Thursday, September 24, 2009
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Just some goals
1. Make a concentrated effort not to blog while annoyed.
2. Forgive people for lying. They're probably just in the habit.
3. See more sunlight, do things in morning hours, be more productive, more awake.
4. Be a better friend and a better son.
5. Find a thing to fall in love with every day. Repeating things is okay.
6. Continue to work "I don't know" out of my life.
7. Be a student sometimes.
8. Don't worry so much about spreading myself too thin, I can be elastic if I allow it.
9. Read, write,
10. At the same time, appreciate everything around me that is so so good. I walk through blessed days lately. Maybe spend some time inventing words to share with the people I'm lucky to have arrived here, today, with.
2. Forgive people for lying. They're probably just in the habit.
3. See more sunlight, do things in morning hours, be more productive, more awake.
4. Be a better friend and a better son.
5. Find a thing to fall in love with every day. Repeating things is okay.
6. Continue to work "I don't know" out of my life.
7. Be a student sometimes.
8. Don't worry so much about spreading myself too thin, I can be elastic if I allow it.
9. Read, write,
10. At the same time, appreciate everything around me that is so so good. I walk through blessed days lately. Maybe spend some time inventing words to share with the people I'm lucky to have arrived here, today, with.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Pisces
& so summer ends.
It's different herenow, but not unfamiliar. Not uncomfortable. Someone changed the water in my tank and meanwhile I particled around the spare, a season without ornamentation, tasting the other side and returning having seen the filter in pieces to be cleaned. We bought it and built it and let it bubble and bubble until it might as easily have been wind. First, see it. Second, the sea. Let's be true communicators this year. We are of the holy.
It's different herenow, but not unfamiliar. Not uncomfortable. Someone changed the water in my tank and meanwhile I particled around the spare, a season without ornamentation, tasting the other side and returning having seen the filter in pieces to be cleaned. We bought it and built it and let it bubble and bubble until it might as easily have been wind. First, see it. Second, the sea. Let's be true communicators this year. We are of the holy.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Tumbling
Some very brief highlights.
Grizzly Bear
Under the nearest lightning bug we pick at blades and speak like there isn't that human distance, like everything is simultaneous and close and these friends we've made are fingers. We fumble against each other as if by accident, but not.
Beastie Boys
I wonder if we're all thinking it when someone says, my god, this is so fucking awesome.
Phoenix
There's sugar in my shoes, or something. Rather than recall dances where my hands grappled themselves like comfortable strangers, I forget to be alone. I move because we all move and when I sing, we sing. The sound rolls and bounces us about, balloons bunched against a windy Sunday, and I consider between hey!s that this could be belonging.
Wilco
It's one of those guilts like, man I hope everyone is half as into this as I am, but when I can steal my face from the fury and chance it around I can't help but appreciate the reflected treetop pink in surrounding sunglasses, the blissful gathering calm and opening organ chords. And I wonder, if only for a moment, if this is back then. But as the clang and glide of guitars slip afternoon into evening our bodies are taken and those brown eyes dream and dream.
Band of Horses
All sun but a sliver cast by a lemonade umbrella, all sound and the dizzy of space, I am a lizard. There is a terrible local band playing a stage behind us, but if I turn my head this way and jab a cartilage earbud in I can just hear a shimmer through the trees. The seagreen is bed enough, the sky an expanse of time, music like its crackling over a homespun cassette and I am an X on a map, found.
Bonnaroo was an indescribable experience, among the greatest I've been blessed to share with beautiful friends ever. Returning is strangely like departing something more intimate than "real life," remembering like reflecting on a dream. I'll be back next year, come hell or adulthood.
My high streak continues into this, the latter weeks of June. Life has cradled me something tender and wonderful. The charge now is to just stay, just keep my head in this place-- this here now today you and me and us together, ethereal.
But I leave for Cambridge July 5. Mixed feelings. But those are for another post.
Anybody have anything they want me to write about? This felt good.
photos by Mike Locke
Friday, June 05, 2009
No, don't warn me
I'm finding it difficult to look back on a time when I was this happy. Perhaps in the wonder of childhood, when everything was new. There are things to be said about this happiness, the circumstance and perspective, but this is summer. Hardly a time for retrospect.
I'm here, now. And part of the pleasure is refusing the times I wasn't here, now, intrusion into my head. Certainly, I flit from memory to memory like a bird between branches just like you do. But these days I'm noticing the time I'm wasting somewhere, some astral plane if I may, other than the momentous and beautiful present. And I'm really trying to quit it, the bounding from guilt to worry and back, because it doesn't mean anything real to me anymore. We have, perhaps, learned to live in this impossible multi-temporal state of "where will I be next year?" when honestly-- we'll be right here, in the forever-present, as we were. And this journey our minds make is a distraction from everything that is lovely and going on currently. "Currently." Like the river we move with.
All this time talk, so to foil myself: Bonnaroo in less than a week and I am excited.
I'm here, now. And part of the pleasure is refusing the times I wasn't here, now, intrusion into my head. Certainly, I flit from memory to memory like a bird between branches just like you do. But these days I'm noticing the time I'm wasting somewhere, some astral plane if I may, other than the momentous and beautiful present. And I'm really trying to quit it, the bounding from guilt to worry and back, because it doesn't mean anything real to me anymore. We have, perhaps, learned to live in this impossible multi-temporal state of "where will I be next year?" when honestly-- we'll be right here, in the forever-present, as we were. And this journey our minds make is a distraction from everything that is lovely and going on currently. "Currently." Like the river we move with.
All this time talk, so to foil myself: Bonnaroo in less than a week and I am excited.
Wednesday, June 03, 2009
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Your Fictional Space 1
Nightly
You wake to rain like a rhinocrash over a glass pane savannah, all river and dust, and the trees outside whistle and howl like great hairy creatures-- dancing in the discomoon night. Maybe this is the apocalypse, you, squinting so your eyes now full of crust whir like camera lenses, hope as you pull your knees far as they'll draw to your chest and twirl your feet to gather loosened covers. Loverless arms, fetal, Tyrannosaurus, cramp from an awkward hour or more's unsleep so you stretch them away, realizing only now how your fingers have tangled the sheets beneath your chin, dreamkneading like with dough or a knot worked out of the shoulder of an invisible someone. You clutch at a pillow that's fallen and pull it in to be surrogate. This is the sleeping hour and you are a stranger here, pulled from a life next to someone. If you try, you can run your fingers through that someone's hair and breathe in to try and name the shampoo it last used or the ocean into which it last plunged, laughing. You invent a color for it, and a texture. American Black Walnut, and the silkslip of a memory passing.
In the quiet desk lamplight, all ten fourth-grade fingers work the ragged spiral notebook edge from the letter, careful so only the perferated paper tears. And in deliberate print you skip lines so your reader can make no mistakes. You steal an envelope from your father's office, journeying the midnight halls in sockshuffles-- the ancient creaking panels unaroused by your weight. You need to stand on a chair to reach and stretch your naked arms up, balanced half by your toes on a quivering armrest and half by your hands in the stationary box. When you fold the letter you run first one than three fingers to crease it, pausing a wink's time to feel if it will shiver. And when its tucked in a textbook and backpacked for the following morning, its reader's name looped across the front, you wonder if you'll be the man tomorrow who'll leave it to be found. Or if you'll find it some time later, crumpled and ashamed, go momentarily blank and whisper
"Impossible."
You surprise yourself by speaking. The rhinos and creatures rage on but there are ghosts in the room. Squeezing your lover close, you hum against the panerattle and wind, braving your hands along an imaginary skin and feeling it rise and fall with life. You invent a name for the neck you lie your face against, wondering it crass to risk your mouth an invader of the thousand little neckhairs but imagining them twitching at your kiss, the shudder and sigh of reception.
