The cure for restlessness is rest.

2011-11-01T22:28:00.000-07:00

The world is a very big place. And now we have have 7 billion of us, occupying the same space. How we will all find our place in this world? Assuming that there is a place for each of us.

And to think it all came from a dense mass of energy and light that could fit neatly in a matchbox and into your pocket. Then the big bang, the universe was set in motion.

When I think about the days anymore, they seem to just come and pass without much to them. I start on Monday, and close my eyes and it's now next Monday. Sitting on the train, staring into expressionless faces and the sleepyheads trying to squeeze in one more hour of rest before a long day. For instance, the janitor who cleans the bathroom in the office has no sign of youth or life left in him. In passing, you can't see his pupils. You have to stand right in front of him, at face level, to look into his soul. And even then, there's hardly any spark left in his old bones. So he stands there and waits for everyone to finish shitting. Then he gets to work.

This is what I think about when I'm asked by a potential employer: "Where do you see yourself in five years?"

In five years, I see myself as an old man, standing around a bathroom with a mop. With how fast time has been going lately, five years may as well be 50 years. I think that for many of us, our place in the world is not a geographical one. It's a state of resignation, or as the dictionary defines:

Unresisting acceptance of something as inescapable; submission

Some birds travel across continents to escape the winter air and others stand around garbage fires and furnace exhaust vents.

The world really is a beautiful place, and remains a beautiful place for many. But it's also an absurd one. And absurdity is a human creation. Integrating into the absurdity is when the last skin of youth begins to shed. Time also passes by much quicker, and so we don't view weeks or months or seasons as really as significant or important as they once were. It'll probably be months from now until I even consider trying to do anything creative again. I find a lot of comfort in knowing that I'm a piece of the universe, and that I am created from it. But I also find some comfort in knowing that I will have come and passed, and it'll only be a fraction of a millisecond as far as the universe is concern. I'm not sure how to answer the question "Where do you see yourself in five years?"

2011-06-26T20:31:00.001-07:00

I didn't like to eat beans. I was 5 years old and had just gotten a hair cut. My dad told me that if I didn't eat my beans then my hair wouldn't grow back. So I sat there, with my big boy spoon, and shoveled cold, canned chili beans into my mouth and rather disdainfully chewed them up into a mush of brown goo, which as I had learned, was the only way that my hair would keep growing.

I also hated spinach. My parents would buy the frozen kind, and dish it out on my plate, in which it looked like lost limbs of the creature from the black lagoon. It was stringy, and icky and I didn't like to eat it. My dad made me sit at the dinner table until I finished eating the pile of nasty dark green bile. It felt like I was sitting there for days, under a dining room light, interrogated - no, rather, tortured by the vegetable that had once been frozen and likely depleted of nutrients.

I guess a lot of people believe that carrots are good for your eyes, and that fish is "brain food". I've never really ate that well, and as an adult, I guess I don't have a good grasp on how to cook or how to eat a "balanced diet". We ate frozen spinach, and asparagus out of the can - the kind that is mushy and clammy tasting, and drank Sunny Delight - as it was our replacement for vitamin C. My dad made up his own "benefits" of eating these foods, so we/I ate it.

I used to sleep on top of my bed, without using any blankets. I often went to bed fully dressed from the previous day - shoes, socks and all. I played in the sandbox a lot in kindergarten and first grade so when I'd go to bed fully clothed, sand would be deposited in my bed sheets (and lots of it). It never got too cold in Aiken, but my parents didn't like that I wouldn't sleep under the blankets. So my dad told me that if I slept with the blanket up to my shoulders, the monsters wouldn't be able to get me. Before this, I had no idea that I was allowing myself to be susceptible to any monster attacks. I didn't sleep very well, for a week or two after being told this, but I certainly slept under my blankets, and with them up to my neck (if not covering my eyes).

I had a bad habit of brushing my teeth, and then never putting the cap back on the toothpaste. I was told that if I didn't put the cap back on, then roaches would crawl inside.

My sister had a gold fish, and it lasted a long time. It probably lived for a year, maybe two. She had had one before, but it died fairly quickly, so my dad got her another one. I forget what the name of it was... I think it may have been Lucy? One day, the goldfish was gone. We asked my dad what happened to the goldfish, and where she went. He told us that the goldfish got sick, and that he had to take her to the hospital. We were quite concerned that the goldfish was sick, and worried quite a lot about it. Every other day, then eventually once a week, and maybe even a couple of months later, we'd still ask about the goldfish and how she was doing. My dad would tell us over and over that she was still in the hospital...

I asked my grandfather how to tell the difference between a boy dog and a girl dog. He responded - Stick your finger in its heiny, and pull your finger out and smell it. If your finger smelled good, then the dog was a girl. If it smelled bad, then the dog was a boy. (note: I never tried this clearly scientific method of finding the gender of pooches)

On my sixth birthday, I learned that the world as I knew it, would end one day. It was a Sunday, and it was my birthday - the most exciting day of the year besides Christmas. My mom brought me to my Sunday School class, I was wearing my nice red Izod (Lacoste) polo matched with khakis. As soon as I was seated, I got out to to tell my Sunday school teacher that it was my birthday. I may have told her several times in a row until she acknowledged it and congratulated me. It was a pretty big deal, being six years old that is.

We talked about space, and the solar system. We talked about Pluto and the Sun. My Sunday school teacher told us that one day the sun would expand, and get so big that it would eat Mercury. Then, it would expand and get even larger and eat Venus. This was strange to me, I had no idea why the sun would want to eat other planets. She then told us that the sun would keep getting bigger and eventually consume the earth. All would be lost, and the earth would never be replaced. I had never really thought about mortality too much, besides seeing bad guys getting killed in the action movies my dad would watch. I knew people, and plants and bugs died, but I never thought that the earth would die. Eventually, she said, the sun would keep expanding and eat all of the planets, and then the sun would explode and die. For some reason, I guess I felt that souls were somehow still attached or connected somehow to their buried bodies on earth after you've died and gone to heaven. So I asked her what would happen to all the bodies of people who've been buried. She said that all the bodies of people would be gone, and that people would no longer reproduce.

For weeks, I had dreams about the sun expanding, and destroying a beautiful world, the world that I loved. And I thought about my family disappearing and never being able to reconnect with them. When the earth is destroyed, not only will people, places, objects, and animals be destroyed, but also any trace that these things and people had ever existed. I thought about myself a lot, and although she told me it would be millions of years in the future, I thought about my material possessions and my body, deep underground in a casket being incinerated and reclaimed by the fiery appetite of the sun. I'm not sure if I ever found resolve, but I think I learned how to make the dreams go away, and I'd replace the thought of the earth being destroyed with happier thoughts.

15 years later, scientists have concluded that Pluto does not fit the accepted scientific description/categorization of a planet. However, it will be destroyed by the sun one day like the rest of the planets and spinach and beans and monsters.

World Contact Day

2011-05-09T20:32:00.000-07:00

With your mind, you have ability to form and transmit thought energy far beyond the norm. You close your eyes, you concentrate, together - that's the way to send a message we declare WORLD CONTACT DAY.

The Party of No. A pigeon coup? Chicken coop? CALLING OCCUPANTS OF INTERPLANETARY CRAFT

We are your friends. "The American people".

We are observing your earth. The one with nacho cheese and toy dogs pooping in the kitchen then waging their stubby tail uncontrollably.

Street Wise, Street Sense, street guise and pigeon guise, pigeon sense, pigeon wise, chicken lies, innie minnie miny moe, catch a tiger by its toe, if he hollers make him pay fifty dollars every day. My mother told me to pick the very best one and you are not it.

We've only just begun to live. White lace and promises. So many roads to choose. We start off walking and learn to run. Then die of anorexia. Why Karen?

Or just disappear. Off to Iceland, in isolation, the ultimate chess game. Time to learn multiple sclerosis. A hyperbolic psychosis. Man and his symbols. "What does it mean?" Sending telepathic messages into deep space.

WORLD CONTACT DAY

on flying in dreams

2011-01-03T00:40:00.000-08:00

I originally wrote this sometime in mid October, 2010. It's now Jan. 3rd, 2011 and almost 4:00am. I have work tomorrow and haven't slept...

Today, I thought about how amazing I feel when I'm in a dream flying. The deepest sleep, completely incapacitated to the point of euphoria. When I wake up, a deep feeling of disappointment and resentment sets in, for I'd rather be flying through the Alps instead of running a dull razor blade against my face. Scrape, scratch, cut - shit. Oh well. After a few snooze buttons, I begin to forget about the specific details of the dream, the who/what/where, and ultimately it fades altogether. Sometimes the soundtrack can stick around for a few minutes, but that fades out into the sound of water moving through the shower head and over my ears.

Dreams are fleeting. It's like opening the back of a camera, exposing the film to the sunlight. 24 exposures, from various places and times, with different people immediately erased. Or, it's like taking a powerful magnet and placing it up against a computer's hard drive. Except, the dream does have a tendency to leave little traces. Have you ever done that thing where you thought you had called someone the night before, and when you ask the other person they have no recollection of it ever happening? "Oh yeah, I guess it was a dream..." And generally, it is the mundane that can be difficult to differentiate, because you're never like, "Hey dad, remember that one time where we were floating in a hot air balloon over Albuquerque and we jumped out and started flying around?" Yeah, or like when you had that dream when your car or dog had a conversation with you in a human dialect. Mine was wearing a floral shirt. "Greetings from Hawaii!" he said as we Skyped.

Oh yeah, I didn't iron any of my shirts. Do you think anyone will notice? Eh, I'll just wear it. Hmm, I haven't dry cleaned my pants in 4 months, are they starting to stink? *sniff* *sniff* Hmm, yeah they do smell a little bit. I wonder if anyone has noticed. Oh crap, I left food and drink on my desk over the weekend. Eh, it's ok, I'll just get in extra early so that no one will notice. And they'll say, "See, that guy is ready to get his week started, see how eager he is to get back to work?"

"Hey, how was your weekend?"
"Relaxing. And yours?"
"Yeah, Great. Watched the Bears."
"Oh cool, did they win?"
"No."
"Oh.."
"Well.."
"Well, see ya later"
"Yeah, you too. Have a good one"

"Hey, how's it going? Have a nice weekend?"
"Yeah, got to fly in a hot air balloon"
"Really?! Wow! That is so cool!"
"Yeah, it was great."
"Where did you fly it?"
"It was over the moon. Passed a couple deep canyons and saw the lunar lander. It was fantastic. Then we flew over Rio and saw Christ the Redeemer, and then over towards Berlin and watched all the people tear down the wall. And then we landed and a man handed me a sledge hammer and I made a huge hole in the wall. People started crawling through the hole and brought beer with them. We celebrated all night and sang songs. After saying goodbye, we climbed back into the balloon and flew home. I tied it down to a tree in my backyard, but when I was leaving the house this morning for work, it was gone!I think someone stole it..."
"Uhmm.. ok.. see you later"
"You too,. bye."

A social commentary on narcissism would be like the worst dream ever. Because it would be about how much people hate having to act a certain way at work but just do it anyway. "Once I get inside the system then I can actually change it."

Bah, in your dreams. You won't be anything more than a car salesman.
What's wrong with that?
Nothing,. nothing at all,. Did I say there was anything wrong with being a car salesman?
No, but you seemed to imply it.
Hm, yeah, no, I'm sorry, you may just be making that up.
Oh, ok, sure thing Narcissus.

What do you think Socrates dreamt about? Probably pretty trippy shit. Or how about Marcus Aurelius? Virtue 24/7? How about Glenn Beck? Christmas? Santa? American Spirit? Lucky Strikes and gin? (or whiskey?)

