just some brainstorming at 6 a.m. the other night...

Darkness seeps in through the walls, and you become aware of it, as much as you know that darkness cannot seep through anything, for it is already there when everything else is shut out. It is the other things – everything else – that seep into its domain, and sometimes the darkness is hospitable and other times it is not. Darkness is that which forces us to decide whether we must dig things up from the back of our brains that we have tried not to think about, or whether to shut off the brain completely. Sleep is the decision to shut off the brain. Insomnia is too much of the act of dredging, and the results thereby caused. It self-perpetuates. Lateness to work is that which results from the sleeping realization that shutting off the conscious brain is not such a bad thing, and that it is, in fact, preferable to the contrary (wakefulness).

Nighttime is “Oh, God, I’ve not wanted to be alive even once today until just now, and now the unfortunate truth of the matter is that my being awake at such a late hour will cause me to be late for work tomorrow, or absent at work tomorrow, or just mentally absent at work tomorrow, or absent at every part of work except for the three-foot-radius area that surrounds the espresso machine.”

Dreaming is the act of addressing a pressing matter (or sometimes multiples of such) that has not yet been fully explained or presented. The pressing matter is certainly pressing, and the urgency real, but the details are missing prior to action. The ardency with which the matter is addressed is admirable, and since there is no concrete way in which to address the matter due to its absence, most of the addressing is, by necessity, hypothetical, and therefore as perfect and efficient as can be imagined. For that which is only imagined might as well be imagined to be the best there isn’t (but could be, if efforts were worthy and sufficient).

Day is the distraction of the brain by way of little tasks that claim to be pieces of bigger tasks, but which for the most part seem to just be distractions. Consciousness and wakefulness are forums in which one undergoes the replacement of these little tasks with other little tasks, sometimes because certain replacement-tasks are deemed more worthy, and other times because one grows tired of a task and seeks a change, even if this change takes on the form of regression.

Work is getting to your espresso machine on time, and becoming familiar with the rate of the second-hand and minute-hand and the fonts used on the various clocks around the office. Work is not being allowed to replace tasks with other tasks. Work is wanting only to replace tasks with more-worthy tasks but having to settle for web-surfing or computer solitaire. Work is the plugging-in of a tube to your heart and slowly draining fluid from it, in such a way that you don’t notice it being done until, at a later point in time, you call upon the powers of the heart and find them gone.

Love is the discovery of reserves of heart powers that one didn’t know still existed. Love is the state of being thrilled over the discovery of such powers, and as a result wielding them recklessly and all-too-quickly, just because they feel so good when held in the palm of the hand. Love is the tears shed when such powers are exhausted, because the weeper has just witnessed the beauty and glory of his own might, and sees that, in the end, this beauty and glory existed only for its own sake. And love is the realization that beauty and glory, existing only for their own sake, are amazing things in and of themselves. Love is the willingness to wield things recklessly even if there is no possible gain. Love is not directed at a person, but instead at the world, and often through somebody who embodies some aspect of that world. Love is preferring to be in the arms of somebody that you hate, but love, than someone you like, but don’t. Love is a silver tiger with iron teeth and a beautiful arched neck that is bleeding. Love is the tiger gnashing his teeth despite the pain and refusing to sleep it off. Love is the willingness to respect the fight, and yet recognize what is lost in the death. Love is the act of mourning what can never be born, yet what might have been possible. Love is idealism, and idealism is art, and art is love. Love is the deepest, most sorrowful cry whose cause is not realized; whose parent is appalled.