Under a blanket not for warmth so much as sanctuary you drag the pad side of your toes along the ankles you're entwined with. The ocean breathes in and the seagull sky calls in stereo, birds catching thermal rushes up and squawking with delight before swooping low to pick dinner from the sand. All a rush of feather and beak, naturally survivalist-- and your hands are not slaves any longer. They draw runes on sandysmooth hipbones with imagination of their own, no art beyond the memory that yes, you were here and ah, how could I ever forget it? The ocean breathes out and someone stirs, turning toward you and drawing the blanket round both your shoulders with the gentle firmness of a wheel-work potter and you form to the touch. Grace, it speaks and the voice is at once the oceanflow nearing, is easy. Water laps over your toes and the whole beach slides microscopically inward, sinking-- as it does-- to the middle. And you wonder, chancing a glance to the north where the rhinoceros wait, if anything is ever a dream.
You wake to rain like a rhinocrash over a glass pane savannah, all river and dust, and the trees outside whistle and howl like great hairy creatures-- dancing in the discomoon night. Maybe this is the apocalypse, you, squinting so your eyes now full of crust whir like camera lenses, hope as you pull your knees far as they'll draw to your chest and twirl your feet to gather loosened covers. Loverless arms, fetal, Tyrannosaurus, cramp from an awkward hour or more's unsleep so you stretch them away, realizing only now how your fingers have tangled the sheets beneath your chin, dreamkneading like with dough or a knot worked out of the shoulder of an invisible someone. You clutch at a pillow that's fallen and pull it in to be surrogate. This is the sleeping hour and you are a stranger here, pulled from a life next to someone. If you try, you can run your fingers through that someone's hair and breathe in to try and name the shampoo it last used or the ocean into which it last plunged, laughing. You invent a color for it, and a texture. American Black Walnut, and the silkslip of a memory passing.
In the quiet desk lamplight, all ten fourth-grade fingers work the ragged spiral notebook edge from the letter, careful so only the perferated paper tears. And in deliberate print you skip lines so your reader can make no mistakes. You steal an envelope from your father's office, journeying the midnight halls in sockshuffles-- the ancient creaking panels unaroused by your weight. You need to stand on a chair to reach and stretch your naked arms up, balanced half by your toes on a quivering armrest and half by your hands in the stationary box. When you fold the letter you run first one than three fingers to crease it, pausing a wink's time to feel if it will shiver. And when its tucked in a textbook and backpacked for the following morning, its reader's name looped across the front, you wonder if you'll be the man tomorrow who'll leave it to be found. Or if you'll find it some time later, crumpled and ashamed, go momentarily blank and whisper
"Impossible."
You surprise yourself by speaking. The rhinos and creatures rage on but there are ghosts in the room. Squeezing your lover close, you hum against the panerattle and wind, braving your hands along an imaginary skin and feeling it rise and fall with life. You invent a name for the neck you lie your face against, wondering it crass to risk your mouth an invader of the thousand little neckhairs but imagining them twitching at your kiss, the shudder and sigh of reception.
Under a blanket not for warmth so much as sanctuary you drag the pad side of your toes along the ankles you're entwined with. The ocean breathes in and the seagull sky calls in stereo, birds catching thermal rushes up and squawking with delight before swooping low to pick dinner from the sand. All a rush of feather and beak, naturally survivalist-- and your hands are not slaves any longer. They draw runes on sandysmooth hipbones with imagination of their own, no art beyond the memory that yes, you were here and ah, how could I ever forget it? The ocean breathes out and someone stirs, turning toward you and drawing the blanket round both your shoulders with the gentle firmness of a wheel-work potter and you form to the touch. Grace, it speaks and the voice is at once the oceanflow nearing, is easy. Water laps over your toes and the whole beach slides microscopically inward, sinking-- as it does-- to the middle. And you wonder, chancing a glance to the north where the rhinoceros wait, if anything is ever a dream.
Saturday, May 09, 2009
Green world
Mark brings up a great point. If semester had ended a week ago, like I really really wanted it to, things would be awfully different. It's with a certain bitterness that I pack my odds and ends into boxes. A haphazard impatience like I'd be consciously anywhere but here because of what it means.
There's a lot to consider as the mornings become bearable and blue, as we pass on into summer and everything is soft and warm and strangely foreign.
There's a lot to consider as the mornings become bearable and blue, as we pass on into summer and everything is soft and warm and strangely foreign.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Monday, April 27, 2009
Wheels
I try to avoid narcissistic writing. I feel like I've been down that road before, perhaps a few too many times. The charged posts, the reflective and emotional ones, are always the most embarrassing to look back on. Like whatever I was feeling at the time seems so ludicrous now, insignificant. But that's the nature of context, and if we don't write it who's to say we'll remember? And I think it entirely possible that the ability to relate to the various incarnations of oneself is as important as the gift of relating to other people.
It's a part of a writer's condition, I think, feeling drawn to immortalizing a gesture or moment to compile something of a self-portrait. People say writing is therapeutic and I don't disagree. We're all fishes glittering about without a clue who we are or what's going on or how we can establish a benchmark of normality to mark ourselves against-- so we write to enact this journey of self-identification. But it seems to me like the whole thing is largely masturbatory. Look at Bloom and Zeno, two of our favorite journeyers. Look even at Odysseus. Nobody really ends up anywhere. It's tragedy. Then, however, I think that maybe it's the craft-- the process-- of writing that defines the journey as much if not more so than its actual history. There's something to be said about the fiction in nonfiction, also. How we say and what we choose not to. And how it relates and interacts so violently with the cerebral practice of putting words to paper.
But anyway, I try to avoid narcissism. I try to avoid the livejournal voice. But without it all I've got are ideas, and what's the value in those? There's a void in my blog writing where I think voice belongs, but we're talking about quite a monster here. What voice does in writing, to me, is give a personality and chronology (humanity) to the text. Good fiction establishes persona with a compelling voice (through word choice, sentence construction, syntax, form, etc. etc. etc..) but personal essay, and let's be real-- that's what this is-- when it has a voice that is honest and endearing it requires a substantial sacrafice on the part of the essaysit. For a voice to be tangible and relatable and real there's some required vulnerability, some terrifying risk.
So if I am to write about my life, like I've done before, from a place of truth... well
it's going to take some work.
Also: everyone should read xkcd. Check it and feel some good vibes to start this week with.
It's a part of a writer's condition, I think, feeling drawn to immortalizing a gesture or moment to compile something of a self-portrait. People say writing is therapeutic and I don't disagree. We're all fishes glittering about without a clue who we are or what's going on or how we can establish a benchmark of normality to mark ourselves against-- so we write to enact this journey of self-identification. But it seems to me like the whole thing is largely masturbatory. Look at Bloom and Zeno, two of our favorite journeyers. Look even at Odysseus. Nobody really ends up anywhere. It's tragedy. Then, however, I think that maybe it's the craft-- the process-- of writing that defines the journey as much if not more so than its actual history. There's something to be said about the fiction in nonfiction, also. How we say and what we choose not to. And how it relates and interacts so violently with the cerebral practice of putting words to paper.
But anyway, I try to avoid narcissism. I try to avoid the livejournal voice. But without it all I've got are ideas, and what's the value in those? There's a void in my blog writing where I think voice belongs, but we're talking about quite a monster here. What voice does in writing, to me, is give a personality and chronology (humanity) to the text. Good fiction establishes persona with a compelling voice (through word choice, sentence construction, syntax, form, etc. etc. etc..) but personal essay, and let's be real-- that's what this is-- when it has a voice that is honest and endearing it requires a substantial sacrafice on the part of the essaysit. For a voice to be tangible and relatable and real there's some required vulnerability, some terrifying risk.
So if I am to write about my life, like I've done before, from a place of truth... well
it's going to take some work.
Also: everyone should read xkcd. Check it and feel some good vibes to start this week with.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Heaven is a truck
You ever have an impossible feeling?
Like, this bit of pressure-- a surge or a pulse in the brain or the heart against the skull or ribcage when something that so desperately wants resolution can't possibly find it? A tic in every happy thought, a clause that despite your best intentions the thing you're after is just outside the realm of possibility?
Someone talk to me about reality.
