journeys in the childhood of a narcissus

journeys in the childhood of a narcissus

pelicanese

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Updating My Self-Perception

[May. 7th, 2008|02:23 pm]

Every once in a while I start to feel like my LiveJournal User Info doesn't really match the way I think of myself any longer, so I go through and update it. A great deal stays the same, but there is always enough change that I have to be at my most reflective and introspective to be able feel as if I am actually representing myself. As such, I tend to feel that this kind of writing is often my most honest.

I am a 23-year-old boy. I live with my parents. I am moving to another city soon, but I do not know when. I have not yet moved to another city and started my own life – goals I have had since I can remember having goals – because I am afraid of leaving. I am partly afraid of leaving because I never want it to become easy. I know too many people for whom leaving has become the easiest way to deal with problems. I have become the opposite kind of person. I am the kind of person for whom staying has become the easiest way to deal with my problems. I do not want to take the easy way if it is not the best way, or the right way. I sometimes think that the best way and the right way can be opposite things, and this only adds to my confusion.

I have a job, but I am broke. I believe that a man should have a job because it affords him the opportunity to comfortably pursue his interests. I also believe that if a man's job is interfering with his pursuit of his interests, he should seriously consider quitting his job. I have quit many jobs. I also quit school. I could without error be labeled a 'quitter.' I think sometimes that I am either too much of a quitter or not enough of one. I think I am living in a limbo between the realms of abject failure and the possibility of success. I think I stay in this limbo by choosing to quit things. I think sometimes I quit because more than anything in the world I am afraid of failing. I am a student who is not in school, a writer who doesn't write, a reader who never finishes books, a friend who doesn't return phone-calls, a misanthrope searching for acceptance, a dreamer who cannot remember his dreams...

I am living beneath my potential. I occasionally do not believe in 'potential' as a concept, because I think it lets quitters off the hook. I still use the term in reference to myself because it makes me feel better about the fact that I often believe I could have done better. I feel regret more powerfully than most other emotions. I sometimes wish that, by doing things that I am afraid of, I would learn to be as comfortable regretting mistakes I have made as I currently am regretting good decisions I wish I had not made instead. I also fear, however, that I would begin to stop thinking of them as mistakes at all.

I believe that the key to a man's happiness is becoming comfortable with his own paradoxical nature. I am occasionally comfortable with my own. I do not believe that contradictions are flaws. I do have many flaws. I am afraid, reclusive, cold, arrogant, pretentious, emotionally distant, lazy, a procrastinator, and others I have not yet been informed of. I am probably too comfortable with all of these flaws for my own good. I usually have difficulty differentiating between the flaws and the contradictions. I think despite my flaws and despite my contradictions – or perhaps because of both of them – I am on my way to becoming a deep, well-rounded, self-actualized human-being. I think that despite my flaws and despite my contradictions – or perhaps because of both of them – I am a very long way away.

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Graphic Art

[May. 2nd, 2008|08:58 pm]

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Current Music

Black Moth Super Rainbow - Falling Through a Field

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I'm not sure if many of you know this, but a couple of years ago I used to be very interested in graphic design. Like everything I enjoy, it was just a hobby. I have never been trained, nor have I ever seriously entertained thoughts of making a living at it. Having switched computers, I lost Adobe Photoshop and Illustrator, my primary tools for this type of expression, and wasn't able to replace them for several years. I managed to get them back three days ago, and since then I've been diligently carving away at a few things, and loving it. This (mostly-)completed piece is, in my opinion, one of the best things I've done with design to-date.

( full image )

There was a tower where a man said I can live. After grief it can happen
that he comes. Then he saw summer its field and its tree. He heard the
wind and he saw a cloud.
by Russell Edson

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Overdramatic Feelings of Isolation, the City I Live In, My Dog, and Rilke

[Apr. 24th, 2008|12:04 am]

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Current Music

Israel Kamakawiwo'ole - Somewhere Over The Rainbow/What A Wonderful World

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To have outgrown a place does not mean that you feel bigger than you have, so in that way the expression is inadequate at best. You are aware, however, that the place itself has changed neither its size nor its shape, and thus it is you who is different; so, in this way, the expression must in some way be valid. But we all live with ourselves as our constant companions, and it is difficult for you to chart the ways in which you change. So you study the inhabitants of this strange old place, the buildings that surround you, the roads that lead towards and away from them, and you wonder...