7.31.07

i'm learning a couple things pretty brutally at the moment:

1) if you care about someone, let go of them completely
2) strive be happy, even despite reasons not to be

in other words, become cold and complacent. stoic in the face of all things. kind and loving, yet in need of nothing and desiring nothing. it's hard to let full-fledged joy in without letting in the hurt to an equal degree.

the greek stoics believed in a natural order to things. they emphasized the fact that personal hardship does not matter and should be taken in stride, since there is a larger order to things: one that is right and just, and bigger then ourselves, and one that we cannot begin to understand. we should strive to understand that negative and positive impetus are not to be responded to with joy or despair. we should trust in the order of things and know that we are a part of something that we cannot understand, and bear this duty and this place in the world with pride.

i'm good at showing bitterness, and i'm good at showing joy. i'm worse at expressing love or compassion. and i'm bad at showing people that i need them, or that i'm willing to open up to them, or that i'm willing to risk something for them or become vulnerable for them. i'm so closed off, yet so willingly affected by things all around me. i love letting things in to my core so that they might inspire or meld or shape or influence me. so that i might be stronger, or wiser. i am bad at letting things out of my soul. so i have so much brewing in me of such amazing proportions, and i cannot let such things loose and share them with the people that i want to share things with. i can know and sense what i have to offer someone, yet i have a hard time letting myself truly give that to them, for fear of losing that bit of my soul altogether. it's strange: i can't gain someone in my life without leting them in, but i can't let them in if there is a chance that they won't ever really be a part of my life. so i keep them in a strange middle-ground, when perhaps what i need to do is tell them to leave my life entirely, or tell them to respect boundaries or what-have-you.

but this goes against my philosophical and ethical beliefs. i think that there is so much grey area and so much legitimate feeling that nevertheless should be given credit and attention. some of the most fleeting and elusive things can also be some of the most beautiful. think of a mirage, for example. or a rainbow. or a beautiful dream that cannot be fully remembered upon waking. why is the intangible so incredible?

i've felt the intangible become tangible. i've felt the elusive become close-at-hand. and it's something like grabbing stars out of the sky. it feels like it should be illegal or physically impossible. yet there it is. and yet the sky misses its stars, and sometimes i wonder if i should leave the sky alone in the first place.

7.30.07

reading through old entries, i realize that i speak so often in terms of ultimates; things that are quantified; things that are finite, things that possess more of some quality than any other thing i have previously encountered, whether it be a quality of impactfulness or amazingness or any other similar such thing.

foolish, i say. i have felt awe before, and i will feel it again. i have felt magic and love before, and i have felt the need to be alone before, and i have felt sickness and health and anger and all of it. i can only write about the different forms of sadness or the different uses of isolation for so long before it seems that i am running in circles and getting nowhere.

here's what i want to write about:

things can be replaced. never verbatim as they were, but close approximations. friends are lost and friends are gained. wounds heal and gaps are filled. nothing is the same, but why would we want it to be? happiness goes and returns. old loves return with the seasons and with the holidays. things lost are never lost, even if they are never again seen.

despite this, i am willing to give new things in my life a chance; willing to place them above memories, since memories are just that, and since the things that created the memories are gone. i'm willing to attempt to live for the now. not for the now alone, but for the now more than for the past.

things are so simple sometimes.

7.12.07

just had the most amazing few-days' worth of conversation with my buddies in spider friends. took dean and justin to chipotle yesterday night and bought them a communal burrito, and we talked about music and life and, most particularly, the symbiotic nature of those individuals involved in the world of music, and the willingness of people to help one another out when they see that the cause of the other individual is true and sincere, and the "fake it till you make it" policy and the truth behind it.

played a show tonight and then had to literally run off-stage and out of my house afterwards in order to do a training closing shift at armadillo. came back after work and had a pabst, courtesy of spider friends, and discussed the same sorts of things some more. tentative plans for touring, and the following phenomenon: the universe seems willing to provide to those who care about something and those who are willing to make sacrifices and put in a lot of work for that which they care about. if the cause is legitimate, and if the motives are real, it almost takes effort to fail at anything.

dean says, "hit by a car in a few hours and dead today? stoked." because he knows he's gone out there and really put his all into what he cares about, and because he's given up all the filler in life in order to do so.