About the fact that you'll never see me the way I see me. And maybe that's the best thing. That there are infinite incarnations of a personality that ebb and flux with the subjectivity of perception. Or about how when I say, "hey"-- you hear, "I'm judging," and what I really mean is "I love you. I would like nothing better than to love you." Because there isn't a truth we're working towards. Not in this lifetime. No collective can reach a universal truth, an objective conclusion about a personality or a sentiment or a sound or a feeling. We all move in different orbits, see things in slightly different shades. And the magical thing about that, about the 21st century human condition, is that none of us can possibly be wrong.
But then there are moments. Occasions of incredible consequence and potential in which whatever is going on up there suspends momentarily and allows a fleeting clarity. I don't what people call this-- but I think it friendship. And that there are people in this world I can share this with, I mean, it really qualifies everything, you know? It's the rarity that brings about the doubt and dark.
I wrote some poems today.
Had a conversation with a non-English speaking Italian poet about how we have simultaneous timelines, each of us. At any given moment, besides the "reality" I'm living in, I'm playing through thousands upon thousands of parallel, equally plausible, existences. There's a temporal thing that happens when we think like this, when we leave earth for split seconds to explore the universe like it can't be seen here, now. I enjoy the escape, the search,
the knowledge that I will come to no conclusion. I am, we are, Joycian. The lifetime of no 21st century intellect or poet or scholar will result in any conclusion beyond that we aren't quite there yet. There's a lot of ground for humanity to cover before the period of self-realization, before we as Arhants walk together. But of you, reader, I'll see you when we get there. The universe has a funny way of carrying the one.
Someone, please, let's talk about reality.
Like, this bit of pressure-- a surge or a pulse in the brain or the heart against the skull or ribcage when something that so desperately wants resolution can't possibly find it? A tic in every happy thought, a clause that despite your best intentions the thing you're after is just outside the realm of possibility?
Someone talk to me about reality.
About the fact that you'll never see me the way I see me. And maybe that's the best thing. That there are infinite incarnations of a personality that ebb and flux with the subjectivity of perception. Or about how when I say, "hey"-- you hear, "I'm judging," and what I really mean is "I love you. I would like nothing better than to love you." Because there isn't a truth we're working towards. Not in this lifetime. No collective can reach a universal truth, an objective conclusion about a personality or a sentiment or a sound or a feeling. We all move in different orbits, see things in slightly different shades. And the magical thing about that, about the 21st century human condition, is that none of us can possibly be wrong.
But then there are moments. Occasions of incredible consequence and potential in which whatever is going on up there suspends momentarily and allows a fleeting clarity. I don't what people call this-- but I think it friendship. And that there are people in this world I can share this with, I mean, it really qualifies everything, you know? It's the rarity that brings about the doubt and dark.
I wrote some poems today.
Had a conversation with a non-English speaking Italian poet about how we have simultaneous timelines, each of us. At any given moment, besides the "reality" I'm living in, I'm playing through thousands upon thousands of parallel, equally plausible, existences. There's a temporal thing that happens when we think like this, when we leave earth for split seconds to explore the universe like it can't be seen here, now. I enjoy the escape, the search,
the knowledge that I will come to no conclusion. I am, we are, Joycian. The lifetime of no 21st century intellect or poet or scholar will result in any conclusion beyond that we aren't quite there yet. There's a lot of ground for humanity to cover before the period of self-realization, before we as Arhants walk together. But of you, reader, I'll see you when we get there. The universe has a funny way of carrying the one.
Someone, please, let's talk about reality.
Friday, April 17, 2009
"Maybe it's just the nature of people having a little faith"
It's another good day in a relatively good week. The window's open and I'm listening to this, smiling and warm. That link there is over a year old, but totally refreshing and wonderful to revisit.
It's the first midafternoon post from me in quite a while, and there isn't a whole lot to say other than that I like the shape things are taking. Everything the psuedopsychologists have to say about Spring and what it does has been pretty spot for me, far as I can tell. And it is quite possible that I couldn't ask for anything better right now. Sun and trees, pretty girls and happy faces.
Short post, this. More to establish a pace for getting this thing written on more frequenly than anything. You'll be hearing from me.
It's the first midafternoon post from me in quite a while, and there isn't a whole lot to say other than that I like the shape things are taking. Everything the psuedopsychologists have to say about Spring and what it does has been pretty spot for me, far as I can tell. And it is quite possible that I couldn't ask for anything better right now. Sun and trees, pretty girls and happy faces.
Short post, this. More to establish a pace for getting this thing written on more frequenly than anything. You'll be hearing from me.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Noise
I think it fine to say I've been hibernating.
Happy Easter, first of all. It was just before Christmas that we last spoke, dear internet, and the months between have had their share of ups and downs. The winter was dark and cold, and so perhaps was I. It was the best and worst of times.
I've been doing a lot of reading and a lot of thinking. Don't you wish you could sometimes just get a transcript of what's going on in your brain, the opposing voices with their commentary and song? It's possible that this is madness, but I believe it equally possible that this is simply the postmodern human condition: this obsession with place, placelessness and rejection of place as a reality at all. Because I'm living this life, right?, and I feel like there is somewhere a moment for me to arrive where I say, "Ah, here I am, isn't it beautiful." We think in context of this moment which may or may not exist (in the trajectory of time or whatever) but consider its subjectivity and instability of location. I mean, what kind of reference point is the present? Show me a guy who can say, "I just have to hold out 'til this moment and everything will make all kinds of sense." Seriously, show me. Maybe aging is just figuring out, "shit, I guess I'm where I'm gonna be. Might as well take a look around."
But I don't know about this postmodern brain'a mine. Of ours. We've got the immediate thoughts. The it is a beautiful day today thoughts. On top of that we have the internal monologue, the my it's a beautiful day today, just like on my seventh birthday when we had a dinosaur theme and a scavenger hunt that everyone won thoughts. This is all well and good. We should be able to think in different time streams, travel momentarily to other points in our chronology and return having retrieved information without being loosed from the concept of present.
Then there's this other track playing, and I don't know if generations before ours really had it. We've got this metanarrative thing that pans in and out sometimes. I don't really know how to write about it, but it's that chime that reminds you that you're leaving earth for a second, whether zoning out or remembering something or whatever, an acknowledgement of disconnect and a question of what it means that you're where you are mentally at this particular moment. Right NOW. It's a small feeling, this.
Society exists for very specific reasons I think. It gives us something to cling to, compare ourselves with. Normality is a relative point of reference that provides context to our selves, allowing an easy construction of self. It keeps us self-satisfied and, perhaps more importantly, busy considering the aethetics of everything. Qualifying in terms of amount or duration or size or achievement or title. This isn't bitterness, I think the purpose is of quite some substance.
But, really, fuck all that.
Maybe we're all particles bouncing off each other and very subtley altering by scientific variable the course of whatever, the universe or something, I don't know. Maybe we live and die and nobody gives a fuck. Maybe our collective mind is driving the species and there's something very terrible about what that says of us, and something amazing about what we can do. Maybe it's all bullshit. Maybe life renews or maybe it doesn't and it's all meaningless. Regardless, I think we're missing the damn point.
What I'm talking about is that when I touch you, and you're beautiful, and in that moment we're something, I feel this incredible electric calm.
And maybe that's the fucking point.
Perhaps heavy on the psuedo-philosophy, this feels good. This moment we're having now. Start a blog. I want to read it. This is an exciting time and somebody has to write it. Might as well be us, yes?
All my love,
Mike
Happy Easter, first of all. It was just before Christmas that we last spoke, dear internet, and the months between have had their share of ups and downs. The winter was dark and cold, and so perhaps was I. It was the best and worst of times.
I've been doing a lot of reading and a lot of thinking. Don't you wish you could sometimes just get a transcript of what's going on in your brain, the opposing voices with their commentary and song? It's possible that this is madness, but I believe it equally possible that this is simply the postmodern human condition: this obsession with place, placelessness and rejection of place as a reality at all. Because I'm living this life, right?, and I feel like there is somewhere a moment for me to arrive where I say, "Ah, here I am, isn't it beautiful." We think in context of this moment which may or may not exist (in the trajectory of time or whatever) but consider its subjectivity and instability of location. I mean, what kind of reference point is the present? Show me a guy who can say, "I just have to hold out 'til this moment and everything will make all kinds of sense." Seriously, show me. Maybe aging is just figuring out, "shit, I guess I'm where I'm gonna be. Might as well take a look around."