My next door neighbor, whom I am not obliged to describe in detail for fear of jeopardizing his livelihood, works at the Pentagon. He has a security clearance, a motorcycle, and a bag of weed in his garage. I'll go over and get high with him and talk about youth and young manhood. I'd say it's a pretty "real" American experience. Sometimes, I'll come back and listen to cumbia. There's never enough beer in this house. There's plenty of expensive organic vegetables rotting in the refrigerator though. Off to the worms they go.

autumn

2010-09-25T17:44:00.000-07:00

This city will never let you forget where you are at. There is something about this place that I've never experienced elsewhere. From the helicopters flying overhead, to the motorcades of black suburbans carrying secret service agents and special cargo to the desperation of the homeless people who ask the powerful, suit-clad men for pocket change - the city of Washington
almost feels unreal.

June 21 2010

2010-06-21T15:34:00.001-07:00

This past winter, I was walking around in the snow one night by myself, wandering aimlessly. The sky was orange as usual, and the ground had a blanket of slush on it. I had just left a colleague's house after watching "Singing in the Rain" on a projector screen with a few others. I decided to take a detour on the way home, as Palmer Square has a gravity to it that pulls you in when you circle around it. I continued to wander and eventually, I didn't really know where I was going. I think I was walking back home. At this time of the year, the sun was going down around 4 o'clock and there wasn't much to do but sleep and drink all day. Well, there were other things to do, but that's pretty much how I spent my days in the winter...

As I was walking, a strange feeling quickly sunk in and I became even more lost. My breathing picked up quickly, and I could feel the alcohol making me go mad. It was as if I had stepped on a rusty nail, and a hypochondriac frenzy immediately set it. It was the orange night sky, the white blanket across the ground, the dry unforgiving air that was like razors against your knuckles and needles in your lungs - the emptiness of night time in Chicago on a cold February night. It started getting to me, as it always does. Every year. I didn't think that I was going to keep it together before I got home. And as I crossed the street, I found a vine of fake flowers. I picked them up and brushed the snow off. They were very nice flowers, as they seemed to have more life than myself at the time. They somehow quickly neutralized me as I began to wonder where they came from and who they may have once belonged to. I made a little place on my desk for them to always remind me of that night.

A couple of months ago, I was walking around downtown and saw a tour bus full of war veterans. They were on an open air trolley, and none of them were taking pictures. Most of them were nodding off as the vehicle made its way around the landmarks. They were all wearing their hats, with decorations labeling which battalion or battleship they had served on. I imagine there were probably a few who were having a hard time keeping it together.

Before I went to go see one of my favorite bands a couple of weeks ago, I had to withdraw some money so that I could buy my ticket off of someone. There were no banks near by or ATMs. I did pass a Chinese carry out joint that had that distinctive green neon A T M sign in the window and pulled off my bike. As I locked it up and quickly walked to the door, I couldn't help but to notice all of the blood on the ground. There was a lot. The man at the counter looked at me with a blank stare. I asked what had happened, if someone got stabbed. He said, "Yes, yes. You use ATM machine?" And I asked if it would be ok. He said that it was ok, so I walked through the puddle of thick blood to use the machine and walked out. I noticed that I left a couple of footprints behind. The man at the counter didn't mind, he had no problem keeping it together.

I saw a homeless man one time laying in the grass, rolling around. It looked like he may have been dying - not that anyone would have cared. He had white pants on, with a brown stain going all the way down his pant leg. He was clearly having a hard time keeping it together.

I once crossed paths with an opossum on the sidewalk one night. I made an awkward noise and jumped. It didn't even notice me.

And so now, I find myself in yet another basement. It's in a different place clearly, but yet the lingering feeling of persistent purgatory has followed. I've met some nice people, they tell me that I don't look like I'm from here. I've learned to take it as a compliment.

Organic cotton

2010-05-02T23:00:00.000-07:00

The sheets are green, and clean as they are new.
They've traveled a long distance for me to soil them.
With my dirty feet and sweaty hands.
Eventually I will sleep, and the sheets will have served me well.
New place, new bed, new sheets, same questions.
I was just about to get out of bed...

And the birds outside my window make the usual noises -

"Where have you migrated from?", a lark asks.
Another is busy trying to eat the threads from a mop.

"And what do you do?", asks another bird.
"What kind of yarn do you spin?"

"Well,. I don't actually know how to spin yarn,. But my sheets are organic cotton." I replied.

"I see", said the bird. "Tell me more..."
Meanwhile, his companion is still pecking at the mop.

"Why did you come here? Who do you know?", the same impersonal interview that I had been put through over a hundred times in the first three weeks that I've been here.

"I have made my way into a new land, much like yourself.
Except, I'm not sure how to migrate home. Is that what you call it?" I said.

"The wind is our best friend, it carries us through the day
when we need to go back home. It does most of the work for us", the bird responded.
"But we don't stay at any place for too long, as the wind will carry on
without us if we begin to settle in. It's a pretty easy life really. The wind
provides nearly everything for us, so we can spend the remainder of our
days bathing in the fountains and singing songs. We barely have to do
anything that we don't want."

"Sounds nice..", I responded.

"Yup. Well, nice meeting you. Good luck at the... uhm, gotta go." The one lark said.

They made a loud chirp-cheep-doodle in unison, fluttered their wings and took to the sky.

It was quickly approaching night time...

I started falling asleep, and just as I began to drift away to the dreamworld, I heard a loud hooooOOOTTT HOOT come from my window. I rose my head to look - it was a snowy owl.

"HOOT, It's HOT here!", he said while fluttering his wings.
"Which way is it to Alaska?"

Apparently, a tourist...

"North is that way", I pointed. He turned his head all the way around.
"And then you need to head west towards the Pacific." I said.

He was so white, that the moonshine reflected off of his body and lit up my room.

"Oh thanks! It's so hot here, that I've lost my ability to sense the wintry currents that help me find my way back to the snowy lands of the north", the owl said, shuffling his feet back and forth on my window sill.

"Why are you here if you don't mind me asking", I responded.

"I came down to visit my cousin, the Great Horned Owl in Virginia! He is the wisest of all birds, and I came here to finish learning how to become a wise owl myself. I just got a little lost on my journey back home. "

I told him that I was here for a similar reason. Except, I wasn't sure if I should have gone into as much detail as I did. I always volunteer too much information to strangers.

"It's not a problem, we all get a little lost sometimes. And sometimes we get homeless", I said.

He told me, "I've never once met a pigeon who had a home. They wander the city streets looking for food, almost aimlessly. I often tried to ask pigeons for directions when I was lost in the great cities of the Midwest, but most of them were not able to offer any help. Some just didn't know how to communicate in bird speech, but most said that they were too busy to help and went back to pecking at the ground. They would walk around, and try to find anything that was digestible, not knowing how to hunt for themselves. I'm so happy that I have a nice home in the woods where I never have to rely on the trash of humans for my food."

The owl told me that he was homesick, and tired of eating the small mice that run in and around the garbage cans in the alleys. He couldn't wait to get home and find a fat juicy rat to munch on.
I showed him a map, and we took a few minutes trying to figure out what would be the best way to get home. He told me that he was a really fast flier, and wasn't too concerned about getting lost again if he could take a couple of minutes looking at a map. After scanning the map for a couple of minutes, he thanked me for my help. I told him I was happy to be able to offer my assistance. The owl told me that after visiting his cousin, he realized that he was even more confused about what it meant to be wise. He also told me that if I make it up to Alaska again, I should look him up if I ever need directions home.

After wishing each other luck, the owl parted into the night. When he flapped his wings, there was a loud WOOSH WOOSH WOOOOSH, from beating the air. You could see his white wings float through the air towards the moon. He continued until all that was visible was a white dot against the backdrop of the black sky. Eventually, he disappeared completely and I went back to my bed. I closed my eyes and saw blackness. I thought of the snowy owl flying through the night sky, and wondered how long it would take for him to fly back home. I wished that I could have flown with him across the country. But I couldn't because I had to go to work the next day.

The next day I woke up, semi-rested. I hit the snooze button two times, which is average for me. I turned on my radio and listened to a piano song. Some birds right outside my window were singing along with it. I almost decided to just stay home and not go to work so I could play guitar and sing with them, but when you're a grown up you have put these things aside sometimes.

I rode my bike to the store and locked it up against a big metal post. The manager was late again, so the door was locked. Since I hadn't eaten any breakfast, I decided to get a coffee and something small to eat.

I bought an egg sandwich and a coffee from a street vendor and sat on the sidewalk curb waiting for the boss to show up. I noticed that a pigeon was pecking at the ground around a garbage can. He would hobble a little bit, and peck, hobble, peck, and so forth. He was able to smell my food, and turned around to look at me for a moment and then went back to pecking at the ground. At first, I was a little unsure about offering him some of my sandwich, but I remembered what the owl had said to me the night before. Being homeless is a tough life.

I pinched off a little piece of the bun and held it out. The pigeon quickly looked over, but was hesitant to come over. I waved my hand a couple of times and then flicked the bread on the ground. He slowly hobbled over, picked it up with his beak and quickly walked away. The pigeon finished the morsel and then hobbled back over to me. He didn't say anything, only stared. Then he pecked at the ground.

"Here, have the rest", I offered the last piece of bread to him and dropped it on the ground near me.

"Do you have a home?" I asked.

He quickly ate the food, without saying anything.

"Do you have any friends?"

"Friends?! FRIENDS?" the pigeon responded. "What do you think? I'm a pigeon! Who wants to be my friend? The alley cats have it just as hard, but they won't even be my friend. They'll be nice at first, then try to eat me!"

"Wow, that's not very pleasant", I said. "I know how it feels though,. Well kind of."

"This city is a tough place. It's not easy to be homeless and make it" the pigeon said. "I wish I could leave, but I know I wouldn't make it out in the woods. People yell at me, and tell me to get a job. What am I supposed to do?! There's no more need for carrier pigeons, so we all just roam around the streets looking for food."

I thought for a minute about how I could help. I knew that it would be unpractical to encourage him to seek refuge in the woods after having lived in the city for so long.

"What if you delivered food?" I suggested. I thought about my courier friends back home who had to find new jobs when email put bike messengers out of work.

"What do you mean? How would I do that?" the pigeon asked.

"Well, what if you approached the bakery over there and tell them that you could deliver cookies, pastries and sandwiches to customers who ordered them. And you'd be faster than anyone else because you can fly over the streets. This way, you'd have a job and you'd be able to eat for free."

"Hmm.. Well I haven't delivered anything in a long time, but I think I could get my wings back if I tried. And I wouldn't have to travel very far, or carry anything too heavy. That's a great idea! I'll go talk to the baker right now!"

The pigeon hooted, puffed out his chest, held up his head and walked across the street. He thanked me for the food and the job idea and flew away.

My boss finally showed up and unlocked the door. And as usual, when he's late he asks me to do everything in a tone that implies that I'm the one who messed up. So, I shuffle the bikes around, restock the shelves and put on my work t-shirt. I began to sweep the concrete floor, moving the broom back and forth - swish swoosh swish. I thought about the way the pigeon had been pecking at the ground for food. I raised my head to look out the window and saw a mother walking by, holding the hand of her child. Except, it wasn't a person, it was a hen and chick. A man in a suit passed by, but it was a hawk. Then another man in a suit walked by, he was a vulture. The sidewalks were filled with human sized doves, eagles, peacocks, flamingos, chickens, penguins, geese and seagulls. There was an albatross with headphones on, riding a skateboard down the street with his wings stretched out. And a duck at a newspaper stand, quacking about the latest headlines. And a parrot walking out of the coffee shop. I looked at my boss and saw an ostrich. I looked at the floor and just kept sweeping. Or pecking. Whichever you'd like to call it.

2010-04-27T21:10:00.001-07:00

I have been recording a lot of music lately. Check it out here.

2010-04-26T11:31:00.000-07:00

I imagine myself staying on the farm for a few weeks, maybe a few months. I see myself sitting at the desk in my late great grandmother's house plugging away on the writing machine. I would like to have a dog and go pheasant hunting. Pal around in the woods and wait for the right moment. Then I would take a stroll around the farm and look at where I may have belonged if my mother never escaped. Would I fit in now? Well surely not. But it is a part of who I am. So the farm fits in me.