you know what? i agree. dead tomorrow? stoked. because i've been honest with myself and with others. those that i've cared about have known, and that's all i can ask of anyone. those things that i've wanted to do, i've begun to do. and i'm even more stoked if i do have a full life ahead of me, because there's an infinite number of experiences to be had and people to know and places to see. i fully condone those who pursue the arts and who live exactly the way they feel one should live, even if it means bypassing offers for money or lucrative jobs or security or comfortability. giving something that really matters to the self is worth so much more than dollar bills when the individual is lying on his death bed. man on his deathbed cannot quantify his millions of dollars, but man on his deathbed can feel good knowing that he has not given up on the things that he has cared about, and knowing that he has put real, solid effort into his endeavors.

dean told me he thinks i need more people to try to pull me over to the dark-side. by "dark-side", he means the world of expression and creation and full-blown pursuit of music and artistic expression. i told him i think i've lived my life for a long time now hoping more people would try to convince me to do so.

7.11.07

3. (By Swedish poet Lars Forssell)


And tomorrow we will awaken
A whistle from the street
The charwoman who shouts

And you will wash yourself behind the curtain
And when we go out we will have won

7.11.07

i used to view my days as installments in a long period of waiting. waiting for what? i was never sure. but i was sure that it would be something. perhaps i thought it would even be something remarkable.

what is not remarkable? i can't imagine my life going in any direction that is not interesting, or strange, or surprising, and i think the same might be said of anyone. even the prospect of utter failure is interesting. but i think that failure is harder to achieve than some manner of success, and the kind of success that i am aiming for, namely spiritual peace and a general sense of freedom and happiness, is something for which the search seems to be as gratifying as the attainment.

anyhow, the longer i waited, the less it felt like waiting, and eventually the waiting became somehow the opposite of that. instead of anticipating the future and doing so by way of the present moment, i found myself upheaving the past, by way of the present moment. soon i exhausted this activity, too, and i reached a place wherein i was neither channeling the past nor the present, but some handshake that existed between the two. the present, i suppose, but not just the present as it existed on a linear plane. rather, the present as it existed in more dimensions than i could count or fathom. deja vu became, by its very definition, a recurring theme in my life, and i began to dream dreams of epic proportions, about war and love and loss and journeys through the woods and along the banks of rivers. the people were always familiar, and the laughs were always identifiable.

anger became an easier alternative to sadness or loneliness, and then eventually productivity became an easier cure for anger and angst than anything else. and thus sadness was transormed into anger, which was transformed into anxiousness, which was transformed into a sense of urgency, which, on better days, was transformed into productivity. perhaps the order of these is off, but the gist is there.

if i view myself as being where i am for my own sake, and if i experience what comes as it comes, then what comes is sort of a bonus feature tacked on to the end of something that cannot end, and that is in and of itself already gratifying.

i've stopped waiting for things to become easier, because they're never easy, and god knows they never will be, and i've started understanding how to use that which is difficult and how to deal with it and how to turn it into something that is beautiful or laughter-inducing or enjoyable in some regard. and when there is nothing outside of my room to spark my interest, there is always the imagination, from which things can be drawn and manifested outside of their prior constraints, so that they may suddenly exist and take form in the tangible world outside my mind.

and amidst all of this there is love, a kind that i just keep discovering within me and keep finding all over my figurative hands as i realize how much certain people in my life mean to me. and i love them for their flaws and for how difficult they are and for the fact that they don't know what they are doing any more than i know what i am doing, so long as they are doing things or attempting to do things with their days and with their actions. those that enter my life may floor me or win me over or stun me or gradually, over time, make me fall in love with them. who knows. and those who leave my life are gone for a reason, even if it is a reason that i cannot have the ability to understand, and that is what it is and although i may miss them, i will have known them for a time, and that is something to be glad for.

i recorded a song this evening (late-night, to be more accurate), and then felt a sudden need to go outside and walk about. i left my house in heeled boots that elevated me and made me feel light and nimble. i walked several blocks, and it began to sprinkle rain, and as much as i liked the idea of forcing myself to walk miles in the rain just for the spiritual test or some-such that such an undertaking might turn out to be, i convinced myself that it could wait for another night, and i went back home. i enjoyed that rain-smell, though, maybe not for what it is but for the fact that it is so familiar.