But I don't know about this postmodern brain'a mine. Of ours. We've got the immediate thoughts. The it is a beautiful day today thoughts. On top of that we have the internal monologue, the my it's a beautiful day today, just like on my seventh birthday when we had a dinosaur theme and a scavenger hunt that everyone won thoughts. This is all well and good. We should be able to think in different time streams, travel momentarily to other points in our chronology and return having retrieved information without being loosed from the concept of present.
Then there's this other track playing, and I don't know if generations before ours really had it. We've got this metanarrative thing that pans in and out sometimes. I don't really know how to write about it, but it's that chime that reminds you that you're leaving earth for a second, whether zoning out or remembering something or whatever, an acknowledgement of disconnect and a question of what it means that you're where you are mentally at this particular moment. Right NOW. It's a small feeling, this.
Society exists for very specific reasons I think. It gives us something to cling to, compare ourselves with. Normality is a relative point of reference that provides context to our selves, allowing an easy construction of self. It keeps us self-satisfied and, perhaps more importantly, busy considering the aethetics of everything. Qualifying in terms of amount or duration or size or achievement or title. This isn't bitterness, I think the purpose is of quite some substance.
But, really, fuck all that.
Maybe we're all particles bouncing off each other and very subtley altering by scientific variable the course of whatever, the universe or something, I don't know. Maybe we live and die and nobody gives a fuck. Maybe our collective mind is driving the species and there's something very terrible about what that says of us, and something amazing about what we can do. Maybe it's all bullshit. Maybe life renews or maybe it doesn't and it's all meaningless. Regardless, I think we're missing the damn point.
What I'm talking about is that when I touch you, and you're beautiful, and in that moment we're something, I feel this incredible electric calm.
And maybe that's the fucking point.
Perhaps heavy on the psuedo-philosophy, this feels good. This moment we're having now. Start a blog. I want to read it. This is an exciting time and somebody has to write it. Might as well be us, yes?
All my love,
Mike
Monday, December 22, 2008
Strange overtones
For a while, I seemed to have rid myself of this. Late night meandering, a product of an inability to sleep. Its return, though, is at once peculiar and familiar-- like a loved one returning not quite changed but not quite as remembered. Such is the nature of my muse it seems, rising from the day's brainclutter and making just enough racket to make clearing my mind, and so sleeping, impossible. What changed? The college life maybe takes emphasis from introspection. So that when I could be thinking I'm instead too exhausted. Or else the internet provides too many distractions, piling page after page requiring inspection on top of one another-- the maintenance of that "second" life more pressing than writing about the primary one. But that doesn't make any sense. There are plenty of people with internet lives more extensive than mine that blog daily. This is a caper.
I now am forced to accept that I'm more than halfway done with my undergraduate education. Another semester is behind me and I'm that many months closer to being an adult and stuff. Am I better prepared? Is education actually happening? Are the decisions I'm making more mature and well-informed? [How] Am I different now. Let's talk about these things.
This was a strong semester for me academically. My basis for this statement is my belief that I hung more A's on the refrigerator than I have ever earned the right to previously. Also, I find myself remembering when my tests and quizzes are and even occasionally doing homework. I did not do these things in high school and even in the past two years do I remember sitting down to "clear your desks for the test" and thinking "fuck." So there's that. Because of the aforementioned's relationship to memory I will talk about that. I noticed this semester that I have a fairly poor one, save for regarding certain things (typically, that in which I have any interest). This means one of two things. One: my memory is going away. If this is true, bad looks. I should figure out what's making that happen and cut it out (aging included). Two: my memory was always terrible and I am only now self-aware enough to realize it. This would be good because only upon awareness of a problem can one remedy it, I feel. Exactly how I'd go about this remains a mystery.
I had a number of notable accomplishments this semester. Most memorable, perhaps, was learning to solve the Rubik's Cube. This probably seems silly and unimpressive to most, and it's hard to explain precisely why it is neither of those things. The thing about Rubik's Cube is that for the couple minutes or so you're solving it, you're transported to this deep and relaxing concentration-- meditation, I think, on a totally 70's feel-good level because "fuck yeah I can solve this thing! Just gimme a few... done!" And poof. Instant accomplishment. Ramen for your ego.
Music: David Byrne and Brian Eno
Mood: Giggly
Likeliness of Corrolation: High
I wrote a short story for Creative Writing about two guys getting lost in the desert. It's pretty alright and I hope to carry it over into next semester's Creative Writing Capstone as part of a series of short stories that compile a novel's story. Meaning, the stories will be largely independent in tone, voice, and point of view-- but will revolve around the development and maturation of a single group of people. This could come out really good or really bad. There's promise though, and that's enough for me. These are things that keep me from sleep. I'm struck by ideas for characters or ways to intertwine their stories, but in no shape to sit down and write the damn thing. So I think about it for an hour or two while simultaneously trying to find sleep and probably end up forgetting most of it. OR! Or I file it all somewhere deep in my brain to pull up the next time I'm tossing and turning-- forming a sort of unconscious revisionary system. Is it possible that my mind is that wild? It would be damn sweet.
[Too] Similar to this is my approach to music. This past semester also brough with it the composition and early stages of recording my first solo EP. Yeah yeah, everybody makes an EP-- shut up. I am, regardless, really [immaturely] excited about it. I have these songs and ideas for how to make them logical and substantial in the arc of a release. My biggest fear is that the entire endevour is a masturbatory attempt to prove to myself [everyone] that I have musical ability. If this is the case I'll end up with 30 minutes of dribble to put away in a drawer and avoid discussing with everyone I will have overeagerly given a copy. So your guess is as good as mine I suppose.
Writing this, realize I actually did some legitimate stuff with my time the past couple of months. This is a good feeling and I should try to make it habit.
So what of the future, friends? I think I should set some goals for next semester so that I can again experience reflection and wondering if they constitute accomplishment. Let's do this. In no particular order:
1. Finish EP. Like it. Hold listening/dance party. Play gigs. Conquer world.
2. Turn short story into novel thing. Be proud of it. Send it to places. Be the envy of all the children on the playground too unathletic to perform default recess activities.
3. Learn to skateboard.
4. Read mad books. (Tolstoy, London, Joyce[?])
5. Accidently find a new and unexpected hobby. (Devil sticks?)
That is a good list. Oh, shit.
6. Blog more.
Okay.
Man, I can't believe it's almost Christmas. When my parents used to say the season 'snuck up on them' I always thought "what the hell is wrong with you? It's CHRISTMAS. I've been counting down the days since motherfucking July." But now I guess I get it. I love the season though. Synthetic cheer and irritable consumerism. That isn't sarcasm. I am legitimately attracted, like so many people, to the Christmas aethetic. I love the lights and displays. The ridiculous theatre of it all. Call me crazy.
The other thing I love is that it's just about Oscar season, which means it's time for me to drag anyone willing to Red Bank and Manhattan to see artsy indie movies. Last night Eric and I went to see "Milk" and it was magnificent. I've had a man crush on Sean Penn ever since "Into the Wild" and his performance as Harvey Milk only confirmed my belief that he is top-tier. Before break is over I hope to have seen "Slumdog Millionaire," "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button," "Frost/Nixon," and "The Wrestler" so that when nominations come around I can arrogantly consider myself a faultless authority. Oh and I'll probably watch "The Dark Knight" a dozen or so times. I am not exaggerating.
As I feel this blog now qualifies as "long" I will stop writing. This felt good to do, and hopefully getting my thoughts down here will make sleep come easier. So good night, all.
Bomb the blogosphere,
Mike
I now am forced to accept that I'm more than halfway done with my undergraduate education. Another semester is behind me and I'm that many months closer to being an adult and stuff. Am I better prepared? Is education actually happening? Are the decisions I'm making more mature and well-informed? [How] Am I different now. Let's talk about these things.