My grandfather will die this year, I can just feel it. Over the last few years he has been winding down his livestock and corn planting. Now, he can no longer work in his fields. And when he does pass, I have a feeling that I will not really understand that he is gone.

I haven't given myself a lot of time to contemplate about my being in DC. Besides the barrage of usual questions from strangers and potential new friends, I haven't told myself how I feel.

Sam is talking in his sleep right now.

I am still thinking about the morning dew on the grass in Reevesville, SC.

__________________

Unnatural reverb is your friend
because you have no home
no longer a place to own and to be owned.
Only the scuff marks that you left behind
on the walls of your old room
from when your bed kissed the wall
while making love.

So relinquish the memories,
or at least the thoughts of a past livelihood
and relinquish the sunlight
that would pour in through the windows
and land on your face.

Say goodbye to the old landlord upstairs
who will eventually die upstairs.
And the room with the radiation heater
that kept me warm in my coldest moments,
when the presence of another body left my bed
never to return.

And that was it.

Every time is the same.
Boxes with names.
A place for everything,
and everything in its place.

The orange chairs, and orange cat
the plants hanging from the ceiling in the kitchen,
with the sunlight coming in from overhead.
Climbing the ladder to the roof,
only to realize that you now had a second backyard.

Shelves with books, records and trophies from childhood
for kicking a soccer ball around nearly twenty years ago.

I wish I could feel that happy forever.
Forever knowing that I would always be that happy.

2010-03-20T14:33:00.000-07:00

March 20, 2010

Phew. These last few weeks have been really fascinating. Yesterday, the temperature was 65 degrees and sunny. However, it has not stopped sleeting/snowing all day today. After this week, I vow to never cater to the wealthy folks of the Gold Coast ever again. Working in the service industry is becoming a much more common career path for people than ever before. It used to be that you could get a good union job on the assembly line, work for 40 years and then live comfortably off your pension when you retire. I have been helping out a friend and decided to take his job walking dogs for a couple of weeks while he is gone. Walking Gold Coast dogs is definitely not a chore for the timid. The people who live in these high rises hire somebody to do nearly everything for them - house cleaning, laundry, dog walking, wiping their asses and it's really quite pitiful I think. After being bit by one of the dogs, I was supposed to meet with the owner the next day to talk about a way to remedy the dog's aggression. When I showed up at the proper time, she was on a "conference call" and was unable to chat. So I came back an hour later, and she was no where to be found. Well apparently the dog walker's well being is pretty low ranking in the daily happenings. Then I get chewed out by the manager of the dog walking company for not answering my phone when she called. A pretty healthy amount of shit for little reimbursement as far as I see it.

However, everything will be different in a couple of weeks. I have accepted a job in the Washington DC area and will be moving down there very very soon. After applying for dozens of jobs in Chicago, having several bizarre interviews, and a long list of let downs, I realized that it's high time for me to skip out of town and try something new. Then, low and behold, I apply for a job in DC and get it almost immediately. And it's going to be a really fun job - go figure. There's been a lot of unnecessary drama in this house in the last couple of months, and a lot of side-taking and shit talking. So basically, I'm ready to just walk away from the situation. Again, it's too much effort for so little in return. I'm really getting to the point where I am just focusing on myself and what I need to do to be happier. I also vow to never live with art students and pretentious hipsters again. It's not worth it no matter how you look at it.

My two day visit to DC was of epic proportions. So we'll see how the rest of the year pans out.

I've never been so ready to walk away from a place that I've referred to as my home like this. There's not going to be a big party, or a major announcement. I'm just going to pack my bags and take the train to DC. And it's going to be that simple.

2010-03-02T22:41:00.000-08:00

February 28 2010 - Day four of a new anxiety

What would my book of revelations look like? Well, like everyone else, I look towards my dreams for inspiration. But what happens to one's aspirations when their dreams have been invaded by ghosts? Old spirits coming in and out of your world everyday. The phantoms that haunt you during the day persist, and continue through the night. I've had a revelation tonight. I also had one last night. The images in your mind while you're asleep at night are truly the most frightening things you will ever see. Because these visions are real, and really yours.

So what happens when you can't sleep, and you put the TV on? Space out. Oh, a science fiction soap opera. I hear the floor creaking with every step.

step. step. step. no peace. no peace. no peace.
no quiet. no peace. no quiet.

People will certainly treat you like a stranger, and then ask you to not be one. People also love irony, attempts at being clever, petty altercations, and half assed attempts of self education. See, I think the scene in "A Clockwork Orange" where the writer is sitting at his desk working on something and has no idea that his wife is about to be raped and murdered is a figment of the creator's own nightmares. The image is so vivid, that I can still see all of the details of the house. There's no other place that this scene could have come from except the bad dreams of the person who wrote the story.

Guess what? What?
It's quiet now. Oh.
Guess what else? What's that?
People have been consuming alcohol tonight.
Oh. So what?
Don't you know what that means?
No, what... they were exchanging
ideas with one another?
No. It means that they are morphing into something else.
An ugly shape, really. It's as predictable as false wood grain.

It's important that we all have little buddies. Somebody who needs us. We certainly don't need ourselves. Don't let anybody tell you otherwise. They, meaning "anybody", care only about this damned system that they've developed and embrace.

But don't embrace the crazies too hard,
they might just bite your ear off.

2010-02-11T22:04:00.000-08:00

2010-02-09T18:47:00.000-08:00

dream journal 2/10/09

2010-02-09T10:33:00.000-08:00

These last few days have been incredibly strange but also very difficult. It seems that whenever I have something heavy land on me, it's a multitude of things at once. And although I have to immediately decide a course of action, the path seems to always be destroyed as soon as it is created. I woke up this morning from a very surreal dream, one where I felt felt perpetually trapped even after dying.

--------------

I needed a job. So I applied for one that I thought was pretty simple. The most important institution in the region had a gorilla at their office and needed somebody to clean up after him. The gorilla however was very advanced, about as intelligent as a human and therefore as violent as a human. He could feed himself and entertain himself, but he just needed someone to clean up after him. He had had a caretaker for a number of years but the person who had cleaned up after this gorilla for years finally passed on. I was brought in as the replacement. My duties were very simple: clean up the gorilla's shit, and keep him happy.

When I started, I felt like it was just a job that I could do in the meanwhile until I found something else more fulfilling. I totally underestimated the importance of this creature. He was huge, probably 10 feet tall when standing and very intimidating. The area that the gorilla was kept was a large area within the the deepest corridors of the building. The ministers and officers were several stories above but could watch the gorilla at any time. I was very careful when moving around him and cleaning up after him. I was also very careful not to look him in the eye or to upset him. The place that hired me for this job was a combination of the area's largest corporation and also the government in one institution. I never found out if the gorilla was some kind of experiment, or a mascot or what. He was just there.

He didn't take very kindly to me. I'm not sure exactly what it was I did to make him dislike me. Maybe, I was just too timid. But I was also afraid to be too casual. Sometimes the gorilla would have guests, and I'd have to pour drinks and serve his company too.

The gorilla started pushing me around a bit and physically harming me. The first few instances were horrifying and made me fear for my life, so I became even more passive and robotic - only moving when I had to. I had my shovel in one hand and bucket in the other ready to go always.

I tried to talk to one of the ministers of the company/government about what was happening and how I didn't like the work at all. She had said that the gorilla was very gentle with his last caretaker and that the happiness of the animal was far more important than my livelihood.

Knowing that I had no other recourse or protection from the higher "management", I realized that there wasn't a whole lot I could do. They wouldn't let me just quit and leave. They said that I had to change the way I acted around the gorilla to make him happy. However, instead of becoming more obedient to his attacks, I began to resent him and started dissenting against my job and the organization as a whole. The gorilla could immediately see a change in my disposition towards him so he became even more aggressive towards me. This time, instead of taking the shellacking and then going about my work, I began to curse the creature and told him how I hated being trapped with him. He grabbed me by my arm and shook me extremely hard. It was so hard that I felt something within me change. It's like I fell asleep for a split second and then continued back to my state of hysterical yowling. I began screaming for help but no one seemed to notice. After a period (which seemed like hours), someone came in to check on the creature and I ran up to them begging for help. Although I was screaming and shouting point blank to this individual, the person completely ignored me! But it wasn't that the person acknowledged me and looked away, no, it was as if I wasn't even there! I had no presence. And then I realized that something was very wrong. I looked at the gorilla and asked him if I was dead. His swift blow to my neck and back had killed me so quickly, that I had no idea that I had already morphed into a ghostly state. Because my work was to clean up after this creature, I was not able to pass on into the afterlife. I became a phantom, stuck in this miserable cage with this animal for all eternity! And although no one else could see me, the gorilla certainly could. He could no longer physically hurt me, but he controlled me completely at this point. I had no free will, and my after-life's duty became the servitude of this creature.

--------------

Clearly, when I woke up I was pretty hazy from such a bizarre dream. Of course, it's always a tough thing to "interpret" such dreams, but I know that they often do carry value. This is the first time that I had actually died in a dream and continued,. which is pretty creepy/strange/horrifying. I think it may have a lot to do with my fears of being tied down to a job working for something that I hate. Although I have tried really hard these last few months to find work within the "activist" community, I am beginning to lose faith in the availability of "feel good" work and starting to accept a more stark future. Having encountered one failure after another x 100, while working virtually for little to no pay for the last six months, it may be time to retreat for now.

It's weird being in a transition limbo for so long. It's really not recommended.

International Style

2010-01-10T23:40:00.000-08:00

Before

(and)

After

Before

(and)

After

DELUSIONS OF GRANDEUR

2010-01-09T13:25:00.000-08:00

Things can get pretty complicated living in the city. That is why it is time to start planning a journey of epic proportions - on an epically simple machine!

I probably slept 15 of the 24 hours I was alive yesterday. But I woke up this morning and found that I did indeed write something last night on the ole' Schreibmaschine. And it goes like this:
(If I can ever get my epically plagued computer "fixed" then I can finally start scanning things in. But in the meanwhile, I've got to work with what I've got.)

L_ve Epic

because Peter Paul and Mary said so.

Eero Saarinen was the most important architect in my life

because I'm from the mid west.

Remember when we were long distance?

for a few days?

for a few years?

reunion

of epic proportions.

start writing letters to your friends.

and tell them

how much you miss them.

cast iron get-away,

a ship that goes to Jamaica

and returns with soldiers hardened from war.

go home kid.

Rebirth of the Great American Airship

2010-01-06T21:41:00.000-08:00

Hello,

My name is Nairda Ecartal and I'm running to be your next representative.

You're busy? I promise I won't take long...

Oh yeah? I'm sorry to hear. I realize that times are hard for single mothers with children.

I understand. I hope the economy improves as well.

Yes, I agree. I also think that children should have safe and open streets to play in. I certainly did.

My background? No. I'm not an attorney.

Ah, ok. No, no. I was once an Airborne Ranger during Vietnam. Yeah, except I never fired my gun. I guess you could say that I was a conscientious objector who just accepted the fate of civic "duty". I entered the war at a time where dissent was climaxing back home.

No, it wasn't that I was looking to avoid killing anyone. The irony is that I was a really good shot. I was actually part of a sniper squad. We'd land in our target zone - always somewhere in the bushes - and lie in the prone position for days, sometimes even a week,. and sometimes longer. I'd be in that same position for so long that I would lose sense of being. You wouldn't believe how scary the jungle is at night, but you have to lay there in silence for days until the moment approaches. Either your target advances to a point where you can complete the task or they don't. And when your target never arrives, it's then time to retreat. I can't even tell you about half of the creepy crawlies I had all over my body when I was able to finally get up. Needless to say, I wasn't reviewed as a potential recipient of a noble medal of any sort...

Sorry, wasn't planning on going into so much detail about those things...

I understand. A lot of people have friends and family in the current conflict.

Oh really? Your nephew? What's his name?

That's a nice name. You know, they say there's a lot in a name. I wish him luck.

He won a medal? That's great! You don't say - so he's also a good shot?

A video game huh? Interesting. Seems to be a common theme these days.