how is it that people who are so new can seem so familiar? how is it that people who are not so new can seem foreign and then suddenly familiar? how is it that talking to an old friend can feel like meeting someone for the first time, and being excited about such a meeting? the world presents me with things that are bigger than my scope of understanding, and although this should terrify me, it somehow instead fills me with a sense of comfort. my only fear is that i will never find the words to express the things that i feel at the times that i should. and so this translates to the following: my only fear is that people will never understand how much i care, in whatever way i care. but perhaps these things are not meant to be articulated, since they cannot be pinned down, since they are constantly changing. and this is both a beautiful and a tragic thing.

it's still raining outside, and the rain has filled the air with a kind of energy much like that which occurs when the last of one's lungs are drained of their air due to some kind of excitement that does not allow the individual to take the time inhale before he exhales, in laughter or in gasp. the entire outdoors is on a last gasp that will be followed by the intake of air and the intake of something else. things feel as though they are changing, and the notion of change seems more promising than the notion of constancy. the outdoor air sits wet and heavy and positions itself outside my door with bated breath.

i learned today that the word "nothing" came from the two words "not hing". "hing" was another word for "atom"; a word used to describe small parts that made up the universe, particularly in the writings of early philosophers who were considered pluralists or atomists. "nothing" was considered that which existed where atoms did not; or where "hings" did not. something that was empty was "not a hing". it was nothing. i love words.

7.8.07

i know that love exists because i feel it every day, as joy or as pain or as a feeling of peacefulness. i feel it when i watch artists perform. i feel it when i see a close friend contort his face because of shyness.

i remember a moment from my distant past. it was a moment where i cried harder than i ever had before or ever did afterwards. i don't remember why. but i remember that it was anger and despair. i think it was a response to some kind of family dynamic that just wasn't positive. the main reason that this stands out in my memory is the fact that, when i cried at this specific time, i put on sgt. pepper's lonely heart's club band and screamed every lyric to every song as tears drained into my open mouth. i think i shook because i was so angry. yet listening to that album was the only thing i could do. it was a strange thing to listen to an album that brought me so much joy, yet to do so at a time when i felt everything opposite of that joy. so i felt all things all at once.

that's how i feel often... all things all at once. lately i've felt simultaneous senses of calmness and urgency, love and anger, desire for connection and desire for solitude. it feels natural, as if this is how things are supposed to be felt: in conjunction with their opposites. heraclitus says that the universe relies on the unity of opposites and a symbiotic relationship between harmony and strife, each as important as the other.

i've been feeling a lot of love for the people around me, but i don't know where to channel it. into music, i suppose. music channeled it into me at some of my worst moments as a kid, so maybe i can channel it back. it's nice to think of things as cycles.

7.2.07

sometimes, i push away those who actually care about me. in doing so, i isolate myself. so then being alone is a choice i have made, and an action caused by my will, rather than something uncontrollable. then, in isolation, i go through a series of self-imposed spiritual quests of my own design. walks out into the fields at hours of the night during which it is somewhat dangerous. walks further than i have gone before, into remote areas filled with new kinds of energy. bike rides at night. long hours in my room alone, thinking and listening to music. hours lying in fields staring at the sky and pondering, or just trying not to think at all. staying awake for multiple days at a time until i cannot stay awake anymore. sleeping during the day and waking before the sun sets. taking sleeping pills to sleep when i cannot, but should. spontaneous adventures via bus to places i haven't been, or to places i want to revisit. time spent wandering around parts of cities that are foreign to me.

i shun that which is familiar and reliable. i hate that which i am unable to make familiar. and i seek out that which is unfamiliar in all forms, because i never know what i will find there, either tangibly or in my thought processes as response or reaction to the things that i find.

i seek experiences that frighten me, and experiences that push me, and experiences that are challenging in that endurance or mental strength or emotional strength or self-sufficiency are the only ways out. i sketch out adventures for myself, and then i take on the adventures. i do so alone, and i love the alone-ness of it, yet i wish there was a way to share something as beautiful as alone-ness with another person.