You waste money on gasoline you cannot afford, finding succor nowhere. At night you drive slowly through the outskirts, watching cars with dark windows pass on either side of you, but you cannot imagine the people they must contain, for no longer is any soul here known to you. You go out of your way to take the highways, for it is on them you have had so many homecomings. You visit the old haunts, the places you went to meet friends and girls, meeting no one. In your mind these places are still populated by those who were once familiar, so you sit in them almost expectantly, examining every face that crosses the threshold. Mostly though they are empty, despite whatever number of bodies they admit. You think to yourself: no part of this place belongs to me any longer. But you are wrong.1

* * *

Though I live in a very flat, dull city comprised almost entirely of strip-malls, gas-stations, and economically-segregated suburbs, and though this city has next to no culture, nightlife, or other opportunities for amusement, there is one area -- an oasis within the city -- that I and a considerable number of my fellow residents have consistently gravitated towards. This area, called the Tower District for its proximity to the historic Tower Theater, is actually not a district but rather a street. The Tower District extends for the length of one city block on this particular street. It is surrounded on all sides by residential neighborhoods that, 30 years ago, housed the firmly middle-class, but which have since, it is largely thought by those who never come this far south of the railroad tracks, deteriorated into slums. In actuality, the area is experiencing a small renaissance, largely due to the recent successes of the Tower District. Within the confines of this small city block there is a flourish of everything missing from the rest of the city: a cinema (as opposed to a generic multiplex), a record shop, cafés, and a wealth of other idiosyncratic small businesses.

Reading Jane Jacobs' The Death and Life of Great American Cities has in many ways clarified why this rebirth was possible, and why I prefer the area for my social needs. Despite being an intensely private person, I am still a social being, and the Tower District is the only place in this city (that I know of) where one can be private and yet still socialize and be part of a community. Because of the bustling sidewalk life, the wide variety of people who frequent the area both as residents and visitors, and the high frequency of establishments such as bars, restaurants, coffee-shops, and stores which encourage this variety, one can interact with others without necessarily inviting them into one's own private social circle. One can also choose not to interact, precisely because the interaction is of a public as opposed to a private nature, and therefore not an assumption but rather an open invitation of sorts. This type of interaction is not encouraged by the strip malls, for example, because it is wholly visited as opposed to inhabited; there are no residents of the strip mall, so everyone is an anonymous visiting stranger as opposed to part of a community. On the other hand, this type of interaction is also not encouraged by the suburbs, because they are wholly inhabited as opposed to visited, which oddly enough is equally discouraging to a sense of community.

One particular coffee-shop -- the Revue -- has always drawn my business, particularly because of the ease with which its layout facilitates the gradient between public and private spheres. The tables and chairs in front of the store are the most public, because they are located directly on the sidewalk, and therefore make people-watching incredibly easy, but also expose their occupants to the most amount of public attention. Seats under the patio -- located against the side of the building and partially blocked-off by a shade-tree and some small fencing -- are the most coveted: they allow for people-watching from behind a screen, but are arranged in a circular pattern conducive for conversation between larger groups, and thus are always crowded, often by strangers meeting for the first time over a cigarette. The first room one enters, both from the sidewalk and the patio, is home to the cash register, and has many small tables which can be moved together or apart as necessary, but the high level of traffic by those simply buying and leaving means complete privacy in the area is rare. Last is the room in the back of the shop, where there are separated booths similar to restaurant dining, and which afford the highest level of insulation and privacy.

Though Jacobs has made clear the requirements necessary for this type of diverse, interesting, public community environment, what she has not yet explained is how one can foster and create those requirements. Admittedly I am only part-way through the book, so hopefully she will go into more depth about this later. I know that part of the issue is gentrification, which seems to me to have contributed greatly to the area, but perhaps I only think that because I'm white and benefiting at the expense of the poor. But from the perspective of Jacobs, for whom at this point suburbs seem like a blight that can go nowhere but downhill, there is little hope for the rest of my city.

* * *

Yesterday evening we saw that the family dog, Sparky, had thrown up on the cement in our backyard. This isn't particularly unusual; fairly often she eats grass that she cannot digest. Then, later, when I went outside to smoke a cigarette, she was weaving drunkenly, shaking from exhaustion, and could barely walk five feet to me without falling. It was absolutely terrifying, and when she collapsed and could hardly get up, I kept thinking she was about to die. We rushed her to an emergency vet who told us she had idiopathic vestibular disease.