Medal of Honor? Well maybe one day! We'll have to wait and see.

Not quite, not in this conflict. Actually, more soldiers were awarded the Medal of Honor following the Wounded Knee incident than in any other time in American history.

No, it wasn't during World War II believe it or not. The battle happened long before that - during the era of American expansion, similar to what is happening today in a way...

Well, it was a battle in the 1800s between the settlers and the Lakota tribe. The soldiers were awarded the medal for shooting 150 indians at nearly point blank range and then burying the bodies in a mass grave.

Can you imagine? Yeah, that kind of thing does sound familiar...

It is quite fascinating... American's intrigue of manifest destiny.

Me? What I do for a living?

I'm an investor in an idea that most people think will fail.

One time I was in Germany, and I met a man who owned a small company that took people in flights across the country in zeppelins - airships. They used to be quite popular in the United States too. It used to be the most luxurious and peaceful way to travel throughout a large city.

Yes, it is a hard sell to most,. considering that most people fear the risk of terrorism.

But could you imagine being above the streets and the noise, and just having some time with someone you love alone in the sky? Or maybe, you'd prefer to just take pictures. Think about it - flying from Chicago to New York in a machine where you weren't strapped down to your seat. You could have a conversation while sipping a glass of wine without having to talk over the engine noise. And then when you're done you could have lunch or dinner in the Empire State Building after you've docked at the top of the tower.

Well, actually it wouldn't just be for rich people. That's the idea. It'd be available at a price that most could afford. You've ever heard the old adage, "A picture is worth 1,000 words"?

Yes? Well how much is the most beautiful landscape you've ever seen worth to you?

The economy concerns me also. Well there is a lot to be said. Let me ask you this,. When was the last time that you made a living wage?

Never?

I did go to college, yes. As a GI, the government rewards you for serving in the military. This is why so many children from marginalized communities end up joining the forces. Except now, even these kids have to compete with "security companies" who send highly paid soldiers overseas.

Agreed. Things certainly are a lot different.

My parents? Well my mother worked at the Savannah River Site her whole life. Starting in the 50s, it became one of only a couple of places in the country where uranium was enriched for nuclear weapons.

However, I staunchly oppose nuclear proliferation.

It does seem contradictory huh? It's kind of like being a pacifist while carrying a sniper rifle. I feel that we've grown up and realized that "duck and cover" won't save us from the great flash of light that will happen over head in the sky.

Well, the Cold War is not really over actually. We're in the middle of a war that nobody wants to talk about.

Yes, those conflicts are the wars that take center stage in American life. However, we are yet again facing another civil war. We live in a nation that is hopelessly divided, and sometimes I wonder if we will ever make it out alive.

No, it's actually not about north and south, nor Republicans and Democrats for that matter.

We're in the final throws for our livelihood. People don't realize how desperate the situation for our youth is.

In a world that is so systemically globalized and mechanized around currency, there is no more room for creativity.

Well, we have more kids in art school than we have kids majoring in chemistry. But what are the art students taught? That television commercials are a form of art? And even these kids who do study sciences get picked up straight out of college by pharmaceutical companies and spend the rest of their lives developing drugs that keep diseases incurable. There may have been a time where the young scientist wanted to see a moon landing of their own. But people said that it was costing the taxpayers too much money... So instead, the scientist gets married and buys a house. And instead of shooting for the moon, his student loans kick in and he decides that there is no more room left for dreams and then he buys in. He becomes wealthy beyond imagination.

Yeah you're right. It is a game. People like to play tricks on one another. And God likes to play tricks on us - it's called deja vu. And if you pay attention close enough, you'll see history repeating itself as we speak.

Did you know that there are more millionaires per capita in Norway than there are anywhere else in the world?

It is surprising. However, Norway is also a place where there are no rich nor poor people.

Actually, it does make a lot of sense. But, it's unfair to call it "communism" with that kind of connotation.

Socialism? How about the New Deal?

How many men do you think it took to build the Hoover Dam?

Do you think the workers ever went on strike?

You know, they used to make really good quality things in this country.

I've seen so many people wearing clothes - shirts and hats with the dollar sign everywhere. And this is fashionable. Why has the dollar bill become the most important symbol in society?

In many ways, I feel that the dollar sign has replaced the swastika. It has become the new great symbol of voluntary oppression.

How many people will keep dying for capital gain? And how many of those with wealth will die for a cause?

People don't die for ideology anymore. This is where they have everyone fooled.

No, I realize that we're all looking for a good place to call home.

No, I don't have any children of my own.

Well, I guess I can't say that I do know what it's like...

But I do know what it's like to die and to be brought back to life. When I fall out of the airplane without a parachute on, I will realize that it is too late to call on God. Sometimes, I wonder where this civilization will go. They say that the universe is expanding. But one day it will all collapse on itself. This will be the ultimate day of reckoning. Even St. Peter himself will be up for review.

Familiar with the phrase "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust"?

January 4th, 2010

2010-01-04T21:02:00.000-08:00

The radio DJ is talking about his future funeral. It's actually not that late right now but it certainly feels late considering that the sun retreats at about 4:25 these days.

I bought a book from the thrift store the other week called HERO TALES FROM AMERICAN LIFE by Francis Trevelyan Miller. It's actually really quite old but the binding is still in decent shape. The front cover intrigued me so I opened it up to a random page. I opened the book up to a story called, "The Tale of the College Student On The Great Lakes" and it starts off like this...

"This is the tale of a college student
who, when he heard of distress in a storm on the Lakes,
left his studies and hurried to the shore, where he swam to
the rescue of seventeen lives and regretted that he could not save
more; a tale of unconscious heroism that crippled its hero for life."

The book is full of short stories about common folk saving the day. And although the book and its stories may be a bit hokey for most people who prefer to read very calculated and ornate stories about crime or cowboys, for some reason I felt compelled to continue. Most of the stories are titled, "The farmer who saved such and such" or, "The young Priest who changed the nation",. you know, things of that sort. When you finish the story, be it about an explorer, or a homeless girl or a school master, it is revealed that the story is indeed about a famous American. For instance, the story about the young farm boy turns out to be the abridged life story of General Robert E Lee.

Today I spent over $50 at the thrift store. It's becoming more and more difficult to call these stores "thrifty". They are now indeed looking to make a profit just like every other part of American life and industry that was once an institution of service and public welfare.

Most everything I buy at thrift stores anymore are some sort of artifact that reminds me of a place that used to exist - a world in which we still live, but no longer exists. I bought a reel to reel tape recorder, a recorder (the instrument, you know like the kind you had to play in 2nd grade), a 35mm camera - Argus C3 (also known as the Argus "Brick" camera), a couple of old comics from the 70s and then a standard issue Army infantry winter coat.

I'm sitting in my basement at my desk wearing this jacket. I probably look like I've completely lost my mind. Well, it's going to be in the 10s and 20s all week. Winter has finally arrived.

I was reading an article today about going to grad school for the humanities. It certainly reaffirmed a lot of fears I had about the current situation of higher education. Then I thought about the rent check I just wrote to my landlord. $500 - poof. Just like that. Do you know how hard it is to come across $500 these days? Think about how hard it is to get a job that pays a living wage. They're really not that easy to come across these days. Hell, if we had factories left in Chicago I would love to go work at one. Nope, no industry left so it's back to retail after my short stint in the political realm. There's an old adage that everyone has heard before, and it's that "good things come to those who wait". So then I ask myself, what am I waiting for?

2009-12-15T23:45:00.000-08:00

a portrait of my recession:
as reenacted through the history of the American typewriter

Since I have been unemployed, I have been trying to stay busy in other ways. I have been reading a lot, playing and recording music (again), but I also have been writing a lot more. Over the last couple of years I have kept a written journal that I carry with me almost everywhere. I have nearly filled all of the pages in it, so I decided that it was time to get a new journal. Instead, I have been writing in a couple of small Moleskin notebooks I picked up while I was in Amsterdam. Although these have been great for noting little ideas and thoughts while I'm on the train or elsewhere, it was not quite the replacement I had wanting to use for writing longer passages.

I have been using my computer as my main mode of thought processing since I've owned it. Although it is a perfectly fine machine, I have had a couple of bad encounters with saving important documents electronically. A couple of years ago, my computer completely crashed leaving me with what I thought was a dead hard drive. I took my computer to the Genius Bar, where miraculously, most of my documents, photos and music were salvaged. I then promised to never let this happen again so I backed everything up on my external drive. A few weeks ago, I wanted to go back and review some of my papers and other writings from my college days so I plugged in my external drive and went through the index of various electronic documents. Although my photos and music are all on my drive, for some reason I could not access my written documents! And to think, I have almost everything I have ever created saved on this single hard drive is a bit frightening. I went to the Apple store yet again with a second hard drive issue and this time the diagnosis was not curable. I had lost all of my little thoughts, written dreams, research papers, etc. Five years worth of expression - poof. Needless to say I was pretty crushed at never being able to view these things again as I had years of my personal, academic and professional writings saved up on this stupid thing. I kept a journal on my computer while I was in Alaska, and it is now all gone. Very sad.

This frustration led me to a disbelief in the computer's hard drive as a secure place for very valuable items. Although I have dozens of "photo albums" saved up on my computer and elsewhere (facebook, photobucket, etc) I had nowhere else that I was keeping my documents. I remembered that we had an old IBM Selectric III typewriter at my parents house and thought about using the typewriter instead of a computer as a tool for my creative writing. It turns out that my dad had donated the typewriter to Salvation Army just weeks before I asked for it. I actually remember banging around on it as a little kid. It was heavy, brown, boring looking but very well made.

I had remembered seeing typewriters at the various thrift stores I go to and decided that I should check them out again to see if I could find something. I remember one time last summer going to The Ark thrift store on Lincoln Ave and seeing several typewriters at any given time. So that was the first place I checked. There I found a couple of earlier Smith-Corona electric models that were pretty well beat up and busted and also saw a newer Smith-Corona electric model which I did purchase for $10. It is a Smith-Corona XL 1800 which to me is completely indistinguishable from all of the other XL and SE models they produced in the 80's and early 90's. Having gone to half a dozen resale shops and thrift stores since I have seen a model like mine everytime. Because these models are so common, it is easy to snag the ink "ribbon" from them. I now have a supply of ink cartridges for this typewriter to last me quite a while. Also, what makes these models fairly unique is that the script wheels (or daisy wheels) are easily interchangable. For instance, you can go from a standard courier print to a cursive print by changing out this plastic print wheel - and it take just a few seconds to do.

I used this typewriter every night for the first couple of weeks I owned it. Mine was pretty much in mint condition and looked like it had barely ever been used. One night when using it, the machine began to spasm uncontrollably. So I unplugged it and plugged it back in. Still, it didn't know what to do. In a fit of frustration I began banging on the casing and mashing buttons hoping that it would somehow jolt the life back into the dying typewriter. Oh the humanity! Eventually, the machine returned to normal but I had completely forgotten what I was going to even write. This little incident further led to my frustration with electronic-mechanical devices. I then decided that a manual typewriter would be the end-all to my desires for a stable and reliable tool for documentation.

I remembered seeing a couple of older Remingtons at the Village Discount over on Milwaukee Ave. but decided to pass on them at first. One was very clean looking but non-functioning and the other was a bit rusty and beat up but did function properly. After checking a few other stores with no luck I decided I'd go back for the one typewriter that did work. When I went back just a day or two later both machines were gone.

A couple of weeks ago I bought my first manual typewriter at the Logan Square Salvation Army on Fullerton Ave for $10. It is a cold war era Royal HH model. At first, it did not appear to work. After fiddling around with it for a few minutes, I was able to get it to work. So I decided to buy it and I carried the ~15-20 pound typewriter home with me. When I did get home, I gave it a cleaning and lubricated as much of the moving pieces as I could reach. After this, the typewriter worked beautifully. I like it for its almost symbolic purposes. Although it looks rather boring and bland, it is built extremely solid. It is very representative of American industry at the time as it was clearly made to last a long time.