the state of being alone and doing things alone is something magical, and it is also one of the only things that can never be shared entirely with another. perhaps i am drawn to others who are similarly alone, because caring for such a type of person is the closest thing to sharing isolationism with someone else.

perhaps i am drawn to those i will never be close to, because in staying far from someone i am sharing with them some kind of loneliness that is too beautiful to be kept entirely to oneself but too comfortable to be abandoned.

perhaps it is at the point where i realize i am not so alone, and that the other person is not so alone, when i lose interest in the person in question (whomever they may be at the time), simply because i can no longer share with them that which is such an intrinsic and inherent part of my life; that which is the foundation of so much of what i do and feel: isolation.

it would be a pity if i could care the most only for those who are also usually alone, just because i need to share my alone-ness in this removed way.

6.13.07

1) attempting to control a situation almost necessarily results in the opposite response from that which is desired.
musings on this observation:
-if luck exists, perhaps it is exclusively existent for those who have faith in its existence.
-wanting a specific outcome shows a desire for power, and thus a lack of faith in/ subservience to the forces of luck

2) the degree to which some people are happy is so much greater than the degree to which some people are unhappy.
-this both argues for luck and against it:
for luck: if there was not such a thing as luck, everyone would essentially have the same fortune
against luck: if there were luck, it would go to those who deserved it/ needed it, and not to those who have already had prosperous times.


i love the following (taken from wikipedia):
"Knock on wood, spoken expression used as a charm to bring good luck. In medieval times, it was believed that there were spirits living in the trees. One would 'knock on wood' for the spirits, to gain protection from bad luck."

5.18.07

i've become a strange nocturnal creature, as a result of having very little structure or schedule in my life these days. it will all change when my quarter-off comes to a close in june, but until then i am free : free to be as i will, and as i wish, for probably the last time in my life, at least to such a degree. that is, when again will i be able to be entirely nocturnal? shouldn't i jump at the opportunity now, for curiosity's sake if nothing else?

it's strange that, when given free reign to sleep and wake as i please, my body shows preference for this kind of cycle. it makes sense for me, because i like peace and quiet, and i like time alone to work on music, and i like getting a lot of undisrupted reading and writing done. i can't focus well around other people, and i get in the creative mindset needed for songwriting most frequently in the dead of night. there's nothing wrong with it, except for the fact that, if i do crave interaction, there are few people i can call; and if i get hungry, my only options are odwalla bars or trail mix or oreos, from the corner store a block away. i'm not complaining, really.

i think of daytime as a time for socializing, enjoying the sun, conversing, experimenting, taking-in, absorbing, and learning. i think of nighttime as a time to process that which has been absorbed, and to channel it into whatever project i undertake for the night: a song, or a bit of writing, or a book, or a thought process. nighttime is also the time during which i write papers and essays for class and during which i do the bulk of my reading. it's not the best way to be, because when i am up all night reading, i am generally tired in class and don't absorb the lecture as much as i might like to.

i think of temporary nocturnalism (which is really just an exaggerated version of my previous habits) as something halfway between blocked-out-meditation-time, a personal experiment, a test of will, a test of my own boundaries, and an observation of nature vs. nurture (with regard to the sleeping habits that are instilled in us, and whether they are actually intrinsic or learned/ taught). granted, human beings in general seem to naturally be diurnal, but what is MY natural sleep tendency? and what factors contribute to it? is it different now than it might have been when i was younger/ than it will be when i am older?

according to wikipedia, "'Night owl' is a term for a person who tends to stay up until late at night. Usually, night owls keep awake past midnight, with extreme night owls staying awake until 5:00 or 6:00 AM." it looks like i'm an extreme night owl. because i can be and naturally am inclined to be so? or because i want to be? perhaps both are essentially the same motivation.

famous night-owls (also according to wikipedia): bill clinton, winston churchill, j.r.r. tolkien, and glenn gould.

here's an article on coping tips for night-owls.

here's an article on lack of sleep as viewed as a disease or disorder.

this article attributes it to genetic mutation.

i read another article - a ridiculous and totally stupid article - on nocturnal individuals, on the internet this evening. it can be found here, if you have any desire to read something totally trivial and quite heavy on the oversimplification/ if you want to turn your brain to slush: the truth about nocturnal people

here's my favorite idiotic exerpt from it:

Things happen that are out of our control and some of them happen at night. Society needs nocturnals to work emergency jobs. Firemen, paramedics, doctors. In the winter, we need someone to remove the snow and ice from our streets.

