13 4:42 pm "Re: Fukudome-d" by esparatazza (Nuclear Bombers)

It was the Cubs that got him.

Baseball's druggers finally came out, at least partially. Bonds with seven MVPs, Clemens with seven Cy Youngs--maybe half of those legit. When the ten-year-old sports fan in me gets pissed at the events, I remember I'm an adult and think of what you said:

"Its ok people, it is business and business comes before the fans and respect for the competition."

But, in business and the game, COMPETITION is first. It was the competition that drove the cheating, and the fans LOVED every minute of it. Maybe it's the feeling of being lied to or the realization that people in positions of power (like the rulers of sports in America) really don't give a fuck about the common people until they stop getting the common people's loyalty and money.

So, let's just give up sports. Give them up, because you're just proving to those controlling the country that you're stupid, easily tricked, confused, overwhelmed, and absent of any real substance in your life. Spend every minute you spend on sports on being productive in your own life. I promise you then the annoyance you feel towards baseball won't exist anymore.

OR, watch sports, knowing that life is "unfair," that some people are born more talented and rich and privileged than others, and some people cheat to gain advantage while others place restrictions on the truly successful to level the playing field.

The choice is yours.

Either way, professional sports are only a way that businessmen use to get the money out of your pocket, and only the delusional think otherwise. Sports, and baseball in particular, is called "America's pastime," but we need to take that time back, yo!

EPILOGUE

   Esparatazza gave up arguing about sports, paying attention to stats, or watching others strive for glory on the television, and instead took up striving for glory himself. Until this monumental moment, he had never truly known what it meant to be hated.

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Wednesday, December 19, 2007

Analysis Of A Dream
Category: Writing and Poetry

    "He woke up from a strange dream—a dream in which he had to locate stuffed animals and baby dolls for a school project, inside a massive post-industrial warehouse filled with obstacles and amalgams of people from the past."

Dreams - To dream that you are dreaming, signifies your emotional state. You are excessively worried and fearful about a situation or circumstance that you are going through.

Stuffed Animal - To see a stuffed animal in your dream, represents an immature attitude. You may be trying to escape from your daily responsibilities and problems. Alternatively, it may indicate your need to relax and be less serious. You need to allow your mind and body to rejuvenate.

Warehouse - To see a warehouse in your dream, represents stored energy or hidden resources. They also refer to memories. You may also be putting your ambitions and goals on hold.

School - To dream that you are in school, signifies feelings of inadequacy and childhood insecurities that have never been resolved. It may relate to anxieties about performance and abilities. You may also be going through a "spiritual learning" experience. Alternatively, a dream that takes place in school may be a metaphor for the lessons that you are learning from your waking life.

"He woke up in the screened porch of the house he lived in during 1999, though now it was his bedroom."

Awaken - To dream that you are awakened, represents a spiritual rebirth. You may be acknowledging and embracing both your feminine and masculine aspects of Self. You are utilizing your fullest potential. Consider who or what awakened you. This is an indication of what is lacking or missing in your life.

Porch - To dream of a porch, represents your personality, your social self, your facade and how you portray yourself to others. Consider the condition and size of the porch. In particular to dream of an enclosed porch, suggests of your tendency to distance yourself from others and your desires for privacy. To dream of an opened porch, signifies your outgoing nature and welcoming attitude.

Bedroom - To dream that you are in the bedroom, signifies aspects of your self that you keep private. It is also indicative of your sexual nature and intimate relations.

Bed - To see your bed in your dream, represents you intimate self and discovery of your sexuality. If you are sleeping in your own bed, then it denotes security and restoration of your mind. You are looking for domestic bliss and peace. If you are waking up in different and/or unknown beds, then it represents the consequences of the decisions you have made.

"Julian was there when he woke, and instead of his wife, he was accompanied by a young woman who looked a lot like Maggie Gyllenhaal, only cuter. They both looked haggard, like they hadn't slept all night."

Awaken - Consider who or what awakened you. This is an indication of what is lacking or missing in your life.

Fame - To see famous people in your dream, signifies an increase to your prosperity and honor.

Drugs - To dream that you are in possession of or taking drugs, signifies your need for a "quick fix". (Julian and Maggie on drugs signifies their need for a "quick fix".)