Writing on it takes a little bit more work than the other typewriters I've used, as it seems you almost need to mash the keys to get it to print. I did some research and this seems to be one of the first models Royal produced after the war. Civilians were not allowed to purchase typewriters during the war as restrictions on raw materials were very tight at the time. So, nearly all of the typewriters made during the 1940's were for military use only. This model is one of the first mass produced, consumer oriented post war models and it certainly has that no-nonsense, tough cold war 1950's feel to it. It features Royal's "Magic Margin" function which I found confusing at first. Eventually, I got the hang of it and I began typing away with ease.

After buying this first Royal, I began doing all kinds of research on manual typewriters and started reading up on the various makes, models, history and mechanics of the machine. Although I do enjoy the big Royal, I decided that I also wanted a portable manual that I could take with me if I decided to go anywhere for the holidays. I kept my eyes peeled on craigslist and also at the local thrift stores. I had also just sold a very valuable guitar that I used when I was playing professionally and decided that I would get a really nice portable - perhaps something collectable. I had seen and appreciated the design of the Olivetti Valentine and thought it was really cool, however I wasn't ready to throw down the $300 that they have been selling for on eBay. So one day I made a visit to Ravenswood Antique Mart as I had heard they had a couple of really nice typewriters there. I had my heart set on an orange typewriter since I wanted it to go along with the theme I've got going on in my room. And while I was there I saw the one I really wanted - an orange Smith-Corona Super G. The only thing was that their asking price was $350. I thought that this was the most absurd thing I have seen and clearly decided to pass on it. I found that this particular "antique mart" was more of a glorified resale shop aimed at selling Mid-Century Modern furniture and items to the people living in the neighborhood who generally had disposible income. I strongly prefer to buy locally, and searched around quite a bit but gave in and decided that I would go the internet route for this particular model since it was a bit more rare. So I started watching a few of the same typewriters online and thought I would pick one up. They were selling in a range from $40 to $100 and some where even going for more. I kept getting outbidded or would back down when they started getting a little too pricey. So then one day, a Super G popped up on eBay without pictures attached to the listing. Generally, this is sketchy as an online auction without pictures can be a bad bet. However, I contacted the seller and asked if he could email me pictures and he did. I was the only one to bid and I got it for $20. The seller was an older man who didn't know how to navigate online resale. This is a theme that continued to reappear and my attitude towards impersonal online purchases began to change throughout this time.

This typewriter is very light and easy to carry around as it is mostly plastic. Generally, most people don't think very highly on the 70's era plastic typewriters but I thought I'd give one a shot. There is definitely a noticeable difference between the Super G and the Royal. Although this one is much easier to write on, it does feel kind of flimsy and not as solid while writing. But there's a reason why there are so many different models of typewriters. It's kind of like a bicycle, no single machine can do it all. I used this typewriter a few times and then put it away. The print is a bit bigger than the Royal and a little more "bubbly" I guess. I feel like this typewriter was Smith-Corona's shot at making a stab at the Valentine. The Olivettis were Italian designed and made in Spain. This is an Italian designed but made in Great Britain typewriter from an American company. Smith Corona hired the Ghia design firm who also created the famed Volkswagen Karmen Ghia. The case to this typewriter hints at the firm's heritage in auto design as it has racing stripes down the front. Although the design is cool, its function is the same as almost every other Smith-Corona of its day. This particular model almost represents an identity crisis of the typewriter industry in the 70's. It seems that you had to make the machine really fun to look at for people to be excited about writing.

Alright, so my little recession/unemployment hobby was turning into a bit of a consuming obsession. At this point I had spent more time learning about all of the different aspects of the typewriter than actually writing. That's not good. I liked all the typewriters I had acquired, but I still felt that none of them fit that happy medium I was looking for. I just wanted something fairly light weight and portable, but also wanted it to feel sturdy enough and solid while writing. I also wanted something that I wouldn't worry about if I scratched it or even broke it. I had done some research and found that most "writers" almost unanimously swear by the Olympia SM series. So I was doing a local zip code search and found one in the city and watched it for a few days. It got away from me at the last minute. However, shortly after, I found a portable plastic 70's typewriter, the Royal Sprite (which is only a Royal in name) that was also in the city and contacted the seller about it. The starting bid was $10 so I figured it was at least that much and I would just see what happened. I didn't watch it for a couple of days thinking that I would have been outbidded. However, low and behold I was the winner at a whopping $10. When I got it, I was happy to find that everything worked fine and it even had a fairly new ribbon in it. So I started plugging away on it and it felt surprisingly solid. Although it isn't necessarily a "real" Royal per se, it seemed to fit every criteria I had. I also think it looks pretty cool too for how cheesy and cheap it is.

Ok, so now I had acquired quite a few typewriters - the ones I have mentioned and then a couple of other electric models that I bought at thrift stores for $5 each (including one I gave to my roommate as a gift). The electric typewriters use almost a cartridge style nylon tape spool as where the manuals use an older fashioned nylon ribbon that connects two seperate round spools. The big Royal's print was starting to fade pretty quickly and so I decided that I should focus more on getting these things in better working condition instead of attaining more typewriters. After doing a quick search on eBay, I saw that you can purchase a ribbon for $9 (including shipping). Before buying these, I thought I'd search to see if anybody was still selling typewriter supplies locally. I would not really have expected to see anyone selling typewriter supplies much less typewriters themselves! After the first minute of searching I came across Independence Business Machines up north in Ravenswood. I called the shop and asked if they had the right ribbons I was looking for, the man on the other line assured me that he did and said that they were $15 each. I decided that I'd much rather just spend the extra $5 and support a local business, especially one that represents a dying industry. I remember reading an article about how the digital camera has nearly caused the complete demise of the old film photo shops just like how the word processor has made the typewriter and the industry that surrounds it obsolete. I checked out the website, and was excited to see that the owner, Mr. Kazmier seems to have enough work repairing and restoring these "antiques". There's actually a pretty cool video of the store and of Mr. Kazmier out there. It seems that the typewriter store attracts a particular person. So I made it to the shop today to pay Mr. Kazmier a visit.

When I first stepped inside, Mr. Kazmier was working on an adding machine. He didn't even look up to see me there. So I approached him and nodded and he told me to give him a couple of minutes so he could finish what he was doing. The store was filled with old typewriters and parts. Most of them were customer repairs and restorations but he did have a few for sale in a display by the front window. He had typewriters from all eras in there for repair but was only selling classic portable manuals.

Mr. Kazmier is an older man and told me that he has been doing this kind of work for decades. He finally finished up with the calculator and as he did, the customer who owned it had just come back. I stepped away so that he could get settled with this customer. A short dialogue went back and forth between the two. Mr. Kazmier had shown the man that the adding machine again functions properly and prints. It needed a new ink ribbon, and he had went ahead and installed it for the customer. The charge for $20 for the ribbon, the install, and fixing the printing mechanism. The customer was unhappy at the price and mentioned that he could buy another one at a thrift store for $20. Mr. Kazmier became upset at this argument and showed the man that he had made the machine work perfectly again as where one from a thrift store may not function as good or at all. The customer looked at it and said that he only wanted to pay $10, then quickly said that all he had was $10.

Mr. Kazmier quickly retorted, "I fixed your machine for you! If you didn't want me to, why would you bring it in and ask me to fix it? Why do you think I'm here? I'm not here for my health!" The customer said that the calculator was city property, and then Kazmier replied back, "If that's the case I should charge triple the amount then!". Finally, the customer pulled out a small wad of cash and said that it was ten dollars. Totally frustrated and offended Kazmier said, "For you - no charge! Don't insult me, keep your money and get out of my store!"

After the customer left, I was unsure whether or not my presence during the fiasco had been a bother to him or not. I looked at him and he looked back and said, "You know, people bring in these old machines and think that I will fix them for free!" I said that I had no intentions of hassling him and that all I came for was a couple of ribbons. He seemed relieved that I had such a simple request. I had brought my portable Royal with me so he could see it. He had the correct replacement and installed it right there in less than a minute.

I've certainly gone through a lot of motions throughout this whole job search process. I certainly realize that these are not the easiest of times to be a small business owner - especially of a business that is based off of a dying platform. And I have definitely become quite familiar with rejection over this last year with job searches, family ordeals and other relationships. And for some reason I feel like this simple ink ribbon may be the cure for setting me at ease in these tough times. As Mr. Kazmier installed my ribbon, he was still upset at the last encounter. He was saying something to the affect of, "I work on typewriters. Nobody makes them anymore. Everyone else was smart and got out of this business and started selling computers." There was once a time where American industry set the standard throughout the world in terms of quanity produced and build quality. Mr. Kazmier is proud of this heritage and clearly holds on to the notion that there was once a time where someone could make a respectable living doing this work. I even have witnessed a similar effect but in the bicycle world. All people want anymore is cheap, disposable items - and it's gotten to be very wasteful. We also had people bringing in old busted up bicycles and expected us to fix everything for free. There was once a time where you had to save up to buy something, and when it broke you either fixed it yourself or took it to a repairman. I have always admired the idea of being a small business owner, but because of how competitive retail and resale has gotten, it almost seems impossible. Today, big business is bigger than ever and consumers have to actively seek out the small man to keep the neighborhood business alive. It is difficult to compete against ebay, online retailers and big box stores that can under cut any mom and pop shop. I had brought up this notion to Mr. Kazmier. I told him that I had no idea that there was a typewriter shop in Chicago until a friend had told me and that I was ready to purchase these obsolete parts online only because it seemed as though there were no other route. Mr. Kazmier had mentioned that people bring in ribbons that they've boughten off of ebay and generally the quality is quite poor. "They buy these ribbons off of ebay and find that they're already dried out! They don't work. I sell good ribbons and I get a shipment in every couple of weeks". He dug up the other ribbon for me and I gave him the $30 I owed and said thank you. I was glad to have made this trip.

So now I am at home, wondering what this machine will pull out of me. I wonder why I've become so disillusioned with the way things are today, why I keep finding myself attracted to those who are working against the tides of superficial change and who hold on to the reliable things from the past. I call people and knock on doors to talk about politics. No one really seems interested. They seem to be more interested in television shows than talking about what issues concern them and what they would like to see fixed. And then I think about who I will become ultimately. Ideology is cheap these days. You can buy any kind of street cred or affiliation you want. Community is an abstraction and this economic recession is only a visible by product of our cultural recession. And so I've built a room for myself in the basement to sit in and think and to read about the things that all the great people in the world have done. And I don't think about what I'm missing out on anymore. I've finally become content again with letting the universe work its mysterious ways. Everyday I wake up with the attitude that I cannot predict what will happen, and if I just keep my eyes and ears open, I generally see something that I would have missed out on had I kept my head down. Once upon a time I loved my guitars. I loved playing music, and I still do. It's just no longer my one and only. Playing music used to be my dream. However, recently I have come to terms with selling that old dream for a new one. And I love to ride my bicycle, and I will continue doing that. Things are replaceable But for now, I am ok with hanging out in this room and riding out this recession. It was nearly a year ago that I went to Washington DC to see the inauguration of the president who offered the hope of change. The year has really flown by... But I imagine that I'll be saying the same thing decades from now about how youth and young manhood seemed like only days ago. It takes time to gain hindsight. So for now, I'll keep my eyes open and hope that I can catch a glimpse.

November 16, 2009

2009-12-01T23:09:00.000-08:00

So I'm watching the news and screaming at my TV, what's new? The same old question: Industry or environment?

Industry or environment?
Money or sustainability?
War or Peace?

Ok well, let's go back just a little bit. Today was a typical day in Chicago. What is a typical day in Chicago you ask? Ah, great question indeed! Well to start off, generally, one wakes up in a cold room. The next thing is that one takes a lukewarm shower and then maybe drinks some day old cold coffee. If you're lucky, you'll catch the train right on time! But that typically doesn't happen. But if you're even luckier than usual, you have a good job to go to on a day to day basis.