This was a strong semester for me academically. My basis for this statement is my belief that I hung more A's on the refrigerator than I have ever earned the right to previously. Also, I find myself remembering when my tests and quizzes are and even occasionally doing homework. I did not do these things in high school and even in the past two years do I remember sitting down to "clear your desks for the test" and thinking "fuck." So there's that. Because of the aforementioned's relationship to memory I will talk about that. I noticed this semester that I have a fairly poor one, save for regarding certain things (typically, that in which I have any interest). This means one of two things. One: my memory is going away. If this is true, bad looks. I should figure out what's making that happen and cut it out (aging included). Two: my memory was always terrible and I am only now self-aware enough to realize it. This would be good because only upon awareness of a problem can one remedy it, I feel. Exactly how I'd go about this remains a mystery.
I had a number of notable accomplishments this semester. Most memorable, perhaps, was learning to solve the Rubik's Cube. This probably seems silly and unimpressive to most, and it's hard to explain precisely why it is neither of those things. The thing about Rubik's Cube is that for the couple minutes or so you're solving it, you're transported to this deep and relaxing concentration-- meditation, I think, on a totally 70's feel-good level because "fuck yeah I can solve this thing! Just gimme a few... done!" And poof. Instant accomplishment. Ramen for your ego.
Music: David Byrne and Brian Eno
Mood: Giggly
Likeliness of Corrolation: High
I wrote a short story for Creative Writing about two guys getting lost in the desert. It's pretty alright and I hope to carry it over into next semester's Creative Writing Capstone as part of a series of short stories that compile a novel's story. Meaning, the stories will be largely independent in tone, voice, and point of view-- but will revolve around the development and maturation of a single group of people. This could come out really good or really bad. There's promise though, and that's enough for me. These are things that keep me from sleep. I'm struck by ideas for characters or ways to intertwine their stories, but in no shape to sit down and write the damn thing. So I think about it for an hour or two while simultaneously trying to find sleep and probably end up forgetting most of it. OR! Or I file it all somewhere deep in my brain to pull up the next time I'm tossing and turning-- forming a sort of unconscious revisionary system. Is it possible that my mind is that wild? It would be damn sweet.
[Too] Similar to this is my approach to music. This past semester also brough with it the composition and early stages of recording my first solo EP. Yeah yeah, everybody makes an EP-- shut up. I am, regardless, really [immaturely] excited about it. I have these songs and ideas for how to make them logical and substantial in the arc of a release. My biggest fear is that the entire endevour is a masturbatory attempt to prove to myself [everyone] that I have musical ability. If this is the case I'll end up with 30 minutes of dribble to put away in a drawer and avoid discussing with everyone I will have overeagerly given a copy. So your guess is as good as mine I suppose.
Writing this, realize I actually did some legitimate stuff with my time the past couple of months. This is a good feeling and I should try to make it habit.
So what of the future, friends? I think I should set some goals for next semester so that I can again experience reflection and wondering if they constitute accomplishment. Let's do this. In no particular order:
1. Finish EP. Like it. Hold listening/dance party. Play gigs. Conquer world.
2. Turn short story into novel thing. Be proud of it. Send it to places. Be the envy of all the children on the playground too unathletic to perform default recess activities.
3. Learn to skateboard.
4. Read mad books. (Tolstoy, London, Joyce[?])
5. Accidently find a new and unexpected hobby. (Devil sticks?)
That is a good list. Oh, shit.
6. Blog more.
Okay.
Man, I can't believe it's almost Christmas. When my parents used to say the season 'snuck up on them' I always thought "what the hell is wrong with you? It's CHRISTMAS. I've been counting down the days since motherfucking July." But now I guess I get it. I love the season though. Synthetic cheer and irritable consumerism. That isn't sarcasm. I am legitimately attracted, like so many people, to the Christmas aethetic. I love the lights and displays. The ridiculous theatre of it all. Call me crazy.
The other thing I love is that it's just about Oscar season, which means it's time for me to drag anyone willing to Red Bank and Manhattan to see artsy indie movies. Last night Eric and I went to see "Milk" and it was magnificent. I've had a man crush on Sean Penn ever since "Into the Wild" and his performance as Harvey Milk only confirmed my belief that he is top-tier. Before break is over I hope to have seen "Slumdog Millionaire," "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button," "Frost/Nixon," and "The Wrestler" so that when nominations come around I can arrogantly consider myself a faultless authority. Oh and I'll probably watch "The Dark Knight" a dozen or so times. I am not exaggerating.
As I feel this blog now qualifies as "long" I will stop writing. This felt good to do, and hopefully getting my thoughts down here will make sleep come easier. So good night, all.
Bomb the blogosphere,
Mike
Thursday, December 11, 2008
For the enemy
In absence of recent blogs, here is a paper I just wrote on King Lear. Lol.
Edmund’s tragedy lies not within his decent to villainy. An Elizabethan audience would take no issue with a bastard opportunist as an antagonist, plagued by self-interest and a desire to be recognized similarly to his “legitimate” brother, acquiring land and power in an effort to bring upheaval to the social dictates that denied him Edgar’s life. However, sympathy awarded Edmund for his impossible situation, supposed desire for familial affection or last-minute stab at redemption in repenting his having doomed Cordelia is in my opinion misguided. My voice, however, is that of a 21st century “Post-Holden Caufield” reader. No longer does theatre, film, and literature revolve around the victory of social sustainability in which, though everyone is dead, Edgar is there to take up the crown and restore order to Britain. We are instead raised on Rocky, Rudy, and Eric Liddell of Chariots of Fire— men who acted against expectations to overcome various physical, social and moral tribulations, emerging victorious, and if not, all the better for having tried. For this reason, I find Edmund’s tragedy to be in his vehement dedication to his expected nature: the slighted bastard jealously seeking to get “one up” on his father and brother.
It is true that Edmund’s obsession can be attributed to Gloucester’s constant reference to his son’s illegitimacy, and that Edmund’s choice to act against his family is largely due to the expectation that, being a bastard, it is inherently engrained in his character. However, Edmund is at his weakest when he cries, “Thou, Nature, art my goddess; to thy law/ My services are bound” (1.2.1-2) at the beginning of the play because he is destroying any possibility of independence or uncharacteristic achievement.
Edmund makes repeated reference to his nativity and nature— basing many of his calculated plays on what he perceives others to expect of him. “My father compounded with my mother under the Dragon’s Tail, and my nativity was under Ursa Major, so it follows that I am rough and lecherous… My cue is villainous melancholy,” (1.2.139-148) he says, succumbing to a predetermined course instead of choosing a path. When composing the forged letter from Edgar Edmund concludes with the line, “If our father would sleep till I waked him, you should enjoy half his revenue for ever, and live the beloved of your brother, EDGAR” (1.2.55-57). The gesture of closing the false note as such suggests not only Edmund’s subscription to his predetermined nature, but his belief that Gloucester expects it of him. The letter is believable because it appeals to Gloucester’s perception of Edmund, but presents a shocking Edgar. Gloucester is fully prepared to believe in an Edmund greedy enough to be tempted by the revenue in question and jealous enough to desire the affections of his brother— even if it means betraying his father. That Edgar proposes this rebellion is shocking, but his appeal to Edmund for help is not. Edmund is perceptive enough to know this, and his choice to embrace it and use it as a vehicle is disappointing.
This practice of Edmund’s repeats itself at the beginning of the play’s second act in report of an invented dialogue with his brother. “’Thou unpossessing bastard,’” quotes Edmund of Edgar, “’dost thou think,/ If I would stand against thee, would the reposal/ Of any trust, virtue, or worth in thee/ Make thy words faithed? No.’” Again, Edmund is taking his “cue of villainous melancholy” and applying it to Gloucester’s expectation of his behavior. The phony dialogue is effectively phrased, as Gloucester knows it to be true— except, ironically, that in reality it isn’t. Typically he wouldn’t dream of believing his bastard son over his legitimate one, and it is Edmund’s knowledge of and play on this that allows Edmund to manipulate his father into doing so.