From VeterinaryHelp.net: "Signs seen with this disease are consistent with those expected in other peripheral vestibular diseases - peripheral meaning not involving the brain but the vestibulocochlear nerve in the ear. Patients may be unable to stand, fall to one side, tilt the head to one side or have an abnormal flicking of the eyes called nystagmus."

Apparently symptoms can resolve themselves in as quickly as a few days or as slowly as a week. The important part, however, is that they will subside. The vet kept her over last night, as she had to be given food and water intravenously, being too nauseous to eat or drink. She came home this evening, though, once the "nystagmus" let up, but she still can barely walk.

* * *

I recently read a story in The Architecture of Happiness by Alain de Botton about Freud and Rilke walking through a lush garden. Freud was overjoyed that the sun was shining, the summer rains had finally let up, and the flowers were in full bloom. Rilke, however, was quiet and despondent, for he was unable to forget, as Freud put it, "that all this beauty was fated to extinction, that it would vanish when winter came, like all human beauty and all the beauty that men have created or may create." Sometimes it is difficult to remain optimistic in the face of such certain loss.

1 Unfinished entry from paper journal, dating to sometime mid-January

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	[Dec. 15th, 2007\|02:52 pm]
As you may or may not know, I just returned home after spending several months overseas, where I did a great deal of reading. Since I probably read more in this period than I have in any other short amount of time in my life, I thought it would be interesting to give you all a little break-down of the books. ( Full List (in alphabetical order) ) Departure: July 20, 2007 Arrival: December 9, 2007 Days Away: 151 Months Away: 5 Average Reading Speed: 1 book every 4.08 days 7.4 books every month Favorite Reads: The Gormenghast Trilogy by Mervyn Peake What Mervyn Peake has done here is given Tim Burton an entire career's worth of material, if only he would use it. That sounds like one of those comparisons book reviewers make to try in vain to liken an indescribable work of art to something that is more-easily recognizable. Actually, what am I saying? It is one of those comparisons. Can I do better, though? Not really; I'm bumbling through this whole mini-review anyway, so I'll just let it stand. There is a magic and charisma to this book that I just can't get a handle on when I try to explain why I like it so much. Its characters are completely dark, melodramatic, and often in many ways 2-dimensional. But the author still manages to give them the carefully knowing, loving and yet subtle, friendly mocking treatment of Dickens. The plot is also overcomplex, reliant upon unrealistic (but convincing) twists and turns, and though massively involving, seems almost superfluous when looking back. If is seems like I am pointing out a lot of this book's flaws, think again. They are flaws in the technical sense, yes; glaring flaws, telling flaws, but integral to Peake's flawed vision. The characters, the plot: these aren't the point. Like many of the best fantasy authors, Peake is a world-builder and atmosphericist first and foremost, and his is a dark, flawed, intricate world that I know I will be happy to return to soon. The Rings of Saturn by W.G. Sebald It took me a while to get what Sebald was doing, so I didn’t really enjoy the first part of this book as much as I did the latter part. Fiction for me is almost always at least marginally concerned with things such as “character” and “plot,” which didn’t seem to be major issues for Sebald. Instead, he focused much more on such things as the atmosphere of places, the trajectory of obscure-yet-influential intellectual systems, and the growth and decline of whole civilizations, as evidenced by what characters he does include. These characters actually tended to be people who are alive or have lived, though whether or not he has manipulated the facts of their existences for his own ends I would have to do more research to know. Once I realized the common thread between his seemingly disparate anecdotes and non-linear plotless "stories," not only did I find the book far more enjoyable, I also found that many of the themes were similar to those of Peake’s book listed above, and would actually suggest them as excellent companion reads. All the Pretty Horses by Cormac McCarthy What can I say? McCarthy is probably the best writer of English fiction living today, and this is one of his most accessible books. He knows exactly how to form a sentence, how to structure a narrative, how to tell a story, how to be creative and original without resorting to gimmicks, how to be deep and intellectual without being impenetrable. I think if there is one author I would recommend to just about anyone, it would be Cormac McCarthy, and if I had to choose one of his books to recommend it might just be this one. He isn’t my favorite author, but that’s because his themes aren’t those I identify most-strongly with. That said, unlike some of my favorite books, I think there is something in All the Pretty Horses for everyone, which is why I try to tell everyone that just because he’s on Oprah’s Book List, that doesn’t mean you should lump him in with all the other drivel she recommends. The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera I tend to think of characters (and people in general, I guess) as living two kinds of lives: an outer or visible life, the boring one where they go to work, eat lunch alone, cry about a relationship gone bad, eventually die; and the inner life, that secret life of symbols, unconsious urges, and unrecognizeable patterns that inform that same person's actions. Authors I have read in the past used the outer life as a metaphor for the inner. The visible world is one we all experience, so it is easy to write about. Kundera is not the first author I have ever read who wrote about the inner lives of his characters. (Any of the books I enjoy tend to at least have hints of this; this is where books get their emotional cores, to my understanding.) Kundera is, however, the first author I have read who wrote about the inner lives of his characters without teasing them out of their outer lives. He completely eschews most talk about who did what when to talk instead about why they did what they did, and what it was about each character that caused them to make the choices that shaped their lives. Least-Favorite Reads: The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams You know that guy who is always joking, but it's obvious he's trying really hard to make people laugh? Maybe somebody called him the class-clown when he was a kid, and he took that as a compliment to try to live up to, but he doesn't realize that good humor is effortless and the more he works at it the more cringe-worthy it is. I think Douglas Adams is that guy. He's not funny, he's not clever, but he wants us so badly to think he's both. If you have confidence in yourself and your jokes and your audience's ability to appreciate them, you don't need to spread it on so thick. If you like Vonnegut when he's irreverant and silly and trying too hard to make a point, you'll really dig Douglas Adams. If you wish Carrot Top would make fun of religion as if he wanted you to change your mind, you'll absolutely go nuts for this. As for me, I'll take my comedians nonchalant, my lessons from somebody more-intelligent, and my literature written by someone else, thanks. Journey to the Centre of the Earth by Jules Verne I think a sci-fi book can combat the effects of its science becoming dated by including things that are timeless, like interesting and enduring characters, plots, and so on. An example of something that does this marginally well would be Verne's 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, which I read just after this book. Even though that book has far too much speculative science that has been disproven, and is overburdened by scientific names sitting in for descriptions of various forms of aquatic life, Nemo is intriguing enough to make it worthwhile. For me, Journey to the Centre of the Earth had no such redeeming qualities. It's plot was virtually non-existent, there was no real conflict between any of the characters, and in fact there was barely any conflict with the environment. All that was left was a bunch of scientific theories that obviously have not withstood the test of time. I am glad that this book was written, because it helped birth the science-fiction genre, which I am recently very taken with, but I wish I had had a better book to occupy my time. The Difference Engine by William Gibson and Bruce Sterling I didn't dislike this as much as the other two. I just found it kind of boring and pointless. I was excited by the idea of reading it, but it just didn't really get me. Maybe I missed the point and somebody needs to enlighten me. But until then, it was very much an "ehh" kind of read.
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España