Society also needs nocturnals for convenience. We've become accustomed to having 24-hour stores and fast food chains. We enjoy having fresh baked goods in the morning. Service men and women perform maintenance on the internet sites we frequent. They often do this in the middle of the night to create as little disruption as possible for the rest of the world.

The next time you meet a nocturnal, remember he is just like everyone else except he lives at night.

alright, so it's okay that i don't sleep at night because nature selected me to be a donut-baker or a burger-flipper or an ice-remover. i'm glad nature considered such things as donuts when it drafted its blueprints.

5.17.07

a few of the kinds of nights that i remember the best (and with fondness):

1) the night that is still, in every way in which a thing can ever be still. the air is still, and somehow time itself feels still. the people are, in vast regional majority, also still. and the pressures of daily tasks rest their heads, as only the urgent wanderings of the mind seem to take the wheel and sail for a while. in this stillness, movement itself is something more than it is during the day. because it seems to jump out from that which is immobile, as if it were life being borne out of nothing, it is so unexpected that it changes the essence of its surroundings although they do not visibly change, move, or show any kind of reaction to its motion. the contrast alone between motion and stillness is enough to make stillness change (and somehow appear more still); change being a kind of motion in and of itself.

2) the nights that are fierce with pounding rain. my mother used to put kettles on the floor in calculated places, in the house we lived in for a time. they would catch the rain, and the rain would make some kind of clatter on the roof and an entirely different kind of clatter - one that was somehow more invasive, albeit less audible - would be made as the water fell from the roof into the kettles. these nights were often coated in the kind of black that nature seems to usually reserve for things like coal and tar, due to felled power lines or similar such setbacks. my father, at his house, which was not the same house as that which was filled with kettles, would light candles all around the house, and i would take a hot shower by candlelight and, in doing so, wonder why i didn't do so more often.

3) the nights that did not end until daylight... first experienced as a child during sleepovers when conversation took priority over sleep; later experienced just in order to see if i could stay awake and fight the arms of tiredness. again, such nights were experienced as a teenager, when i roamed cemeteries at night or flung toilet paper rolls over the limbs of trees or drove with friends to random locations or rested on my back in fields with friends or with boys or with only my discman and a few CDs stuffed into a backpack. these were the kinds of nights experienced just in order to isolate them from the concept of day. these were nights that felt like stolen bits of freedom, shared with others or kept secret. these nights were later tainted by parties or booze or awareness of such things as car accidents or troubled friends. but sometimes the feeling tasted on such nights returns full-force and cannot be ignored in any way.

4) nights of a dark, looming, all-encompassing, supernatural breed of fear. nights that had to be shut out with sleep or hot tea or hugging arms. shadows out of which terrifying shapes could be imagined. nights in which things that were still were made to move by will of the mind or by sheer paranoia. nights that made daylight seem warmer than a womb when it graced the land with its presence and rested on her shores.