Throughout the play Edmund is motivated only to be a villainous bastard, to act as an illegitimate son would and become what he believes he is destined to become. He pursues Edgar’s land and power not because they motivate him, but because the desire to commit and be evil does. Likewise, he pursues the affections of Regan and Goneril, not because he is motivated by desire for their love but because they are instrumental in his self-inflicted purpose of being a monstrosity. Finally, when Edgar strikes him down and accuses him of costing Gloucester his eyes, Edmund cries, “Th’ hast spoken right, ‘tis true;/ The wheel is come full circle; I am here” (5.3.175-176). Fortune’s wheel, which has deposited Edmund back at the bottom he was born into, doubles as a representation of his journey— he hasn’t actually gone anywhere, but rather chased his tail instead of choosing to find any legitimate goal.
Even in death, Edmund returns to this theme: “I pant for life: some good I mean to do,/ despite of mine own nature” (5.3.264). Closing the first sentence during which he considers rebelling against his nature with the word itself suggests Edmund’s dishonesty, confirmed by his delay in saving Cordelia. And so he dies, having never desired anything deviating from that which he was born into and raised believing. To me, this is the greatest tragedy of Edmund— not his supposed loneliness or relentlessly criminal actions. Edmund, necessarily for the play, chooses to accept himself as a villain with no purpose but to advance himself as such and therefore denies himself a world of possibility.
For The Enemy
Edmund’s tragedy lies not within his decent to villainy. An Elizabethan audience would take no issue with a bastard opportunist as an antagonist, plagued by self-interest and a desire to be recognized similarly to his “legitimate” brother, acquiring land and power in an effort to bring upheaval to the social dictates that denied him Edgar’s life. However, sympathy awarded Edmund for his impossible situation, supposed desire for familial affection or last-minute stab at redemption in repenting his having doomed Cordelia is in my opinion misguided. My voice, however, is that of a 21st century “Post-Holden Caufield” reader. No longer does theatre, film, and literature revolve around the victory of social sustainability in which, though everyone is dead, Edgar is there to take up the crown and restore order to Britain. We are instead raised on Rocky, Rudy, and Eric Liddell of Chariots of Fire— men who acted against expectations to overcome various physical, social and moral tribulations, emerging victorious, and if not, all the better for having tried. For this reason, I find Edmund’s tragedy to be in his vehement dedication to his expected nature: the slighted bastard jealously seeking to get “one up” on his father and brother.
It is true that Edmund’s obsession can be attributed to Gloucester’s constant reference to his son’s illegitimacy, and that Edmund’s choice to act against his family is largely due to the expectation that, being a bastard, it is inherently engrained in his character. However, Edmund is at his weakest when he cries, “Thou, Nature, art my goddess; to thy law/ My services are bound” (1.2.1-2) at the beginning of the play because he is destroying any possibility of independence or uncharacteristic achievement.
Edmund makes repeated reference to his nativity and nature— basing many of his calculated plays on what he perceives others to expect of him. “My father compounded with my mother under the Dragon’s Tail, and my nativity was under Ursa Major, so it follows that I am rough and lecherous… My cue is villainous melancholy,” (1.2.139-148) he says, succumbing to a predetermined course instead of choosing a path. When composing the forged letter from Edgar Edmund concludes with the line, “If our father would sleep till I waked him, you should enjoy half his revenue for ever, and live the beloved of your brother, EDGAR” (1.2.55-57). The gesture of closing the false note as such suggests not only Edmund’s subscription to his predetermined nature, but his belief that Gloucester expects it of him. The letter is believable because it appeals to Gloucester’s perception of Edmund, but presents a shocking Edgar. Gloucester is fully prepared to believe in an Edmund greedy enough to be tempted by the revenue in question and jealous enough to desire the affections of his brother— even if it means betraying his father. That Edgar proposes this rebellion is shocking, but his appeal to Edmund for help is not. Edmund is perceptive enough to know this, and his choice to embrace it and use it as a vehicle is disappointing.
This practice of Edmund’s repeats itself at the beginning of the play’s second act in report of an invented dialogue with his brother. “’Thou unpossessing bastard,’” quotes Edmund of Edgar, “’dost thou think,/ If I would stand against thee, would the reposal/ Of any trust, virtue, or worth in thee/ Make thy words faithed? No.’” Again, Edmund is taking his “cue of villainous melancholy” and applying it to Gloucester’s expectation of his behavior. The phony dialogue is effectively phrased, as Gloucester knows it to be true— except, ironically, that in reality it isn’t. Typically he wouldn’t dream of believing his bastard son over his legitimate one, and it is Edmund’s knowledge of and play on this that allows Edmund to manipulate his father into doing so.
Throughout the play Edmund is motivated only to be a villainous bastard, to act as an illegitimate son would and become what he believes he is destined to become. He pursues Edgar’s land and power not because they motivate him, but because the desire to commit and be evil does. Likewise, he pursues the affections of Regan and Goneril, not because he is motivated by desire for their love but because they are instrumental in his self-inflicted purpose of being a monstrosity. Finally, when Edgar strikes him down and accuses him of costing Gloucester his eyes, Edmund cries, “Th’ hast spoken right, ‘tis true;/ The wheel is come full circle; I am here” (5.3.175-176). Fortune’s wheel, which has deposited Edmund back at the bottom he was born into, doubles as a representation of his journey— he hasn’t actually gone anywhere, but rather chased his tail instead of choosing to find any legitimate goal.
Even in death, Edmund returns to this theme: “I pant for life: some good I mean to do,/ despite of mine own nature” (5.3.264). Closing the first sentence during which he considers rebelling against his nature with the word itself suggests Edmund’s dishonesty, confirmed by his delay in saving Cordelia. And so he dies, having never desired anything deviating from that which he was born into and raised believing. To me, this is the greatest tragedy of Edmund— not his supposed loneliness or relentlessly criminal actions. Edmund, necessarily for the play, chooses to accept himself as a villain with no purpose but to advance himself as such and therefore denies himself a world of possibility.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Hard sun
I realize, with terrible guilt, that I've only written 8 blog entries in all of 2008. This is irresponsible of me but I will make it up to you, dear readers.
I was just listening to my headphones, typing that intro when I noticed that I had a missed call from "Home." Wondering what was up (because my family will be seeing me on Monday as I'm going home to vote) I made my way downstairs and called back. So... my dad is flying south tomorrow morning to Florida to be with my grandfather. My grandma died today-- no sickness, no suffering, no hospital. Just reclined in a chair, maybe resting her eyes after finishing a book. And that's the way to go, I think.
It's weird to think of my dad flying down and not going with him. I feel called, or obligated-- like this is reunion of the Frederick Michael Stringers and I'm staying up north. I worry about the last impression I made. I hope my grandpa gets to see me at least another time. There isn't much family left.
And what do I do now? I guess I just keep on as usual. Write what I was going to write before the phone call.
Rest peacefully, Grandma Stringer.
I love you,
Mike
So I shaved my head yesterday. Please enjoy these pictures of the process:
Before (while dressed in 'guido' party swagger and clearly stolen from facebook):
The Process (thanks Mark, for shaving the back of my head and Sean for lending me your beard trimmer for use on my dome):
After!
A lot of people ask me why I decided to buzz all of my hair off. The reason is this. I wanted to do something different. Something wild, unexplained and unpredictable. I wanted to be in the moment, foolish and brave. Its the 'now' we forget too often, I forget too often. And all this 'now time' spent worrying about past and future is wasted. I don't want to do that anymore. I want to dive into projects and be excited about things. Do things that make people think I'm crazy-- just to fucking do them. To be there. Then. Now. So that's what I'm going to do.
My List:
Shave head
Spend weekend in woods, writing
Record EP
Finish "Caribou"
Write novel
Drive to California
See the American west
I'm sure I'll be adding to this list, but this is a nice foundation. It'll happen. It's got to.