So anyways, the first thing I heard about in the headlines is "Chicago Public School Board President Found Dead in the Chicago River". Can you believe it?! A gun shot to the head,. and the police have labeled it a suicide. I'm listening to the news and the major developments of the day are apparently still about censorship in China. I figured that we were over that by now. Sigh,. What's this? Eagle Town, Colorado?! Sounds like the perfect American city! Or perhaps, Liberty, Missouri. Hm, sounds intising.

So today all I could think about was posterity. It's really quite curious if you ask me, that before I even apply for a job, I have visions of myself after a year, after two years, perhaps after a decade from working a job that I am unsure that I will even get! But isn't that why we hold imagination to such great esteem? No? At this point, I have come to terms that the whole conception of "the home" is an imaginary one - and no, not one that is a fun delusion. Well, actually there are some things to look forward to.

For example, when I come "home" from work, I am very excited at the prospects of:

1. Petting my cat
2. Taking a nap
3. Eating an avocado
4. Screaming at the news

I've come to terms with my reality at this point.

And I'm sitting here in this room I've made for myself. It's actually quite nice and my cat finally smells good. I gave him a bath (which he protested the whole way through) and he smells like shampoo. Also, I have every guitar I've ever owned in my direct presence. I always felt a connection with songwriters because it's such a difficult thing to really write something honest for yourself. But of course, whenever when you do, people want to know what it's about, or who it's about. And sometimes it can be hard to give people the answer to certain questions you can't even answer for yourself.

Well I have pretty vivid dreams almost every night. And when I do finally wake up, it's always the same. At first I am so awestruck with what has happened in my other life (you ever have dreams that feel so real?) We spend half of our existence asleep and the other half in front of a monitor of some sort. Then I realize that I need to get up and wash my body so that I'm presentable for the rest of the world to see. Hell,. who am I to complain? Really. I mean, I've had such a cushy, cozy life for the most part. It's one my grandfather probably would have killed a few Nazis to have himself! Honest! He thinks it's pretty ironic that I have a college degree. I was helping him fix a fence one time, and when I took the hammer and gave it a swing to pound this staple into the fence post, the thing went flying (the staple that is). He had a pretty good chuckle and said, "Now what we got here is a boy that has a college degree but don't know much about how to use a hammer!". I thought it was pretty funny too but also pitiful. I realized that the "city boy" just refers to an overly domesticated breed of person.

_____________

Last week I had a very interesting experience almost every day. But the week before that, I had even more interesting experiences. I went to the Chicago Cultural Center and saw some Euro-jazz bands. But for me, the more exciting part was the building itself. It was great to be somewhere that made you feel a part of society. I felt like I was in a movie at some points, the doors were that absurdly large. But this place made it feel like, "Wow, so this is what my culture looks like on paper". And so that night I treated myself to a Portillo's Polish Sausage, and it was good.

I had lunch the other week with a dear friend who enlisted himself into the Navy with a college degree and has made it through basic training. He looked very different. We have been good friends for a long time. However, it was one of those moments where I saw a different person immediately. It was good. I'm glad we're all realizing that it's time to move on.

I created an adage the other day that I'm kind of proud of. It goes like this. "The ones who loved you are always the ones who are ready to twist the knife once you've placed it in your own back". It's true because, how could you blame them? It seems like such a worthwhile thing to get retribution.

A pretty good way to avoid all confrontation is to find a new hobby that consumes you - like collecting junky stuff. But people can still get mad at you for doing this. Yes, it's true. But they're missing the point. Because it's not really all about "you". Quite the contrary.

But sometimes I can also get too caught up escaping to better times. Sometimes I think about living in Aiken, South Carolina at a ripe age surrounded by woods in a nice house and a dog named Cocoa. She was a Boykin Spaniel, the state dog of South Carolina actually. It was pretty easy to be happy in those days. I had a really simple interest in life, and it was to learn about the things I loved: dinosaurs, cowboys, squirrels, etc. Interests do change over time. That's definitely true, but it's also nice to return to simpler things.

I also find myself wondering - what kind of love is worth fighting for? You shouldn't have to fight something that you love right? Unfortunately, it is easier to just tune out and give up on things. I think it's something that Darwin understood. He clearly understood the paradoxal things in this world. Complacency with contempt.

There are still a few mysteries left in the universe. I say, let the universe be mysterious but allow yourself to be open with others. Why the hell not? What are you going to lose? When you have nothing left to gain, you finally come to terms with yourself as a small piece of the whole of all organic existence (until the Large Hedron Collider discovers dark matter and then there will be nothing left to discover). So in the meanwhile, I think we should all try to sleep well. It's the only time that you have to really be free.

Or as I.G. Good once stated,

"The first ultra-intelligent machine is the last invention that man need ever make."

Good night.

Diary

2009-12-01T22:46:00.000-08:00

By feeling a light sensation of goosebumps on my elbows and neck, I would assume that it is about 61 degrees in this room. Yup. Well, it's a good room with lime growing on the walls. It's only lime not mold. So that makes it ok, right? I feel bad for this sad sap of a radio host. He keeps apologizing for cutting off the songs too early! Well it is a Sunday night/Monday morning and this isn't the kind of station that has an automated-computerized-remote control programming. No sir, this is like being in the golden age of real human successes and fuck ups, the kind that we had before smart bombs. One fumble of the turntable's needle and it's all over.

On Thanksgiving, I watched a documentary about the Mumbai terrorist attacks that occurred last year. And in this story, a woman who survived gave an account of her interaction with one of the gunmen. The poor fucker didn't know how to use a water facet! Can you believe how easy it is to point a gun at someone and kill them? It's easier than using the tap! But this was in the era of smart bombs. Definitely in the era of the Peacekeeper missile that Reagan said we needed. But that was in the era where first ladies were drugged up and tuned out. They did nothing but support the state. Ronald had his "Star Wars" but Nancy believed in spacey things too. It's hard to say how many first ladies the party system has actually helped out. Well, at least Michelle Obama got to make a guest appearance on Sesame Street. I think it'd be pretty entertaining to see Lynn Cheney hold a dialogued with Oscar the Grouch. It ain't easy being green. So they say.

I found a man on the ground the other day. I thought he fell off the back of a truck. No, he was just wasted. He was also bleeding from his head pretty good. I asked him if he was ok and he replied back to me in a very slurred Spanish. I again asked if he was ok, and then he proceeded to put up his dukes and say "Am I ok? Am I ok?" while coming at me. He was definitely bleeding from his head. That poor fuck.

I also ran into another man the other day who was sitting in a car. He waved me over. He had a mustache and really thick glasses on. He called me "young man". Any decent young man knows that he should help the elderly. This man was very quick to point out to me that he was disabled. He had the handicap tag hanging from his rear view mirror and a cane on the floor of the passenger seat. I was more asphyxiated on his familiar face, he vaguely looked like one of my high school English teachers. He was disabled, I understood this much. He was also from the suburbs. Ok, got it. And finally, he needed money for gas to get back out to the burbs. This was at a point where I literally had about $30 to my name. I never did catch his name.

Money. It can get you a lot of fuel. You could get to any suburb with enough money.

I went to a wake for the first time in my life the other day. It was really quite a beautiful evening. And of course the people who didn't go are all asking, "What happened? Did she die from ____?" How the hell else is someone my age supposed to die? Unless it's obvious, (ie. Wayne Gacy) how the hell is anyone supposed to assume how anyone else dies? You are the only person who will really know the ending to your own narative. Well there really are quite a few ways to go. I think it'd be fun if "Singing in the Rain" were played at my funeral and everyone participated in a coordinated dance.

Actually, no. I take it back. I just want my corpse freeze dried and launched out into deep space. I want my body to float through the universe until it either crash lands into a meteor or until it burns up in the atmosphere of that fake planet Pluto. Anyone remember it? It's kind of the underdog of planets,. so yeah. I think that'd be a good destination.

I have come to the determination that we should all be happy when our time comes. I think death should be a beautiful thing. People who have accounted their near death experiences mention how peaceful they felt while slipping into the afterlife. I think that these experiences were/are true. I mean to be bombed by Israeli artillery would not be a very happy or peaceful way to go, but say you get hit by a Cadillac while crossing the street. It could be ok, right? Or if a pool table fell out of a tree? Bah, it's useless.

In the creed of Don Piano,

"Why I eyes ya, all the live long day"

The end.

The Architect's Dream (a children's story)

2009-11-24T21:44:00.000-08:00

"The last few months have been very trying on my soul", said the architect. "And as summer passes and autumn approaches, there is nothing left of my foundation but a shell of brick and mortar". The architect was a very famous person. He lived in a time where no one studied math, or science, or history or politics – just art. He designed and made buildings, cities, machines and monuments. In fact, he was so popular and had such a reputation for his creations that he forgot his own name! He was simply referred to as “The Architect”, and everyone knew who he was. He was a lofty person, always losing himself in his sleep with grand visions of building the most magnificent machines. He had a vision -

"To build a monument to time is my dream", he said. "And it will be shaped like an hour glass with nothing in it but dead leaves. A slowly burning match will be thrown in and the glass will contain a fire - a flame that proves that there is no time left to gain. The ashes of the past will float and fall through the glass, collecting at the bottom into one soft blanket of nothingness".

He became very satisfied with the idea, as he realized that to waste time was the harshest penalty one could endure. So he locked himself up in the basement of his own home to design this grand memorial to time. No light could enter. There was no difference between night and day. So he drifted, unaware of his surroundings; delusional and numb to the chilly weather.

The architect became distracted by his work. What was there to share with others besides lofty dreams that had long ago been thrown away? To him, the answer always was to construct monuments that no other man could ever make, to attach his own legacy to things greater than himself.

He built his hourglass and everyone loved him for it. The people loved him so much for his monuments and they wanted him to build an even more spectacular one.

He decided that he would build a ship - one that would set sail on its maiden voyage and never return. Of all the places in the world he could be, none of them made sense but the landscape of the deep ominous sea. He wondered what it would be like to build a cathedral on water, one where people can come to worship but never leave.

"I will build a monument to Mother Nature, the cruelest architect of them all!", he said. "Because my love for God will only be realized when I am…", and he never finished his sentence. But he designed the magnificent ship and it took over 10,000 people to build it. He felt satisfied. “As long as this ship remains, my legacy will endure”, he thought over and over to himself. The cathedral-ship was called Aldine.

That night, in his sleep, he had a vision. The architect saw a double headed lion laying next to a beautiful woman playing a piano. The sound was a bit eerie, but it was also quite beautiful. The melody was vaguely familiar to him, he could only think about his past. He felt content just to listen. And as she played her song, the angel's hands turned blue. The architect became unsure of what was happening or what he was seeing. Then the song took a turn for the worse. The lion let out a long pitiful roar and the angel's hands began crumbling on the piano keys. First her fingers, then her palms, then her forearms, and dear God how horrible a sight it was! Once her body fell to the ground and shattered into pieces, there was nothing left but dust. The lion picked himself up, almost as if he was just waking up from a slumber and then lazily walked away. The top of the piano flew open as several large gold colored gears began rising out of it. And as the gears started to wind, a dreadful grinding sound and smoke filled the air. The architect began to choke.

The architect woke up to find himself in a small bed. It was unfamiliar to him. It was actually his own bed! And next to him was a phantom of the woman he once loved. She would always lay there, and never left him alone. The phantom always seemed to follow the architect, haunting him while he slept. He rarely ever felt rested. He hated her and screamed loudly, only to quickly return to his sleep. The air was stale and his bed was damp from sweat.

The architect was back on the Aldine. Everyone was preoccupied with various tasks, running about the deck with no order. Well, there was an order – but too much order! So much order that it was chaos! And in the center of the ship was a hill with the monument. Soldiers and sailors and workers and helpers moved about like ants in a maze of underground tunnels. Except, there were no tunnels, just the large deck of the ship. The ship's Captain appeared out of the cluster of people and approached the architect about his next task. The Captain was an ordinary looking person, soft spoken, with honest eyes. The architect’s next mission was an important one, as it involved the prolonged success, sake and overall glory for freedom loving peoples across the world - or so he was told. The Captain had chosen the architect for the mission because the people loved his monuments so much. It only made sense that the future of the ship lay in the hands of the creator the Captain thought. They put him in a metal underwater suit with a glass window for his face. It was orange and at the top of his head was a large hose, connected to,. well nothing actually. It was just there to make sure he would be able to breath.