[Nov. 15th, 2007|08:10 pm]

Coming to Spain is like taking a huge gulp of fresh air. After the stuffy, haughty, stuck-upedness of England, where no one was very nice and I only had a truly good time by myself or with other non-natives, Spain started out looking like paradise. The weather was and continues to be absolutely beautiful here: November and it's still in the 70s. I've spent much of my time laying out on our balcony reading in the sun. The rest of the time is devoted to eating and drinking. Tapas is an absolutely wonderful concept. You go to lunch around 1:00 and eat for an hour or two, lots of small courses spaced out, and a small beer with each one. Nothing is too rushed, nothing hectic. The beach is about five minutes away walking.

I don't know if I would still call it paradise. The longer we stay here the more deserted it gets. The town we're staying in (Rocquetas del Mar) is a resort town for elderly English and Germans on holiday. It balloons in the summer and deflates in the winter, and we're slipping into off-season. We watch the shops and restaurants close one by one as the days go by. Our favorite pizzarria was open just last night, but tonight the awnings are taken down and the windows are all barred up. If we are in paradise, why does every window have bars and every door have deadbolts?

Walking home after a huge meal a few days ago with Laura and her grandfather (whose villa we are staying in and who was showing us around the town, but left yesterday morning), we saw two wild black cats with glassy eyes crowded around a palm tree that looks like a huge, buried pineapple. Once they determined that we were harmless, despite our being close enough for me to hit with a flicked cigarette butt if I'd chosen, they went back to what they were doing: taking turns licking at the prickled base of the palm tree.