5.10.07

Depictions of extra-terrestrial sightings over time:

circa 1710:


woodcut of aerial UFO battle, circa 1561:


1350:


ancient cave-painting:


cave-painting of astronauts fighting:


3000 B.C.:


Nepal:


6000 B.C.:

5.9.07

5.9.07

when i was a kid, i used to go lie at the top of my driveway in Alta Sierra after dinner and stare at the night sky. sometimes i'd stay up there for half an hour; sometimes as long as three hours. i'd meditate on the vastness of things and think about where my life might take me. i'd force myself to stay there longer than was comfortable, so as to challenge my own spiritual will.

at my mother's house, i used to walk around in the snow while listening to music on my cd player, and i'd find the biggest field possible and sit right in the middle of it: as far away from things as i could possibly get. i was young - fifteen or sixteen - and sometimes i would cry, or sometimes i would feel myself filled with the most overwhelming sense of awe and beauty and wholeness, feelings inspired by the silent beauty around me and its stark contrast to the busy nature of my mind.

the amount of soul-searching that i scheduled for myself as a kid, in ways similar to this, is plentiful. i didn't reach many breakthrough conclusions, but i learned to be in awe of things even without understanding them, even when feeling subordinate to them. i learned to be familiar with a state of mind in which i could toss things around and counter them with the apparently-linear timeline of my days, and infuse them with whatever silent wisdom my surroundings had to offer me. there was a calming essence to such moments, and it was the act of escaping to nature, escaping to seclusion, and escaping to music that got me through a lot of tough childhood stuff.

i was talking to my dad the other day about a conversation i'd had with an old friend regarding the topic of childhood, particularly negative aspects of it. my dad said, "weird", and i asked what he meant by that. he said, "i don't know. it seems weird to rehash things like that." i think he's got a point. as essential a part of the self one's past might be, perhaps just as essential is a willingness to let things go. some things will always bear influence on the individual, whether the person realizes it or not, but some things can be tossed to the wind for later sense-making or for total disregard. maybe the point at which disregard of past baggage does not seem like the act of cutting off of a limb or a sad removal of something essential is the point at which it is necessary. i won't disregard memories like my walks in the snow, but i won't think about all of the same things that i used to ponder when i took such walks. growth is about taking on the new and not about dwelling on things that hurt in the past.

5.5.07

"Clenched Soul" by Pablo Neruda


We have lost even this twilight.
No one saw us this evening hand in hand
while the blue night dropped on the world.

I have seen from my window
the fiesta of sunset in the distant mountain tops.

Sometimes a piece of sun
burned like a coin in my hand.

I remembered you with my soul clenched
in that sadness of mine that you know.

Where were you then?
Who else was there?
Saying what?
Why will the whole of love come on me suddenly
when I am sad and feel you are far away?

The book fell that always closed at twilight
and my blue sweater rolled like a hurt dog at my feet.

Always, always you recede through the evenings
toward the twilight erasing statues.

4.29.07

it's undeniable as of now: i cannot predict my emotions any more than i can predict the rain.

jarvis cocker was incredible. probably the best show i've seen in over a year. i'd forgotten what it was like to go to a show where i didn't feel obligated to pretend to be enjoying myself, and where i didn't feel obligated to pretend i wanted to move my head and body around (most of the obligation comes from ticket costs, i would assume). instead, i moved around without willing myself to do so, and i couldn't will myself to stop. furthermore, i was singing along to his songs and screaming and grinning and laughing and clapping so hard that my hands stung. i ran into a bunch of nevada city people there, which was really nice. drank a few and hugged a few and lurked a few and couldn't stop talking about how sexy jarvis cocker was.

after the show, i ran into dana and some other davis people at delirium in the mission. then i hung out with a new friend and got very little sleep and woke up far too early. took the bus to haight, and visited with jamey in the store where she works. it was really nice to see her. took a bus to lower haight and met up with dana and jud, and then took a four-hour nap on dana's bed before getting a ride home to davis with gena.

i still love concerts; i still love big cities. i still love the thrill of getting to know new people. and i still love staying up late and singing along to pop songs in crowded venues and then getting on buses with very little idea as to where i am headed. take that as a profound metaphor if you wish. it would probably be fitting.