Bomb the blogosphere,
Mike
I was just listening to my headphones, typing that intro when I noticed that I had a missed call from "Home." Wondering what was up (because my family will be seeing me on Monday as I'm going home to vote) I made my way downstairs and called back. So... my dad is flying south tomorrow morning to Florida to be with my grandfather. My grandma died today-- no sickness, no suffering, no hospital. Just reclined in a chair, maybe resting her eyes after finishing a book. And that's the way to go, I think.
It's weird to think of my dad flying down and not going with him. I feel called, or obligated-- like this is reunion of the Frederick Michael Stringers and I'm staying up north. I worry about the last impression I made. I hope my grandpa gets to see me at least another time. There isn't much family left.
And what do I do now? I guess I just keep on as usual. Write what I was going to write before the phone call.
Rest peacefully, Grandma Stringer.
I love you,
Mike
So I shaved my head yesterday. Please enjoy these pictures of the process:
Before (while dressed in 'guido' party swagger and clearly stolen from facebook):
The Process (thanks Mark, for shaving the back of my head and Sean for lending me your beard trimmer for use on my dome):
After!
A lot of people ask me why I decided to buzz all of my hair off. The reason is this. I wanted to do something different. Something wild, unexplained and unpredictable. I wanted to be in the moment, foolish and brave. Its the 'now' we forget too often, I forget too often. And all this 'now time' spent worrying about past and future is wasted. I don't want to do that anymore. I want to dive into projects and be excited about things. Do things that make people think I'm crazy-- just to fucking do them. To be there. Then. Now. So that's what I'm going to do.
My List:
Spend weekend in woods, writing
Record EP
Finish "Caribou"
Write novel
Drive to California
See the American west
I'm sure I'll be adding to this list, but this is a nice foundation. It'll happen. It's got to.
Bomb the blogosphere,
Mike
Monday, October 13, 2008
Hello
There are things, I think, that I'm ready to say.
On November 4th we are all going to take some small, or even large, slice of our time to cast a determination of which trajectory to set the world upon. I say "we all" out of the "how could we not" sentiment. How could we not take up whatever arms have been left to us and assume the responsibility of a people to participate? This is not a plea to fence sitters. This is not out of hope to nudge you, reader, blueside. I'm not, I pray, so disappointing.
Rather, this is out of resignation. Ours are shitty times. With so little advancement as a society in areas other than science and technology, we've come to that point where church and state are no longer enough to sustain us. We thirst. Even the internet, which gave voice to the consumer without corporate filter, is at risk of becoming yet another medium to be read and watched through a lens.
Cash rules everything around us.
We are renaissance men. Even with our computers and ipods and match.coms and airplanes. We are family men and, maybe the greatest tragedy, we are born outlined. We graduate high school, we graduate college, we get jobs or go to graduate school so as to deserve better jobs, we invest, we marry, we have children, we watch our children leave us, we retire, we move, we read and look out windows, we die. Where commas divide we laugh and cry and make terrible mistakes. We feel at once completed and absent. And we fall in love a hundred thousand times in hope of finding something that lasts. And we do.
But ours, I think, aren't times for renaissance men. We are so spoonfed instant happiness that we forget the majesty of joy. Or the adventure of its discovery. The people of the 21st century are a people who would crucify a Christ who could turn water into oil-- out of fear, perhaps, of what it could possibly mean. We put bullets in our heads because we don't have the dollar bills it costs to continue living.
Are we, then, a people of value?
I think there are only a handful-- maybe fifty, maybe 100-- years of thought and art left. Fewer of oil and government, at least as we know it now. Only a generation of years until our children take Amtrak cable cars to Wal-Mart University, learning NBC or CNN's brand of business or economics or mathematics or literature to become-- whatever.
But maybe not. Because we ARE renaissance men. And if I am to believe anything, I believe that as the wood yellows its roads diverge.
On November 4th we will go out and play our part. We will pass go. We will lose two hundred dollars to taxes or layoffs or natural disaster, but we will beat irregularly onward. Barack Obama promises change-- and my optomistic side hopes that it isn't just to stir whatever swims within us that appeals to the word-- but rather in recognition of the cusp on which we teeter. The end is not nigh. But something is.
The economy is temporary, administration is temporary, culture is temporary. Because humans, as adaptable as we are, lack the constitution for permanence. I believe, though, that in brevity is greatness made. In these snapshot lifespans we live is still there beauty. Even should it all collapse is there the company of brothers and the rapture of companionship.
So I go, and likely too shall you, to graduate college. To work and find passion in work, to mate and marry and know the ancient joy of raising children. To read while books still circulate and enjoy, maybe, the freedom to see the fringes of the country and love the fellows I meet. To write and teach the possibility of grace within the self. I am not victim but rather citizen. And it will be good. As it is.
I don't know how, and neither am I ready, to say goodbye.
So hello. Welcome.
Love always,
Mike
On November 4th we are all going to take some small, or even large, slice of our time to cast a determination of which trajectory to set the world upon. I say "we all" out of the "how could we not" sentiment. How could we not take up whatever arms have been left to us and assume the responsibility of a people to participate? This is not a plea to fence sitters. This is not out of hope to nudge you, reader, blueside. I'm not, I pray, so disappointing.
Rather, this is out of resignation. Ours are shitty times. With so little advancement as a society in areas other than science and technology, we've come to that point where church and state are no longer enough to sustain us. We thirst. Even the internet, which gave voice to the consumer without corporate filter, is at risk of becoming yet another medium to be read and watched through a lens.
Cash rules everything around us.
We are renaissance men. Even with our computers and ipods and match.coms and airplanes. We are family men and, maybe the greatest tragedy, we are born outlined. We graduate high school, we graduate college, we get jobs or go to graduate school so as to deserve better jobs, we invest, we marry, we have children, we watch our children leave us, we retire, we move, we read and look out windows, we die. Where commas divide we laugh and cry and make terrible mistakes. We feel at once completed and absent. And we fall in love a hundred thousand times in hope of finding something that lasts. And we do.
But ours, I think, aren't times for renaissance men. We are so spoonfed instant happiness that we forget the majesty of joy. Or the adventure of its discovery. The people of the 21st century are a people who would crucify a Christ who could turn water into oil-- out of fear, perhaps, of what it could possibly mean. We put bullets in our heads because we don't have the dollar bills it costs to continue living.
Are we, then, a people of value?
I think there are only a handful-- maybe fifty, maybe 100-- years of thought and art left. Fewer of oil and government, at least as we know it now. Only a generation of years until our children take Amtrak cable cars to Wal-Mart University, learning NBC or CNN's brand of business or economics or mathematics or literature to become-- whatever.
But maybe not. Because we ARE renaissance men. And if I am to believe anything, I believe that as the wood yellows its roads diverge.
On November 4th we will go out and play our part. We will pass go. We will lose two hundred dollars to taxes or layoffs or natural disaster, but we will beat irregularly onward. Barack Obama promises change-- and my optomistic side hopes that it isn't just to stir whatever swims within us that appeals to the word-- but rather in recognition of the cusp on which we teeter. The end is not nigh. But something is.
The economy is temporary, administration is temporary, culture is temporary. Because humans, as adaptable as we are, lack the constitution for permanence. I believe, though, that in brevity is greatness made. In these snapshot lifespans we live is still there beauty. Even should it all collapse is there the company of brothers and the rapture of companionship.
So I go, and likely too shall you, to graduate college. To work and find passion in work, to mate and marry and know the ancient joy of raising children. To read while books still circulate and enjoy, maybe, the freedom to see the fringes of the country and love the fellows I meet. To write and teach the possibility of grace within the self. I am not victim but rather citizen. And it will be good. As it is.
I don't know how, and neither am I ready, to say goodbye.
So hello. Welcome.
Love always,
Mike
Monday, August 25, 2008
You enjoy myself
So I bought the PS3.
There were a couple of factors that helped me arrive at this decision. They are as follows:
1. Price. A "decent" Playstation 3 is significantly less expensive than a "decent" Les Paul. This may be because I don't really know anything about what makes a game system a good one, and way too much about guitars.