There are more stray cats and dogs here than anywhere I have ever been. And more beggars. But they don't bother begging here, they either play the accordion or just stand there, mute and staring, while you try to ignore them and finish your desert course. Also, everywhere smells like my grandpa's house used to: the reek of stale sweat seeped into decaying carpet samples, cigarette burns, old carpet samples, and the salty flesh of the elderly.

But all that is only apparent when you stop and really pay attention. As a whole, it is hard to pay attention here. The heat of the sun and the blue of the Meditteranean and the ability to smoke literally anywhere are all incredibly distracting. No worries is distracting. Beer is distracting. Tapas are distracting. But so far, despite the grotesque undercurrent running through it all, I am finding distraction very appealing. It reminds me of Fresno. In more ways than I can think of, I cannot wait to come home.

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[Jun. 30th, 2007|02:36 am]

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Current Music

Acid Mothers Temple & the Melting Paraisio U.F.O. - In C

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Larix decidua, European Larch
by Walter Pall

The beauty of the bonsai is that the plant is kept just at the edge between health and ruin, between life and death, in order that, in that pliable state, it may be shaped and molded according to aesthetic purpose. Forming the bonsai into an appropriate shape and form may be the easiest part of the bonsai process; as I see it the true skill lies in simulating the hardships of natural environments which produce these forms when human guidance is not present.

Thus, the beginner's bonsai tree is a variation of the upright: it appears healthy, stretches its branches towards the sun, its branches even and regular, its overall appearance supple and untroubled. It might be likened to a socialite or aristocrat who moves into old age with poise and grace, showing few if any scars of a life of hardship; such a tree has known as little risk as possible, so while it may be beautiful it cannot be wise.

By contrast, the bonsai tree of a master betrays with its appearance a life lived well, lived fully, and lived an existence turbulent, hard fought-for, hard won. Broken branches, hollowed trunks, knobs, and heavy driftwood are scars and badges of honor, the remainder of lessons learned. Such a tree has been subjected to life's extremes. It expounds the knowledge it has gained patiently and to all who will listen to the stories its gnarled branches and twisted trunk will tell. In fact, if anything about such a tree is masked, it is a surprising vitality. It is humble but not withdrawn, sagacious without arrogance, serene and yet engaging.

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[Jun. 25th, 2007|11:37 pm]

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Current Music

Wilco - Bob Dylan's 49th Beard

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In a Psychology class I once failed, we had a discussion about altered states of consciousness. How the human body and mind require these periods of other-worldliness and relaxing of mental boundaries in order to maintain health. How we crave these states, whether induced by a chemical substance or through some other means. Spinning extensively until dizzy, for example, was listed as one of the means of altering perception and thereby relaxing the mind, which is why children - who have no access to the chemical substances which would produce this same result - will often spin excessively.

I do not know how valid this particular teacher's hypothesis was. I can, however, remember spinning until I achieved a sense of euphoria on many different occasions. Grass was always beneath my feet in these memories, sea-green summer sky above. And finally, when I had spun until my mind could barely remember how it was to stand still, I would fall in a heap to the ground, or otherwise attempt to stop and walk in lazy ellipses before similarly collapsing. After assuming a horizontal position, I would watch, nauseous and inert, as the world spun above me.

In this same class discussion, it was also mentioned that extended periods of solitude could similarly alter ones consciousness.