4.25.07

the door to my room doesn't lock tonight. literally and subsequently figuratively. because my room is tactually less secure, perhaps i feel less secure? secure is not the word. confined is more like it. i feel less confined into my own space. the dead-bolt just will not budge when i attempt to turn it. do i feel more connected to the world outside? to "nature", as we call it? to the "wilderness" or "the wild" or "the great outdoors"? i don't know. i'd like to feel connected to "the great indoors", i.e. a mindblowing and earth-shattering mansion of epic proportions and dimensions; hence "great". not really at all (in fact i think i'd prefer some understated piece of shit cabin with no running water). but even so. it's strange how a simple thing such as a lock can make me feel so much more secure in my own room. what am i afraid of? a drunk bro wandering into my room so he has a warm place to puke? don't judge me. it's a frightening thought after all.

maybe the great outdoors - or "the wild" - is less wild and unpredictable than the human mind itself. maybe our labeling of nature as such is more a projection of our own chaotic ways of perception than it is an accurate observation.

i like mulling over the importance of not thinking about things in finite and clear-cut terms. things are ephemeral, things are prone to change, and things have a habit of disappearing or changing or shifting or falling out of range or losing their appeal. i think it's only in realizing my reasons for disconnecting from things or people that i have more forgiveness or compassion for those who have been known to, do, or will in the future disconnect from me. loss is a part of life, and i don't know that it's something we should necessarily feel we have to grieve. maybe people tend to do what is best for them. and it's certain that no one knows what is best for them. but we find out by trying to know.

i'd kind of like to check in with my past self and just say, "hey. you're doing fine. i am you. you are me. someday soon, before you know it, what i am is what you'll be." not to reassure myself or give myself something to look forward to (because i don't think it's really fair to say i'm much better off in any way than i have been in the past, since it's all so relative), but more just to connect the dots in my life; to make it feel more linear. maybe it's because the human thought process is so circular and disconnected that i say this, but life feels anything but linear most of the time. there's no direct cause and effect. every event and the reactions to every event occur due to so many factors that it's almost impossible to pin down direct results of things. also, so many of the factors on which events or outcomes are based are intuitive or sensory in nature, and therefore almost impossible to cognize in any kind of clear-cut or certain fashion. this notion is both comforting (in that it makes me relenquish a bit of my need for control over my own life an makes me feel perhaps things make sense in a way that i shouldn't feel i need to understand) and terrifying (in that it makes me lose faith in my own ability to make decisions about things). perhaps the best conclusion is that no decisions should be final, and that there is no right and wrong: at least not that can be seen or understood until long after, if then.

4.24.07

waking up and feeling better about something, or realizing you have made peace with something, is the emotional equivalent of phase change.

4.24.07

one of the most charming things about living itself is getting to watch your own story unfold. similarly charming is watching the stories of others unfold. sometimes i feel like we're all so connected that it's absurd. songs can feel like family. books can feel like your own internal dialogue speaking right back to you. strangers can feel like friends. friends can suddenly feel like strangers. and you can strangely befriend someone whom you never thought you would. it's weird that connections can exist with people even when you don't know them well, or even when you haven't seen them in a while, or even if you've never talked to them before. it's weird, too, that hugging someone who is almost a perfect stranger can be just as nice as hugging someone whom you've known since you were born. it's strange when a hug from your mother suddenly feels foreign, but a hug from someone you've just met feels like home. really, i think there should be a lot more hugging in this world, mostly between strangers.

i saw michael hurley play tonight. he made me grin for a full 2 hours. i gave him a hug before his show, delivered from a friend, and then after his show i gave him another hug and told him it was from me. i don't know why, but i just enjoyed his set so much that i wanted to give him a hug. the more i play music, the more i love it that other people in this world play music. i hope that i still want to write songs when i'm his age.

i had a conversation on the phone with a friend about the possibilities of using a small pony as means of percussion. he suggested a rainbow backdrop and a unicorn horn on its head. i suggested that the pony be attached to the guitarist's waist, so the guitarist can pull the pony at varying speeds to speed up or slow down the pace of the percussive clomps of pony-feet. the same could be done with human feet, if the guitarist mic'd his shoes and walked around the stage purposefully and to the rhythm of his song.

4.22.07

jeff buckley drowned while listening to "whole lotta love" by led zeppelin.