    "'What's going on?' he asked.
    Julian just kind of shrugged, as if he had no control over the situation nor any explanation of how they ended up in his screened porch-bedroom. He got up and threw on the first thing he could find, an oversized powder blue shirt."

Shirt - To dream of a shirt, refers to your emotions or some emotional situation. The shirt you wear reveals your attitudes and level of consciousness about a particular situation. (Blue shirt.)

Blue - Blue represents truth, wisdom, heaven, eternity, devotion, tranquility, loyalty and openness. The presence of this color in your dream, may symbolize your spiritual guide and your optimism of the future. You have clarity of mind. Depending on the context of your dream, the color blue may also be a metaphor of "being blue" and feeling sad.

"Neither of his guests could stay still, pacing around the room, investigating and wondering aloud. He excused himself to go get them something to drink, and with complete disregard for time, offered them some brandy as he stepped into the doorway."

Brandy - To drink brandy in your dream, symbolizes your preoccupation with material gains and money.

Door - To dream that you are entering through a door, signifies new opportunities that will be presented before you. You are entering into a new stage in your life and moving from one level of consciousness to another. In particular, a door that opens to the outside, signifies your need to be more accessible to others, whereas a door that opens into the inside, denotes your desire for inner exploration and self-discovery.

    "'But, you just woke up,' Maggie said, slightly impressed at his initiative.
    'Nah,' he told her, 'I was up at eight, but went back to sleep. I do that sometimes'
    He left the strange pair in his porch-bedroom and walked into the unfamiliar house, which started to resemble the house in which he currently lived. He made his way past the kitchen to the carport outside, where he ran into his roommate."

House - To see a house in your dream, represents your own soul and self. Specific rooms in the house indicate a specific aspect of your psyche. In general, the attic represents your intellect, the basement represents the unconscious, etc.

Kitchen - To see a kitchen in your dream, signifies your need for warmth and spiritual nourishment. It may also be symbolic of the nurturing mother. Alternatively the kitchen, represents a transformation.

Carport - To dream that you are in a carport, signifies a period of inactivity and idleness in your life. You may feel that you have no direction or guidance toward achieving your goals.

    "'Looks like someone used your towel,' his roommate said."

Towel - To see or use a towel in your dream, suggests that you need to deal with your emotions in order to move forward in your life. You need to find some sort of a resolution. Alternatively, it represents completion, a fresh start and new transition.

"He looked over to see one of his blue bath towels folded neatly by the fence, partially buried in a deep puddle, as rain fell."

Blue - Blue represents truth, wisdom, heaven, eternity, devotion, tranquility, loyalty and openness. The presence of this color in your dream, may symbolize your spiritual guide and your optimism of the future. You have clarity of mind.

Fence - To see a fence in your dream, signifies an obstacle or barrier that may be standing on your path. You may feel confined and restricted in expressing yourself. Alternatively, it may symbolize a need for privacy. You may want to shut off the rest of the world.

Rain - To dream that you get wet from the rain, signifies that you will soon be cleansed from your troubles and problems. Rain also symbolizes fertility and renewal. To see and hear rain falling, symbolizes forgiveness and grace. To dream that you are watching the rain from a window, indicates that spiritual ideas and insights are being brought to you awareness. It may also symbolize fortune and love.

Puddle - To see a puddle in your dream, represents feelings that have been downplayed and overlooked. Although these feelings may be minor, it is still worth addressing before it threatens to explode unexpectedly.

"He told his roommate that he had some friends over, and went out into the rain to retrieve the towel, which by the time he got to it, was completely underwater and had turned into a multi-colored beach towel."

Rain - To dream that you get wet from the rain, signifies that you will soon be cleansed from your troubles and problems. Rain also symbolizes fertility and renewal.

    "He went back inside the house to find his roommate sitting on the couch, with Maggie glancing around the same room."

Couch - To see or dream that you are on a couch, represents rest, relaxation, laziness or boredom. (In this instant, those of the roommate.)