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Sample Conversations Concerning 'The Secret'	[Mar. 19th, 2007\|08:16 pm]
For those of you who haven't heard of the #1 best-selling book in the country (topping out over even preorders for the next installment of the Harry Potter series), it's called 'The Secret,' Oprah is pimping it out like it's a free new sports car that helps women lose weight, and it seems pretty awful. Read why here. Conversation #1 Nathan is working at the information desk in the local chain bookstore. Enter customer from the left. (Note: left is the location of the much-maligned New Age section, where just minutes ago Nathan has seen the customer, browsing and nearly-harassing another employee about aliens.) Customer (C): So, have you heard of a book -- I think it's called 'The Secret'? Nathan (N): Absolutely. It's our #1 best-seller right now. C: Yeah, ok. So, have you heard of anybody who bought it? N: Uh...yeah, like...pretty much every second customer that comes in here. C: So, have you heard if it works? N: Well, I don't know. It's very popular. C: Yes, but has anybody who bought it told you if it works or not? N: No, nobody has really come back in and told me... I've heard it's about envisioning an idea and that, by thinking positively about that idea, it will happen. C: Right, I know. I guess what I'm asking is if there's any evidence of, you know... it working. N: Well, if you're asking me whether or not there's empirical evidence supporting the claims that the Secret makes, the answer is an absolute, decided "No." But that's kind of the point... From what I've heard, it's not a scientific book at all, but more a quasi-spiritual book about making money. Since it can't be proved, that excludes the possibility of evidence, for or against. C: Oh. But have you heard anything about if it works? Conversation #2 The chain bookstore is closed. The closing duties have been preformed. The bookstore's employees now cluster by the door waiting for the managers to finish balancing the safe. Idle conversation quite randomly comes to a halt, and an awkward silence ensues. N: So, what I want to know is, how many copies does 'The Secret' have to sell before it stops, you know, being a secret. Most of the assembled laugh politely. Employee #1: Yeah, pretty soon they're going to have to change its name to 'Formerly a Secret, Now a Bestseller.' They laugh politely a little more. Employee #2: Yeah. I heard it's pretty good though. My friend says its changing her life.
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	[Jun. 14th, 2006\|08:26 pm]
At a craft fair when I was five, I cried until my parents bought the porcelain face of a tiger tied in back with a black string. The mask was too heavy for my ugly duckling neck, I couldn't put it on by myself. Because my parents said it was too fragile for me to even hold, I sat there on the mowed lawn between countless tacky pavilion tents hawking cheap-made tie-dye shirts and beady things, doe-eying at the bag in my dad's hand. The shape of the tiger's jaw protruded ferociously through the malleable plastic as it raged to escape, leap from the bag, and affix itself to my welcoming face. How can a tiger mask be fragile? They were afraid to let me have it, I decided. With a mask like that I'd casually maul the shoppers perusing jewelry, tear holes in the cloth walls if they were in my way, and if the kids with water guns and flavored ice shoved me down as they ran past I'd gore them from behind, open them up like christmas morning, paint my teeth with their squirting blood, snack lazily on scraps of stringy flesh. Who fucks with a tiger?
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Zombies, Nausea, and the Job-Hunt

[Jun. 9th, 2006|02:14 am]

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Current Music

Bob Marley & the Wailers - Them Belly Full

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There is a peculiar type of incident that I have experienced numerous times in my life, though not much as of late. It generally occurred during the wastelands of summer, in those years when I was old enough to be at home, taking care of myself without supervision, but when I was still too young to have means to extricate myself from an empty home full of the ghosts of my absent family.

I have always, for those things which matter most to me at the time, possessed a huge amount of concentration, bordering on obsession. In those days, my Zahir would be one of many books, video-games, albums of music, television shows, or all of the above. I would gorge myself on them for countless hours, and being that I was then responsible for nothing but my own pleasure, I would keep insomniac hours, sleeping fitfully into the evening, or awakening fitfully before dawn to begin my marathon hedonism.

Obsessive as I was, no other impulse – mental, emotional, or physical – would rouse me from my stupor until such time as I was perfectly ready. I took pride, in those days, at the completeness of my self-control: days without sleep, seasons without as much as a mouthful of water or visit to the lavatory, etc. But at these times as I would deign to grant my body respite, I would emerge from the humid, sweltering confines of my shadowy room, sweating and glassy-eyed, the pit of my stomach cavernous with such a hunger as I have rarely since felt.

Shambling corpselike but quick, squinting but certain, I would traverse the empty hallways of my parents' house like a long-dead pharaoh attempts to recollect the floor-plan of his great pyramid. My destination was invariably the kitchen; from there, first the pantry, then the refrigerator, then back, my mind numb at the seemingly endless choices at my fingertips.

And just at the instant that I had picked from the multitude, the peculiarity of the incident in question would present itself: Though the cavern still yawned and gaped at its own depths, my mind and gullet would pool with disgust and bile at the very thought of ingestion. To reach for any of the ingredients of a meal was an exercise in utter futility and humiliation, for my body would rebel against itself, and, though I would generally not be forced to sprint for a toilet and vomit, the impulse was still very much present. Then I would back away from the source of the seemingly revolting foods, become dizzy, and have to sit down under a cool fan until the waves of nausea passed. Only then would I be able to eat my fill.

