Tag Archives: beauty

Stop the train and let me off!

Every day of my life as long as I can remember, I have pictured myself as a hundred other things besides a man; a superman, a sea turtle, a bird, an ape, a demigod, a snail, a plastic bag, a volcano.

I fantasize that God or some other space alien will lift me up and unify me with the energy of the cosmos, or else smash me into an unrecognizable paste with their giant fist-from-the-sky. Either way, I wouldn’t have to deal with the minutiae.

I wish that I had never learned what wishing was. No I don’t. Yes I do.

But an immortal man would have no more chance of understanding the world or himself than a stillborn baby. So here’s to equality.

I asked an old man once, while helping him fill out an online application, what I should put down for his skills and whatnot. He replied with clear pronunciation, “Well sir, I am what you would call, ‘a lazy man.'” Even though I hated him, I wish everyone would be as honest as him, and by that I mean I wish everyone would say exactly what he did.

People suck. Mostly the white ones. There’s not enough hatred against whites, if you ask me. But its not as if anybody will do anything about it. The winning teams were decided long ago.

The difference between luck and chance is the letters that are used, and thus, their placement in the dictionary.

The difference between success and banality is the same distance between a supermarket and a natural history museum.

You’re born, you live, you die. Like the frothing effervescent sea foam of a pounding rushing wave, which exists but an instant, only to be replaced later by a near facsimile. It’s silly to want to do anything else but that, or even complain about the circumstances in-between. It makes for very predictable literature, or a very boring board game.

There’s a reason there that the heavy waves of the ocean are considered revitalizing and new to the fragile human spirit. Doesn’t anybody else wonder and worry about the fact that a body can trouble themselves over the supernatural (sometimes egregious) effects of a rainstorm one day, and smile at the uplifting stupor of a full rainbow the next?

A lot of people have no regard for ‘tomorrow’. They seem foolish because a storm could wipe out their home the same day they lose their job. Those people who have great consideration for ‘tomorrow’ wisely organize their piles into geometric stacks that will one day be the forgotten detritus of a long-extinct smoking cinder.

Everywhere are roots sticking out of the ground, and throngs of immobile people, and fences, and ‘No Trespassing’ signs, and public transportation, and little spiky balls of vegetable matter stuck in your footwear. But the reality is you can’t escape your own skull, the contents of which conspire against you far more than any other real or imagined forces of the universe.

I used to laugh at people with ridiculous phobias, as I am not afraid of clowns, or needles, or spiders, or dentists, or dogs, or what other relatively harmless things my friends are. That is, until I realized that I am afraid of perhaps that most fantastic and intangible construction of human evolution: falling in love.

I don’t believe I could take the time to get to know somebody as well as I know myself. I don’t know myself all that well.

Some people take drugs to stop them from thinking so much. Others take drugs so that they’ll think even harder. Society is a drug that does both simultaneously.

I can feel my thoughts and opinions and beliefs and wishes and aspirations and dreams sloshing around in my brain. I feel their weight. As though tilting my head back and forth would let them ooze warmly from my inner ear canal with a loud ‘POP’ and puddle into a pillow cover which I would then throw away and forget about.

When I try to force myself to think, I get sleepy. When I try to stop myself thinking, I get a headache. Either way I need to lie down.

If I ever do get depressed, it seems to be during those transcendental moments of beauty that defy all attempts at description. I involuntarily enter a trance-state as if in some drunken mind-frame, but wholly different from any drug. Thoughts overtake me, in what should be a happy or religious experience, but somehow induced from another place, like spoken in tongues, or finding something you thought you threw away long ago, or suddenly realizing you’re at the place you were supposed to be, but you don’t feel at all the way you anticipated. Disoriented, thinking of your position to the world all wrong once confronted by its image, then inexplicably angry at nobody. What an odd coincidence.

I’m grateful for plenty of things, but perpetually devoid of any ideas on how to express it appropriately.

If I ran away from ‘it all’ and changed my name or stole somebody’s, sure, the scenery might be better, but there would still be all the bullshit. It smells the same everywhere.

My most foolish fantasy has never been contemplating suicide. That is, I never think about it seriously enough to be considered ‘contemplation.’ Certainly not more than the average person, I suppose. Just as every heterosexual has the stray homosexual thought, but with such infrequency and frivolity that one can’t seriously self-identify as gay, let alone act upon it. So when somebody steps in front of oncoming traffic to end their life, it astounds me that they would want to reduce all the petty problems in their life into one massive immediate one. Though, to their credit, if they are killed they can’t be said to have any problems at all. But I always think, ‘if they aren’t killed, just seriously injured, they’ve increased their share of problems to work with tenfold.’ No. My most foolish fantasy is that I imagine stepping into oncoming traffic, surviving, and being somebody else’s problem. Maybe somebody attractive.