"He remembered the huge crush his roommate had always had on Maggie Gyllenhaal, and saw that the crusher instantly recognized the crushee. His roommate sat unusually silent and still, watching her as she watched the room. Julian was in the bathroom, so he put the now-dry beach towel in front of the bathroom door.
    'Hi, I'm Jarson,' he said to Maggie, 'and this is my roommate.'
    'I'm Maggie,' she said. 'You might have seen me before in the movies.'
    'You know, I thought you were Maggie Gyllenhaal,' he said, sure to pronounce the 'G' with a 'ja' instead of a 'ga.'
    'It's actually Gyllenvaal, with a V.'
    'Gyllenvaal? I never knew that.'
    They continued with some inane chitchat, while his roommate sat on the couch with a petrified look, overwhelmed at the presence of Maggie. However, unlike his roommate, he never found her attractive in the movies, but thought in person she looked quite different, younger, fuller, more innocent. She also looked like she might have been rolling or drunk and asked him lustily if he had ever been to the zoo. He had, but said he hadn't, adding that the zoo was closed because all the animals had died."

Zoo - To dream that you are at a zoo, symbolizes loss of freedom and your abilities and talents go unnoticed. You or an aspect of your life feels caged in. (She is asking if he has ever be imprisoned or given up his freedom. By telling her he hadn't, he is lying and saying he has always been free.)

Animals - To see animals in your dream, represents your own physical characteristic, primitive desires, and sexual nature, depending on the qualities of the particular animal. Animals symbolizes the untamed and uncivilized aspects of yourself. To dream that you are saving the life of an animal, suggests that you are successfully acknowledging certain emotions and characteristics represented by the animal. The dream may also stem from feelings of inadequacy or being overwhelmed. (By reporting all the animals have died indicates that he is not acknowledging his emotions.)

    "They continued to talk, and as they did she drew herself closer to him, until they reached a distance where there was only one thing for two people to do at that point. They continued talking, nearing each other by measured fractions, him more confidently, as the impending affection of this woman seemed inevitable, eliminating any need for self-consciousness or the desire to impress. Finally, through her words, just inches from his face, she leaned in and began kissing him with her eyes wide."

Kiss - To dream of a kiss, denotes love, affection, tranquility, harmony, and contentment. To dream that you are kissing someone else's boyfriend or girlfriend, indicates your wish to be a relationship and to experience the energy of love. You may be sexually acting out. You may also need to awaken your passion.

"She kissed and retreated, kissed and retreated, all the while staring into his somewhat bewildered gaze. He went with the moment and grabbed her.
    She had on a party dress, and running his hands down her toned hips he felt the smoothness of the silk and the ideal of feminine sexuality."

Silk - To see or feel silk in your dream, represents luxury, smoothness, and softness.

"She grew more attractive by the second, and momentarily betrayed by his thoughts, he felt a slight guilt for making out with one of his roommate's sexual icons, while his roommate sat on the couch watching."

Guilt - To dream that you feel guilty about something, relates to how you are handling your successes and failures or competence and incompetence. You may feel undeserving of your achievements or on the other hand, you may feel that you have let other down. Alternatively, it is also symbolic of repressed and negative feelings that you may have about yourself.

"But that guilt soon passed, just as his roommate did, with a groan. He caught his roommate's dirty look out of the corner of his eye as he walked out of the room. Once undistracted, he continued kissing Maggie.
    They never moved from the spot in the middle of the living room, instead just falling to the plush carpeting of the floor when the passion grew too strong."

Living Room - To dream that you are in the living room, represents the image that you portray to others and the way which you go about your life. It is representative of your basic beliefs about yourself and who you are.

Carpet - To see a carpet in your dream, represents your way of protecting yourself from life's harsh realities. Alternatively, a carpet symbolizes luxury, comfort or richness. Consider the condition and designs of the carpet. Are you hiding something and sweeping it under the carpet?

Floor - To see the floor in your dream, represents your support. It may also represent the division between the unconscious and conscious.

"She turned her back to him and he began kissing her neck, becoming conscious that he was giving a hickey to a movie star, or at least starlet."

Neck - Any dream featuring the neck is a sign of approaching money.

Hickey - To dream that you have a hickey, represents a split between your rational thinking and your emotional thinking. You may be acting with your heart instead of thinking things out more clearly. Alternatively, you may be feeling emotionally or physically drained. You feel that you are giving too much of yourself in a relationship or situation. If you dream of giving a hickey, you are living dangerously and your reputation could be at stake.