Not until two weeks ago, when I began to attempt to search for a job, have I felt anything even remotely similar. But on recollection these well-remembered incidents from the past make for a striking metaphor when compared with my recent job search. I have been living in hedonism for…has it really been close to six months now? And when I try to strike out and wrest hold of even some small responsibility or monetary gain as I know I must, I clench up, grind my teeth, terror seizing me before I even leave the house.

Today after forcing myself through some emotionally draining but objectively painless parts of the application process, I hurried to the Revue for some iced-coffee with my whiskey. After gulping down that concoction and blazing through half-a-pack, I settled down somewhat. But I cannot go on by self-medicating, or slip back into complacency and stagnation. I am too hungry.

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	[Apr. 11th, 2006\|08:21 pm]
The Last Four Months (In Under __ Words) Lost a friend. Worked some more. Hated it. Saved some money. Quit my job. Spent some money. Hung out. Drove to Denver with Zak. Saw Keegan. Stayed for two weeks. Came back. Got a girl. Kept her (so far). Hung out some more. Looked for a new job. Didn’t find one. Ran out of money. Came back to the internet. *** LiveJournaling for the Lazy 1. Update more rarely. 2. When updating, use short, dry, and impersonal prose. 3. Lose Friends. 4. Feel the need to update less. 5. Repeat.
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Prince amoung Pawns.	[Jan. 28th, 2006\|05:39 am]
I am the Lizard King I can do anything. H@X0R B!~ 3n3p7
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Radioheadache	[Dec. 2nd, 2005\|06:40 pm]
Now I think I know why people like Radiohead: they perfectly soundtrack the office terrain. They are fairly unimpressive and dull, but somehow manage also to be catchy. Imminently hummable and groanable; and even if you can't really understand all the lyrics, that doesn't matter too much because the lyrics are just there to make you hum, make you groan. Just like team-building exercises are supposed to make you motivated. Here's a shitty little poem about Radiohead I wrote while I was trying to work as little as possible. It was supposed to have neat little spacing and formatting, but whatever. ( Here it is. ) Music that matches my environment is fine, but is it wrong to want my music to lift me out of the banal and stifling? Ambient is another thing entirely, it allows you to focus instead of keeping you just at the point of distraction. Music for me has always been an escape or an amplifier; why would I use it to amplify drudgery when I could be escaping to another dimension? Outside it feels like it will rain any second, and I keep waiting for something to happen; with this choice of music, I can rest assured that it will not.
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	[Nov. 18th, 2005\|05:31 pm]
Driving home from work just now, after a pretty damn good day filled with cash-moneys, cute flirty bank tellers, and fulfilling sandwiches, I got cut off by a woman in a gold Saturn with a "Who is John Galt?" bumper-sticker, who then made it through the yellow light right in front of me. That's sure appropriate, I thought. Directly followed by: has my life really come to this? There I was, letting Love's "You Set the Scene" buoy me up after a slightly-too-long afternoon, thinking about being mellow and good-hearted and able to influence my own destiny... Then, all of a sudden, it was completely dashed by some bitch with bad taste. This is just reinforcing my belief that books and music really do change people.
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Epitaph for an Era	[Oct. 30th, 2005\|09:26 pm]
"...Teach me mortality, frighten me into the present. Help me to find the heft of these days. That the nights will be full enough and my heart feral." -Jack Gilbert, I Imagine the Gods K., I'll miss you while you're away. You've been helping me to grasp great handfuls of this poem's meaning all along, and I haven't thanked you nearly enough for it. Until the next time, be with St. Christopher, as I know he will always be with you.
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	[Oct. 15th, 2005\|02:23 am]
I'm still riding an emotional high right now, so I'm going to make this post short and sweet: I went to a karaoke bar tonight and -- without a drop of liquor in me -- did a rendition of James Brown's "Sex Machine" that had everyone on their feet and dancing. I don't know if I want to wake up tomorrow; nothing could be as cool.
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	[Oct. 13th, 2005\|05:35 pm]
Nice tie...$50 Camel-hair blazer (not pictured)...$250 Fair tickets...$8 Decent cigar...$10 Cheap scotch in a plastic cup (tip included)...$6 Not getting paid at job...$64 Bets (after winnings)...$15 Ditching work to get dressed up and gamble on horse-races...Well, you all can add.
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	[Sep. 22nd, 2005\|06:46 pm]
( Pussy )
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Revenge

[Sep. 21st, 2005|06:31 pm]

[

Current Music

Ennio Morricone - Without Pity

]

On break we talked about how it's spaghetti-western week on IFC, and it's hot outside, so I'm listening to Ennio Morricone's Legendary Western Soundtracks as I go home for lunch. I'm doing the speed-limit because this is the street I drive down every day to get to and from work, so I know that a motorcycle cop sits at various places up and down the block to give speeding tickets to people on their lunch break, and I don't want to be one of those people. The work van behind me though, he either doesn't know or doesn't care, because he's been riding on my ass since I got on the road.