But I’m not depressed or tortured. That would be just another excuse to disrupt a disturbing train of thought, and I think its best to see the train to its destination, no matter how annoying. The trains are never on time, always end up at the wrong place with the wrong passengers aboard, with squealing wheels sparking against steel at an uncontrollable rate of speed, the driver having jumped off long ago. So far, there’s been no crash, but that’s almost worse.

No artist is tortured any more than any other thinking individual. Torture is what religion and the CIA perpetrate upon dissidents, or what some fetishists do for loads of money. But I repeat myself.

I don’t know what’s more upsetting, that the universe doesn’t care what I do, or that I don’t.

Not that I really have any problems or complaints, mind you. Just the typical ones that we all have, from the starving third-world villager to the multi-billionaire CEO. Wait. Scratch that.

It troubles me very deeply and very often that I am just like everybody else on the planet, and nobody is just like me.


You Must Be Logged-In to do That!

This is the first city I’ve lived in where I feel consistently happy that I’m not dead yet on a regular basis. So that’s saying somethin’. Not only that but I think I really like it here. The food, the weather, the scenery… beautiful California women of all shapes and colors.. but more importantly the food. SweetChristonaCriscuitCracker! The food!

What do the rest of you in them other cities do when you feel upset that life is grinding out the useless parts of the lemon (like zest)? Because when I get down in the fjord about where I am on this long strange trip, I walk down to the pier, buy a churro, and stand as high as I can on whatever rotting piece of board I can balance myself on. There I can feel the cool sweeping air in my face as a luminescent orange blaze sets ’round the back of a gigantic gleaming skyline, crafted by expert artisans over numerous decades. A deep blue sky fades to black aether streaked with the purpleorangeandpink of wispy clouds stretched long by a bay breeze. And I hear the creak of a wet dock, and the clang of passing ships, and the cries of ravenous gulls and communal sea lions. I breathe in the salty mist of untamed waters, and the smell of cooking by a dozen or so mingling cultures. And the cinnamonsugarsnack crunches lightly between grinding molars and warms my insides before I retire to a seafood dinner, a chilled Anchor Steam brew, and a dream-filled night thinking about stars reflecting off of the sea.

Not that I’m bragging.

Okay. I’m bragging. I do like to brag.

O yeh, plus I gotz de new Heroes Season One on DVDz. Breathe it in suckaz, cuz I roxors more than you an’ its so minty fresh the trees is dying. Now I like as needs Extras Seasons 1-2, Venture Brothers Season 2, Flight of the Conchords Season 1 (not out yet), and any other shit that might be lyin’ around. O WAIT. I need one of those… um… *snaps fingers* JOBS first. Like the ones where people give you money to show up every day. Yeh. I know what they are! I saw one in a newspaper once.

Forward into the past!!


To be quite honest, its not like I ever actually expected to fall in love with the girl. In fact, at first, I hated her. I despised her and she annoyed the shit out of me with her stubbornness and her fallacies and her bitterness towards men. I’m sure that I must have come off as shallow, arrogant, and foolishly “intellectual” to her at the same time. Slowly, we began to get to know each other. We learned from each other, a mutual respect was formed. At first I though she needed to smoke in order to paint. In fact, she needs to paint whenever it is she happens to be smoking. She paints all the time, sober or not. She just doesn’t see the use in letting creativity go to waste, sober or not. She doesn’t see this as the source for her inspiration, just that when she smokes she runs the risk of getting lazy and unmotivated, and thus enjoys the recreation while doing something productive.
And to be real honest here, its not that I know I’m in love with the girl. I mean, I know that it sure feels like love, or that, I’m desperately trying to convince and tell myself that its not love and that it is at the same time. I’ve never genuinely been in love with anyone before, so logically I do not know what it could be. However, this defies all logic. You can rationalize infatuation to the point of psycho-babble. Love slaps ration in the face and brings to light indescribable things that should not even be accurately called ‘emotions.’

“Beauteous, Beautiful…” O such words!
What shameful trite and clichéd words!
What worthless hollow callow words!
What Elizabeth Barret Browning words!
What Byron, John Donne, Lovelace words!
What wordy William Wordsworth words!
Give me Emily Dickinson any day!
I’ll take Poe over Thomas Gray!
I cannot accept things so bland!
Wrought by redundant poetic hand!
Unexpressive tautology!
Meaningless phraseology!
What things to put me fast asleep!
Used by jocks who think they’re deep!
Repetition to proceed to bore us!
Why don’t they use a damned Thesaurus?
For despicable words like “pale beauty!”
Seems unapt for “anemic scenery!”
To call a woman ‘beautiful!’
Is simply saying ‘viewable!’
Inane, empty, unidiomatic!
Most men say it automatic!
But all the poets who abused it!
Had someone in mind when they used it!
Another to apply new context!
To that previous unworthy syntax!
And that is why I derive no shame!
In applying it to your fine name!
I feel proud and almost dutiful!
To clepe you thus by ‘beautiful!’