"He persisted while she writhed in ecstasy, more verbally than he was accustomed.
    'God!' she said. 'It feels so good when you do that! Don't stop! You like doing that don't you? God!'
    Her enthusiasm surprised him, because all he was doing was kissing her neck, rubbing her hips, her legs, anything but body parts considered too erogenous. However, his erection poked her and he began rubbing it against her panties as she straddled him."

Erection - To dream that you have an erection, symbolizes your creative power and energy. You want to take action.

"Growing more intense, he began cupping her breasts through her dress and she became orgasmic."

Breasts - To see breasts in your dream, symbolizes primal nourishment and your need to be nursed and care for. It represent motherhood, nurturance, and infantile dependency. Alternatively, breasts represents sexual arousal and raw energy.

"He continued his course of action, until she pulled her dress down just enough to expose her pert b-cups and rock-hard pink nipples."

Nipples - To see nipples in your dream, relate to infantile needs and a regression into dependency.

"She never stopped talking, almost cheering him on.
    'That feels so good! Oh, my God! Don't stop!'
    He played with her nipples, realizing that the more he touched them, the more she got off. She seemed to gain the most amount of pleasure when he would gently pinch them."

Nipples - To see nipples in your dream, relate to infantile needs and a regression into dependency. (By acquiescing and playing with her nipples, he is giving into infantile needs and regressing, though at the urging of others.)

"So, he continued kissing her on the neck and playing with her pencil erasers, until she begged him to make her come. Surprised that a girl could come from such a thing, he obliged, and so did she."

Orgasm - To dream that you are having an orgasm, represents an exciting end to something. What is complete for you? Alternatively, it may mean that you are not getting enough sex. You need to relieve some of your sexual tensions. (Only she orgasmed.)

    "After she came, she remained in his arms quivering. He wondered if it would be appropriate for them to have sex, and he thought about whether she had sex with Julian earlier. He wondered if he even wanted to after something like that, not to mention he could feel Julian peering out of the bathroom."

Spy - To dream that someone is spying on you, represents your impulsive behavior. This dream may also serve as a warning that you are being watched, investigated, or evaluated.

"They finally got up off the floor, and he was sure it was his turn to climax, but then Julian came out of the bathroom rearing to go. Maggie stood up and said, 'Are you coming with us to the zoo?'"

Zoo - To dream that you are at a zoo, symbolizes loss of freedom and your abilities and talents go unnoticed. You or an aspect of your life feels caged in. (She is asking him to give up his freedom and ambition, just like them.)

    "He stood there, bewildered, wondering what just happened and why. Then, he woke up."

Dreams - To dream that you are dreaming, signifies your emotional state. You are excessively worried and fearful about a situation or circumstance that you are going through.

    "It was nothing but a dream, and he called an old girlfriend to tell her about it. He got her answering machine, so he left a message explaining the significance of the dream as he saw it."

Telephone - To see or hear a telephone in your dream, signifies a message from your unconscious or some sort of telepathic communication. You may be forced to confront issues that you have tried to avoid. Alternatively, the telephone represents your communication and relationship with others. To dream that you are having a telephone conversation with someone you know signifies an issue that you need to confront with that person. This issue may have to do with letting go some part of yourself.

Message - To dream that you are sending a message, forewarns that you will be put into an unpleasant situation.

"Being a Jungian by nature, he explained how Julian could represent a conduit to fantasy women, whether his fantasies or those of others; or even how his sexual standards would be lowered once he achieves his goals in life, and how love would become secondary to pleasure and status. The experience, no matter how real or desirable, compared little to the ideals it sought to overthrow, and he knew this. He rambled on and on, in what must have been the longest message left on an answering machine in history, without coming to any conclusions about anything but how real it all felt. It was the reality that got him most. Maggie felt more real than the phone call he was making, or even the thoughts he was having at the moment.
    Then, he woke up, realizing he had just experienced a dream within a dream."

Conclusion - While this is only a cursory interpretation of some subjects from the dream, the overwhelming themes include renewal, learning, pressure to conform, anxiety over regression, desire for security, optimism for the future, and sex.

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Jason

Last Updated: 7/2/2009

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Gender: Male
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Age: 102
Sign: Virgo

City: WINTER PARK
State: Florida
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