We near the stop-light and as I enter the right turn lane, I break a little earlier than normal, because even though the lane is long, I want to give the asshole behind me maybe a little bit to think about. I look in my rear-view and see that he's dropped back, so I figure, good, he's learned his lesson. Then I see movement in my left mirror. He'd just dropped back so he could floor it, zoom past me in the long, wide turn lane, cut me off, and still make the turn. He goes through the light just as it turns red, and I'm stuck.

But it's no big deal, right? So I didn’t make the light. I've got an hour off of work and I'm smoking a cigarette and I have Ennio Morricone playing, so everything's pretty chill. Maybe if I could do something about it I'd be angry, but he already went through the light and I'm stuck here, so I'll never see him again. Right?

I make a quick left and then a quick right, putting me onto the road that curves towards my house, and as I reach the next red light, whom do I see one car ahead of me but the very same work van. He must've gone further up the street he cut me off on than I did, and then turned. Now we’re so close I can almost smell his exhaust. Only one car is separating us, on a one-lane street that I know will split into two lanes in a matter of seconds. Cold realization sinks in: I have him.

But do I make my move as soon as the lane splits? No. He is already tail-gating the person he is now behind, so it would take a great deal of maneuvering, and the pay-off would be minimal. Besides, this is not road-rage, and I am not simply some angry Joe jonesing for the kill. No. I have become a perfect avatar of justice, and patience is but one of many weapons at my disposal. I wait, hang back in the lane beside him, try to inhabit his blind-spot. I roll down my window in preparation. I know the perfect opportunity will come.

Finally, he tires of having to only drive five over the limit, and pulls into my lane, speeding up. I give chase. In my pursuit, I pass the car he's most recently offended. I turn to her, a middle-aged woman in a sedan. We lock eyes. My speed and my gaze inform her of my intent, and as her hurt eyes look back at me, I know that she will be properly avenged this afternoon.

Without her in the picture, I have room to maneuver. I look around for police or other cars, but none are in sight. Now is the time. Grendel smells blood and his engine growls; he's fiercer than I've seen him, and we rocket forward. As we overtake the truck, time stops long enough for me to look left and see the driver. He is a jowlly man with an unkempt beard and aviator shades. Morricone's trumpets blare and his guitars wail.

Then we are past him, just past him, and I am swinging the wheel, Grendel's leaping out in front. We barely miss his front fender as I change lanes, so I hold down the gas for a fraction of a second longer, give myself just enough room. Then I lean my arm out the window, and as I tap the breaks just inches in front of him on the open road, I point back the mightiest bird that's ever been flipped, and I let it fly. As he slams on the breaks to avoid hitting me, I swear I can hear his animal bellow, even over Morricone cresendoing through my speakers. Then my foot thumps back on the gas, and I’m gone, and he’s nothing more than my dust in the wind.

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Dispatches From This Week

[Sep. 9th, 2005|04:38 pm]

[

Current Music

Jamie Lidell - Music Will Not Last

]

Nothing like reading the blog of somebody who's doing something (or lots of sometimes) to get you feeling really let-down with life. Oh, unless it's reading the blogs of people who are doing just as little as you are.

* * *

My depression at the realization that I will now have to work forty hours a week, wake up at eight in the morning, sell my soul to the Man, etc., is overwhelmed by a twin realization: they want me! Being chosen feels very nice. Also, money.

I've spent most of the summer watching tennis, cultivating an addiction to cigarettes, trying to read poetry, surrounding myself with good people, listening to James Brown, and relaxing. Now that it's coming to an end, I can't help but think it's a time I'll miss intensely when it's gone. I only hope I never think back on this – an admittedly lazy period – with regrets at not having "done more with it." My time has been exactly as full as I've wanted it to be.

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