The crew lowered the architect in the ocean very slowly. He had never been fully submerged in water before, but it seemed to him that it would be similar to falling out of the sky. So down they lowered him, into the darkness of the deep waters. Finally, after two minutes and nineteen seconds, he made it to the ocean floor. He pulled out his special underwater flashlight and it lit up everything around him, and to his surprise a house was right in front of him. It was very plain looking, almost like something he had seen in a movie. Just simple white with a couple of windows. He approached the house and opened the door. As he stepped inside, the architect noticed that there was no water anywhere! His feet were walking on a surface as dry as a desert. Everything was in black and white - the architect could find no color anywhere. The house was completely empty. It was not as easy to walk around in the suit, but he did not take it off for fear that he would not be able to get back to the ship. There was a large chandelier hanging from the center of the atrium and the floors featured black and white checkered tiles. Directly across from him was a long staircase that winded along the wall up to the next floor. He began climbing up the staircase. The first step was the hardest one to master, and the last one was not even there.

As the architect reached the top of the winding staircase, he faced a narrow hall. A doorway appeared on the right side. The door itself was slightly cracked, letting out just a little bit of light. So he approached it with caution, tip toeing in his big heavy iron suit. The walls had striped wallpaper and the floors were wooden planks, but still everything was black and white. He pushed open the door and in the middle of the empty room was an oval rug with a large chest on it. It was a fairly ordinary looking chest; similar to ones he had seen in many people’s homes. Perhaps a buried treasure he thought? Or maybe an artifact that would explain some unsolved mystery. He felt proud that he had made it this far and in front of him was his goal. To have his future posterity in plain sight was a feeling unimaginable until this point. So he unlocked the hinges of the chest and slowly opened it… Immediately, hundreds of waves of light came crashing out! Bright colors began filling the room. The waves spilled out and painted the walls, the floors and ceiling. The architect leaned over to look inside of the wooden box. What he saw inside, only the architect knows… But it must have been something truly moving because he began a hysteric laughing. It was a melancholy feeling. His manic laughter quickly turned into a deep sadness and he began weeping. As he turned to leave the room, the house began to fill with water. He had trouble seeing out of his underwater suit but made it down the staircase. A cat sat at the base of the steps, and it continued to sit as the water filled the building.

The architect woke up on the deck of the gigantic ship. Time had ceased for a moment for the architect. Even after making it back to the cathedral-ship, he still felt that he was under water, in the house, in the room, staring into the chest. The crew of the ship was still scurrying about, tending to their orders like they were trained to. Most didn’t even notice that the architect made it back alive, much less remembered the mission he was assigned to do! He saw the underwater suit, but he wasn’t in it anymore.

Some birds flew overhead and made funny noises. The sky was open, there were no clouds to cast any shadows on the ship. He watched the birds swoop in and out of the air in amazement. Although birds had always flown around in the sky, the architect never really paid much attention to them. The way the birds could pitch their wings forward and back to lift themselves higher or lower in the sky, or how the birds could dive like a missile into the water to catch fish, and how the birds fly in a neatly formed shape was miraculous to the architect. He studied the design of the birds, how every part of their body had a purpose. Nothing more, nothing less. But what if the birds were in outer space or underwater? Would they be able to fly as gracefully? He wondered if the birds had ever wanted to fly to outer space…

A lot of the birds would land on the deck of the ship and peck at the ground, picking up the little specks of food that the workers, and the sailors and the soldiers would drop. The birds that lived on the ship were grey in color. This was from flying through the smoke from the engines and from walking around in the dirt on the ship’s floor. These birds would just walk around, bobbing their heads back and forth and then start pecking at the ground. The architect noticed that these birds were not nearly as graceful as the big beautiful ones that flew far overhead in the sky. He got hungry from watching all the birds and found a bench to sit down on and he began to eat his lunch.

In front of him was a row of grey birds pecking away at the ground. They were very mechanical in rhythm, like the arms of typewriter keys pecking away at a blank piece of paper. Sometimes they would flap their wings a little bit and rearrange the order, but then they would just return to pecking away at the ground. Another bird came into view. It looked like the others, but it was white instead of grey. It walked around a little bit and watched the other birds pecking away. It stood there gracefully. This bird caught the attention of the architect. He watched it and thought it was beautiful. Some workers shuffled by, disturbing the birds for a moment and then they went back to what they were doing. Then a big group of sailors came walking by and the white bird got mixed up in them. It looked like it didn’t know which way to go, as it was completely surrounded by people. The grey birds were not mixed up because they were still standing in the same place, pecking at the ground. Suddenly, a gap in the sailors opened up and the white bird walked quickly in that direction. The gap opened because a big vehicle was coming through. The white bird did not see this coming and its wing was run over. It tried to fly away but could not. Then, more vehicles started moving by much faster than the first. The white bird frantically moved about, and avoided the first two. Suddenly, a big cloud of white feathers filled the air and the white bird lay motionless on the ground. The other birds looked over for a moment then continued back to their ceaseless pecking. Some workers came by to clean up the feathers. They scooped up the white bird and tossed it over the ship.

The architect knew what was coming his way. He saw what he had created for himself as a monument to greater things. He could no longer think of any more things to create. There was nothing left to create. There was nothing left to discover or invent. The architect lived in an era where every song that could be written had already been so and every invention had already been made. The only real thing left was time. He realized that he could not waste it, for time was the only mystery left in the world. He realized that all the triumphant monuments in the world could never make up for his unhappiness. He realized that he never had a home. So he decided to abandon the great ship that he had designed and built for Mother Nature. He dove back into the water without his underwater suit on. With only a big gulp of air, he swam with all of his might to the ocean floor. It was really a huge effort for him! But for the first time in his life, he knew where he was meant to be. He swam all the way back down to the house and reached the front door. The doorknob was locked and he pushed on it as hard as he possibly could when all of a sudden – it opened… The angel from his dream opened the door and he fell to the floor gasping for air. He got up and looked around. The angel looked at him and said, "Welcome Home". The house was full of color this time, and in it was the double headed lion, the cat and the white bird (which had a cast on its broken wing). The architect was so happy to have made it! The angel sat down at the piano and began playing a song. It was a good song, and made the architect forget about his past. He had endured through the worst of it, and now realized that the time he had was the most valuable treasure in the whole world. The architect was content and started feeling sleepy. He laid down next to the lion and closed his eyes. The phantoms were not there to bother him in his sleep, as the double headed lion was there to watch over him. As his mind began to relax, and slumber ensued he remembered his name. It was…

The Desert Fox

2009-08-12T09:32:00.000-07:00

I've come to realize that my main priority right now
is to reclaim the concept of the tourist.
See, lately I've been spending all of my free time
with Teddy Roosevelt, Chuck Yeagar and General Patton.
I've met Stonewall Jackson, but we haven't gotten close yet.

When you live in the desert, there is no way out but forward.
Directions lose their purpose
and stars become only a tantalizing hope of salvation.
There is no salvation in the desert,
so the tanks have to carry on,
pushing through the sand until the treads fall off.
Only then can you learn how to use your feet.

See, the thing is, if you destroy enough lives
people will learn to love you unconditionally.
Endurance is found through the destruction of living tissue.
Muscles regenerate, but the heart fails.
And when it does fail, there is no salvation.

I am an inventor.
I did not create the human experience,
but I invented my own.

So go ahead and protect yourself woman,
your brand of salvation is the kind that
forsakes the ones that loved you the most.
Little do you understand, we're destined to have the same fate-
we're all going to return to the ground one day.
Some will do so sooner than others.

Except your heart pumps oil.
The thick black kind that lubricates
the pistons of legacy.
A sick kind of churning happens inside.

I can push my legs far past failure
and then my inner nature comes out.
When I'm climbing a hill,
it's like I'm a mountain lion looking for shelter.
But there is no such thing.
It's just men with rifles that go home
to women who go about their business
of saving the children.
Except it's not about the children.
No, in fact is has nothing to do with discovering yourself
and everything to do with consuming.

She was handed a life that was not her own
and became convinced that she was saving the world.
And although she may seem as steady and stiff as a tree,
one day she will fall like the rest.
Nature is a destructive creature,
and only through death can there be new life.

When you look into your child's eyes for the first time,
think about me and those that you've forsaken
and know that this child is not as pure as you think you may be.
The only pure thing is gold and silver,
so you wear it on your finger
to remind yourself of a love that you may easily forget.
If you haven't forgotten it by now,
you surely will when you're ten feet under ground.

The best thing to do is to chop down all the trees
so that your baby has nothing left to breathe.
You'll set them all on fire,
convincing yourself that you're making room
for your next new love.
There will be nothing left but ash and smoke,
there always is.
And we'll give you a name that's fitting,
for where there is fire, there is Ash.

It's people like you who are destroying the earth,
for your love is a poisonous secretion.
And the acid your body produces
will cause your lover's heart to fail.
It's ok, because at the end of the day
we're just a bag of bones who have fallen asleep
dreaming of better things...

So instead, I call to tell you that I am trying
to create and construct, yet
your agenda is only to destruct.

And I hope I never see you again,
because I'll be on tour in the mountains and desert
discovering why I could never belong on your earth.

conclusions, grand finales, illusions of love and the ultimate distraction

2009-08-02T11:49:00.000-07:00

She told me that I shouldn't swear so much at women.

I feel that it's my obligation to be an equal opportunity

supplier of great conversation.

I used to love my instrument,

I spent every day with it honing my skill.

It let me down over time and I decided

to try and love a girl.

She pulled something out of me

that my guitar never could.

It was something so hopeless and desperate,

there's not really a way of explaining it

without a smile on your face.

But I ride my bike to work

and show up like nothing ever happened.

One week, two weeks, three, four, five and so forth.

Slowly but surely slipping into a real insanity.

The kind that only living dead men know.

So instead, I hope for a car crash.

She's a business woman, like her father.

If the deal goes bad, she knows how to handle it.

One bad transaction after another.

She is also a master of natural selection.

Constantly becoming involved.

So she "protects herself" by killing the only love I knew.

She always said suicide was selfish,

that you'd only be hurting those around you.

The mourning I know is of a love
that has been permanently terminated

but the only one who is hurting around her is me.

There's a reason why women in general do not commit such an act.

They're in the business of selecting.

One cigarette left, it's my lucky day.

She said her love was never ending.

It was a hoax and I bought it.

One bad transaction after another.

So what's in it for me she would probably ask?

The ultimate distraction, the grand finale.

I clearly have many illusions about love.

She had a plan for me before we met.

She knew she was going to catch me in her web.

She's not afraid to admit that she's a great catch.

So she returns to previous lovers,

constantly planning something that she only knows,

in hopes that maybe one day her planning pays off.

Transaction after transaction.

There's no time to hesitate, she's got people to see.

She's got never ending love to spread around to others.

Except myself.

There is no conclusion but distractions.

One bad distraction after another,

until you find the ultimate distraction.

What is it you may ask?

Is it closing down the business?

Tearing down the shop?

She's a business woman,

always with a plan.

If the deal goes bad, she's always prepared for the next.

One bad transaction after another.

If there are images in this attachment, they will not be displayed.

2009-06-03T11:19:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I wonder what the beaches of Rio are like. Or maybe the forests of Haiti,. The smell of fresh molasses and rum flowing through the trees like hot ash in a winter’s camp fire.. So how am I suppose to imagine such a thing, or place, or feeling or smell? I guess listening to Hawaiian music found in the $1 record bin in the local thrift store is a start. Or maybe, looking through old issues of National Geographic. Exploring the globe through the lens of a piece of glossy paper. I see wildlife occasionally, but I get my drama through television programs about the plight of the young forest elk.