F. Scott Fitzgerald had this to say, “When the first-rate author wants an exquisite heroine or a lovely morning, he finds that all the superlatives have been worn shoddy by his inferiors. It should be a rule that bad writers must start with plain heroines and ordinary mornings, and, if they are able, work up to something better.”
Of course, F. Scott Fitzgerald also said that using an exclamation point was like laughing at your own joke.

And to be painfully honest, it hurts. It hurts a hell of a lot more than a high school crush or an infatuation with that girl you could never have or the one that got away or the lust for some unreachable celebrity. It’s a constant pain that whenever she’s near you, you know you can’t have her. You don’t even want her to have you, because you know she’s going to be happier with somebody else and its not fair to unload your burdens of love and emotions onto her. You don’t want to hurt her by telling her how you feel when its not her fault and she cannot reciprocate because she’s happy with somebody else. You take joy in that, but it still hurts. It would hurt you to be with her and ruin her life with somebody else even more. If you love something, set it free, but be damned well aware that it isn’t coming back to you.
Above and beyond all that, I only fool myself into wondering if it might be infatuation. I ask those questions because it would be a lot easier to have this be a passing thing, but I know it isn’t. This isn’t an ‘I think I know,’ but an ‘I know.’ Just the same as I know how to breathe, I know that I love her. The doubts in my mind are but failing threads of the rational and therefore irrational theory of a fleeting crush. Yeah, it hurts, but at the same time, I like being in love. I like how I am in love and I like the person it makes me. Sure, it hurts. But the love that causes it makes that likeable, too.
I suppose I really just want it to be a crush, for her sake, because it’s not fair to her that I love her.
I was told by a friend to grab life by the horns, to go ahead and tell her how I feel because its not as if it could hurt anything. Ha! What does he know? The point is, he put a label and a classification on the ambiguous thing that was there. She and I are too good of friends to make something out of this now! We know each other too well! We’ve gone past that seething resentment to a mutual respect to a dear friendship to a closeness wherein our painful pasts have come out to say hello and eradicate any chance of something ever happening. I wasn’t aware of it until it was clear that it impeded this progress.
To be real honest, here, though, folks, I didn’t even know I was in love until somebody else put it in perspective for me. Sure, I loved her, right from the start, deep down, but I wasn’t in love with her until somebody pointed it out and said, “Jesus, man, you really love this girl.” For God’s sakes, it’s clear from my actions what the feelings are! Why did everybody else know it except me and her!?
Oh, how I long for this to be but some cursory sexual fantasy. If it were but that then I could get it out of head and out of heart, but no. You stalkers and puppy-love angst-ridden teenagers with your crushes and infatuations don’t know how fucking lucky you are to have it be all about sex. To look at a girl and fool yourself into thinking that you want to be with her because you love her when in actuality it’s all about some lecherous quivering orifice. I need to tell myself it’s a passing sexual fantasy, but then I think about her wit, and eyes, and how perfect she would be for me if only I were good enough to be that person that could deserve such love, and not just some dumb fuck. When I think of her, I don’t think of her pussy lips or her bosoms, I think of her smile, and how I could possible make her laugh when she’s depressed. I think of the way her hair shines chatoyant in the sun behind her or falls down into her eyes when she spins. I think of the cute upturned button nose with her cute black-framed glasses sliding down as she works on her paintings and looks up, over the rim of them, when somebody vies for her attention. I think of her art, her music, her history, her silly laugh. She is silly. She’s the reason that writer’s write music and poets compose poetry. Every fucking Beatles song I hear doesn’t just remind me of her, it fucking makes me think that it was written because Lennon/McCartney would somehow someday know how I was going to be feeling for her.

Luminescent yellow, halo’d, iridescent, gay
shining brown, orange, close and far away
smells fresh and due to new and purulent
forever instant, temporarily permanent
lighting up, contrasting, impacting deep
dreamily waking, alertfully falling asleep
lovingly is yours.

And honestly, people, none of this does her justice. All the clichés and idioms in the world say nothing that’s actually pounding outwards from the interior of my head. They say that you will only know true love when you thoroughly fail to put it accurately into words. Well, that’s the case here, and all of my attempts are but slaps in the face of what I’m truly feeling.
That pain I was talking about, it’s not even a true pain, you see, because there is so much joy in it. Being in love with her, pain or not, is its own reward, and nobody can take that away. Get stoned on more pot than you’ve ever consumed in your entire life, and listen to the best music in all the Earth, and on top of that all the joys and pleasures and tastes in the world do not amount to a fraction of it. There is no negativity when I’m with her, or when I’m thinking about her. There are no skinned knees in Kindergarten, embarrassing school photos, wet beds, turned down dates, sickness, disease, death, famine, or bad personal history. All there is, is goodness, and deep hued skies and crystal bodies of water, and golden light and birds and squirrels and children and smiling and luminescent green patches of grass and the smell of sweet memories forming and with it all most of all her.
Honestly? I don’t think about her all the time, but plenty enough to make me happy.
Which amounts to ‘too much.’