What was in like in the swinging lounges of post war America? Spending an afternoon with the Rat Pack in lovely Los Vegas. Sunglasses on, useless tanning oils and a cerveza with lime. Perhaps a few palms in the background. Swingin.

But instead, I wait and wait for something to come my way. Or maybe I'll be on my way to something other than a ringing in my ears and a sharp pain in my head.

I can dream all day sometimes, but when I wake up it's gone. It's always as if nothing ever happened. The landscapes can be so surreal and the feeling of exuberance more than an unconscious manifestation. But always, the end is the same. I awake in a place that is supposed to be called home. Walls, streets, lights, sounds, a soul killing exercise occurs every morning when getting out of bed. Step out of the unconscious world and out of imagination as you feel it should be.

Dead birds lay everywhere as a reminder that we were not all chosen to fly. Instead of flying home, we stand around pecking the streets for some sort of nourishment. It becomes more than habit, but a way of life - this ceaseless pecking order.

General Rommel's great vacation to the free world

2009-04-28T00:05:00.000-07:00

The age of never ending conquest

where we conquer one another

if we can't ourselves.

Infiltrating the carefully constructed spheres of influence

one cannot destroy the other's plans -

only hamper them

sweet, sweet jazz organ

my name is Jimmy

and there is only one love in my life,

her name is Leslie.

Orange and green lights,

flowers fall from the sky like rain.

Isn't that "free love"?

Suburban folk redefining the definition of free love

then carefully constructing a wall

after they've been there done that

Your feelings are poisonous,

with only the intentions of mass destruction.

That's what we learn how to put our

energy to use in the free world.

What is it you really understand Mr. Psychologist?

Is there something you know that I don't?

Why do you live to encounter

the worst of others?

Diagnosis bipolar bear - extinct.

Middle ages slaughter.

Capture the flag and burn it.

That way the king knows we mean business.

Jerky, jerk bus

jerking my pen across the paper

in a flustered manner.

Pick yourself up boy!

You know who you belong to!

That shirt doesn't say "Property of" for no reason.

Shitty grin

shoveling shit in Louisiana,

if only I was in Patton's Army

slaughtering my brothers and their sisters

and mothers.

Travel in a circle to say

you've seen it all.

Repetition, recycled

mile after shitty mile

but keep on your smile

Hit the deck!

Get your ass on the floor boy

and give me ten.

Get that shitty grin off your face

and give me twenty!

Do you want to die,

because this isn't funny.

Do you want to make it home

one more night to kiss your mommy?

Funny how dreams can die

2009-04-27T23:22:00.000-07:00

There's something in the air

Something that turns our skin dry

and kills our sense of smell.

I cannot even taste my lips

There are no lips left to taste

Even if they were mine,

how should I know how to feel them?

I've had lovers in the night

and I've had a childhood insight.

Only at 9 below do we truly know

what it's like to be alone at midnight.

And yet dreams of a summer breeze persist

as if anything will be different if I walk away.

But what will I truly be able to say?

I loved, I held, I did it all for myself?

See, the one who overextends themselves

has grand ambitions for only one person.

So how do I save the earth

or a mother from a complicated birth?

All I know is that love is sick, sick, sick.

Why does it have to be?

Those who give and care show us

what we can never be -

an unraveled mind content in time

for that short glimpse of a secure manhood.

Yet, all I do is take

and ultimately forsake

everything that is good.

So who is it that I truly admire?

Well, it would be myself if I ever learned

how to keep my fucking mouth shut.

So instead, we drive to DC.

Bobby Fischer was a true patriot.

I say we start parking ghost bikes in Arlington Cemetery.

What do we do with the old man in the basement?

The one with a long white beard

which is only an indicator of time spinning the old wheel,

turning the old wrench

only to go home to a television dinner-

if you make it home riding through the snow...

What about the man who drank too much coffee?

He decided to join the Navy to get healthy.

What ever became of the book he was supposed to write?

Or maybe the young idealist

who lost himself in his own fantasy?

One that is forever lost in the hills and foot beds

of the mountains of Ukraine?

So you want to be an intelligence collector?

Well, you need to first make your girlfriend cry

almost every single night.

If you're lucky, we'll show you a man with no arm or legs -

only a pistol at his side,

a revolver with empty chambers

waiting to unload an empty sound in the empty air.

It'll be over shortly - I promise.

No more artificial light,

just the image of the back of your eyes.

The corners of your mind that has,

"Do not enter" written all across it.

Here, take these boots

you'll need them.

They once belonged to a soldier

but he won't be needing them anymore.

You're scared?

Why?

So you're afraid to be lonely?

Well one must confront Apollo before you try.

If you're lucky, you can be back before midnight.

A new year awaits you,

a different one!

What do you say?

She says your writing is weird?

Now, that's true admiration!

Well, it's closer to the whistling of firebombs

being dropped in the dawn of night.

They go floating down

so clumsily

so imperfectly

without any precision.

They float through the air

until they find the bedroom of an innocent child.

Then the real destruction begins.

To be burned alive in your sleep at night -

that is what war stands for.

Sheer chaos and control of your army.

Who has the most bodies?

100,000 men strong

or casualties gone wrong?

What if that bomb wrote a song?

Just one long whistle,

like the radiator on a cold winter night.

It just hums along

then suddenly it all goes wrong.

The crescendo ends with a burst of light

but it is quiet.

Suddenly a cloud forms

and all life is quickly unborn

and then we start again.

So you want to collect intelligence?

'return of the earth' day

2009-04-24T09:18:00.000-07:00

For three whole months, the city is void of life.

But today, I found that happiness does survive.

And although at times I struggle to find

a place that will guarantee freedom

without complexion

I continue to find myself confined by

apartment walls that are chronically white.

So why not use the day to burn my skin?

What is the other option?

Where did all this grass come from,

disturbing this snow laden land

Maybe I'll set my wheels spinning

or wish farewell to a friend

It's only once a year that its

truly the end.

2009-04-20T12:11:00.000-07:00

Hey mom,

It's not even 5 o'clock and it's already dark.

Thank God for florescent light.

I've got a bible and beer in my bag

and I'm under bright lights that produce heat.

You know, when the train is late

I can stay here and wait

for a line that is going home.

I can hear the cats

and other trains pass

but I can not really decide

when the right time

or door is going to open.

I can not really decide

if I should close the chapter on the night.

You see, every night I decide

the best to do is to go home.

But tonight is different.

I feel some comfort even though

I have come to understand that everything I know

and trust is just dust.

I still have another hour until I am home

and once I get there, I'll be glad I'm all alone

And now it is raining

It's not too cold

but I'm waiting.

Undecided if I should follow

or go my own way.

But now I'm going to her place

she decided that she has the space.

We both have to get over ourselves.

Just one more night and then it's over

we'll be thankful that we gave up on each other.

untitled

2009-04-20T12:08:00.000-07:00

Snow days in Chicago

back of the bus

Beach Boys

Oh wouldn't it be nice?

Two more weeks

a liberation will occur

skiing to class

the snow won't pass

until we fix the earth.

HOME

2009-04-20T12:05:00.000-07:00

When you feel you feel it

what you felt was not it.

It was something that felt like it

but actually wasn't.

You say it and say it

but you realize what you felt

was not it.

You know now that

you won't know when when you do feel it.

Headache

2009-04-20T12:03:00.000-07:00

What is it that causes that obnoxious tingle?

Are there creatures drilling holes in your brain?

I know a drink would be a cure.

Maybe two, or eventually a few.

Don't worry head

I'll be going to sleep soon.

Goodnight Bus Driver

2009-04-20T11:52:00.000-07:00

Good night bus driver

You may not realize it

but you changed my life.

I was walking down the street

trying to make it home.

But then you stopped

and picked me up.

Your bus' florescent lights have that familiar feel.

Choosing a seat is often as fickle as picking the right apple,

so I tend to just stand up.

But when I first get on board

I nod and say hello

I don't know if you realize that I am glad you found me tonight.

When it is my turn to get off

I walk out the back door.

I waved but I am not sure if you saw me.

Though I never got your name

and you never got mine

we both hold a piece of each other forever

because of that one ride.

And I know when the same time tomorrow comes

I will forever be in debt

to another bus driver just like you.

Motion Sickness

2009-04-20T11:49:00.000-07:00

The boy sits in front of the machine so much

that he begins to feel sick when he's not.

He is the pinnacle of progress.

A domestic species of the highest sort.

Years

2009-04-20T11:32:00.000-07:00

If it feels like a dream, it's because it is.

The real battle is not on earth, but in heaven.

Legions of fallen angels leave their flesh bodies

to struggle against hope for all eternity.

There is no end.

Pain has no cure.

Your fate has already been decided once you open your eyes for the first time.

You're frightened by the signs you don't understand.

You try to relate them to previous life.

The soul does grow old.

Whether it becomes more wise in time is not easy to answer.

Some spiral further into evil.

So many rebirths have taken place

that the life you currently associate existence to

is merely a grain of sand of all the earth's beaches.

So do you choose redemption?

Do you become a lost wonderer

who has given up on the search for hope and desire?

It is only your passion that you maintain

and civilization will most certainly see an end to it.

When the earth ceases to exist,

does the mind then as well?

The opposite of the son of God is still an angel.

The battle continues as we cycle through the pages that make up our lives.

Only angels can destroy angels and

only men can destroy men.

Animal Dreams

2009-04-20T11:29:00.000-07:00

When the beast is asleep has he discovered peace?

Does he hide in the Earth

or dream about rebirth?

He understands that in order to change God's plans

he needs the hands of a man.

Is he frightened of the darkness as he is of the day?

Dead in a Bed

2009-04-20T11:27:00.000-07:00

It sounds of nothing,

holding hands (that is)

in a wood cabin all day.

Your mind has long drifted

in a search for the gold

that was yesterday.

You feel the walls shake from the door slam.

You don't know who is going through,

or when you do.

Armageddon Clock

2009-04-20T11:24:00.000-07:00

When we all get trapped in machines

the mind warps

men go mad

no second guess

you know what's at stake

There's only one solution:

close the chapter on mankind

Nairda Ecartal is going crazy.

2009-04-20T11:22:00.000-07:00

I had the craziest night. It was so windy and on the bridge I was almost pushed off the side. We listened to great music and ate a great dinner. Then it went somewhere else. It went to the past and present and some people connected. The universe is not aligned, but it is not the universe.

We discussed art, and music more specifically and traveling. They all seemed to be related and yet I keep discussing recently complacency. The whole world is finally available to me, and what do I do? It is so strange, I mean I feel like my dream life has everything to do with everything like how we’re supposed to be living in the present always. I mean there gets to be a point where there is no return. You’ve already crossed the line and you’re in for it. Yet, it is always the same familiar walls you’ve always been surrounded by.

We all need more work. If we all really worked a lot more, I believe we’d find out what we’ve always supposed to do. For instance, you should go on a 5 day hiking trip or a bicycle trip carrying your tent and food with you. You’ll spend a lot of time with yourself for sure. The strange thing about being in the city is that you tend to have these moments everyday, but there are many people who are witness to it. It becomes at times a struggle for survival, yet it is also battle of the wits. How did David defeat Goliath?

The point is that we’ve got to look at more metaphors. See the more I tell you how you’re supposed to think, the more you realize what a shame it all becomes. Instead, what if we just had a nice hot chocolate and a fireplace near by? Well that would certainly make things a lot better.

Luxury Condos

2008-04-08T10:20:00.000-07:00

This place is so fucking disgusting . All of it. It's the only place in the world where you pay for your indoctrination. Who cares right? Well then why is revenge so important? You know, these days you're considered a good man if you can just manage to keep your family together. You don't have to buy your wife a mink coat and smoke a pipe in public anymore. Because when you're a kid, you learn very quickly not to fuck around with the ice. The first time you screw around and your feet fly up over you and your head smacks the pavement and everyone laughs at you. Yeah, that's your own damn fault. So don't blame the steel mills for making your child a retard.