2. I needed a DVD player anyway. Now, spending $500+ on a DVD player that also "plays some games or something" is very poor rationalization. But it also plays Blu-Ray! And be able to play Blu-Ray it shall-- even though I don't have a 1080p HDTV.
3. "Hey, wanna come to my room and play Madden/Call of Duty/Soul Calibur/Guitar Hero?" is definitely the new "Hey, wanna come over and watch a movie while I sit awkwardly close and try to unhook your bra without arousing suspicion?"
4. Metal Gear Solid 4. I hear it's pretty alight.
5. I'm a Fender guy at heart. Betraying Leo (Fender) by giving Les (Paul [Gibson]) some of my hard earned monies instead would eat me up inside. Though I suppose giving it instead of Sony isn't doing anything for anybody. Especially America.
6. Chris Scaffa. He isn't allowed to bring his PS3 up to school and I worry that separation from one for a prolonged period will emotionally and psychologically damage him. Aw, who am I kidding? This isn't a reason at all. Just a completely legitimate concern.
And there you have it. A collection of lazy, terrible excuses for buying the most expensive game system with the smallest library on the market. But I mean, Hey. Seriously. Metal Gear Solid 4. It's pretty alright, man.
So summer is coming to an end. I feel an obligation to sit back and reflect on everything that's happened in the past four months and present something universally identifying and insightful about it-- but I gotta be honest here, I'm coming up empty. What did I do this summer... I left for work every weekday morning at like 8:45 and got home too late to do anything other than establish some stage of undress before collapsing into bed. There I did my best to ninja around the Six Flags Great Adventure, avoiding the ever-watchful eye of higher-ups and create the illusion of working diligently. In reality I played a lot of Tekken and took a lot of naps.
No, that isn't completely fair. The aforementioned pretty accurately sums up my last week of work, but the time that proceeded my trip to Puerto Rico I actually wracked my brain pretty hard to come up with ways to motivate and inspire the employees under my leadership. Whether or not I was successful, the red-nametag life at Six Flags isn't one a person can sustain for too long, I think. Eventually the hopelessness of generating happiness and efficiency gets to everybody and they end up playing Tekken and avoiding the responsibility they so eagerly embraced only a few weeks previously. Now, don't get me wrong. I made more friends this summer than I have in any other I can remember-- my co-leads and supervisors made the job tolerable and time spent together outside work amazingly enjoyable. With the Regent Diner and various houses as stomping grounds, I've got some seriously bitchin' memories to look back on when I become miserly about potentially returning next summer.
...blah blah Six Flags blah blah...
Let's pause for a moment and talk about McCain and Obama's respective Vice Presidential candidate selections.
No, you're right. Let's not.
So what else did I do this summer? I dieted and worked out a lot. Now I could easily write an entry (or perhaps even two) detailing the specifics of my journey discovering the nuances of diets and dumbells and crunches and yogurt and supplements and motivation and lack of motivation and discouragement and body image and confidence and mistake and eventual results-- but I feel kind of awkward doing that. I realize this blog is about me and my life, but the subject just seems too narcissistic. Even for me. There is a story to tell though, so if you're legitimately interested drop me a line. We'll chat over an assortment of skinless grilled chicken, whey powder, fish oil, leafy greens and whole wheat whatever. And yogurt.
Speaking of yogurt, I got my wisdom teeth out. The procedure was just fine thanks to my new buddy Nitrous Oxide, but recovery was a bitch-- sure Vicodin calmed the pain, but it also made me want to just sit around and mope. So that wasn't cool. I'm still not allowed to eat certain things and I need to make sure I clean my gums thoroughly, lest food get trapped in there and grow alien-spider legs-- effectively "body snatching" me.
But anyway, more recently I started writing a new short story. This one's going to be longer than mine tend to be. I typically would now say "maybe I'll post some of it sometime" but never do, so I'll abstain and keep your expectations low. If you're itching for some spoilers, I've got these to offer you: Unlike most of my stories, which feature urban settings-- this one takes place in Wyoming. It's in first person. Like I tend to do, it abuses the present tense. It has a staggered timeline and doesn't necessarily move chronologically. There isn't any drug use and uhhh... only slight pervasive language.
Writing it is a trip, but one I'm enjoying.
Well, I'm beginning to lose focus so I guess I'll start wrapping this up. I'm excited to go back to school and see everybody-- hell, I'm even a little bit excited about my classes. I want the acoustic shows and special events and parties and creative opportunities that come along with a semester at Ramapo. So I guess I never did come up with anything insightful to say. It's all good, we got time for that.
I guess that about says it.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
There were a couple of factors that helped me arrive at this decision. They are as follows:
1. Price. A "decent" Playstation 3 is significantly less expensive than a "decent" Les Paul. This may be because I don't really know anything about what makes a game system a good one, and way too much about guitars.
2. I needed a DVD player anyway. Now, spending $500+ on a DVD player that also "plays some games or something" is very poor rationalization. But it also plays Blu-Ray! And be able to play Blu-Ray it shall-- even though I don't have a 1080p HDTV.
3. "Hey, wanna come to my room and play Madden/Call of Duty/Soul Calibur/Guitar Hero?" is definitely the new "Hey, wanna come over and watch a movie while I sit awkwardly close and try to unhook your bra without arousing suspicion?"
4. Metal Gear Solid 4. I hear it's pretty alight.
5. I'm a Fender guy at heart. Betraying Leo (Fender) by giving Les (Paul [Gibson]) some of my hard earned monies instead would eat me up inside. Though I suppose giving it instead of Sony isn't doing anything for anybody. Especially America.
6. Chris Scaffa. He isn't allowed to bring his PS3 up to school and I worry that separation from one for a prolonged period will emotionally and psychologically damage him. Aw, who am I kidding? This isn't a reason at all. Just a completely legitimate concern.
And there you have it. A collection of lazy, terrible excuses for buying the most expensive game system with the smallest library on the market. But I mean, Hey. Seriously. Metal Gear Solid 4. It's pretty alright, man.
So summer is coming to an end. I feel an obligation to sit back and reflect on everything that's happened in the past four months and present something universally identifying and insightful about it-- but I gotta be honest here, I'm coming up empty. What did I do this summer... I left for work every weekday morning at like 8:45 and got home too late to do anything other than establish some stage of undress before collapsing into bed. There I did my best to ninja around the Six Flags Great Adventure, avoiding the ever-watchful eye of higher-ups and create the illusion of working diligently. In reality I played a lot of Tekken and took a lot of naps.
No, that isn't completely fair. The aforementioned pretty accurately sums up my last week of work, but the time that proceeded my trip to Puerto Rico I actually wracked my brain pretty hard to come up with ways to motivate and inspire the employees under my leadership. Whether or not I was successful, the red-nametag life at Six Flags isn't one a person can sustain for too long, I think. Eventually the hopelessness of generating happiness and efficiency gets to everybody and they end up playing Tekken and avoiding the responsibility they so eagerly embraced only a few weeks previously. Now, don't get me wrong. I made more friends this summer than I have in any other I can remember-- my co-leads and supervisors made the job tolerable and time spent together outside work amazingly enjoyable. With the Regent Diner and various houses as stomping grounds, I've got some seriously bitchin' memories to look back on when I become miserly about potentially returning next summer.
...blah blah Six Flags blah blah...
Let's pause for a moment and talk about McCain and Obama's respective Vice Presidential candidate selections.
No, you're right. Let's not.
So what else did I do this summer? I dieted and worked out a lot. Now I could easily write an entry (or perhaps even two) detailing the specifics of my journey discovering the nuances of diets and dumbells and crunches and yogurt and supplements and motivation and lack of motivation and discouragement and body image and confidence and mistake and eventual results-- but I feel kind of awkward doing that. I realize this blog is about me and my life, but the subject just seems too narcissistic. Even for me. There is a story to tell though, so if you're legitimately interested drop me a line. We'll chat over an assortment of skinless grilled chicken, whey powder, fish oil, leafy greens and whole wheat whatever. And yogurt.
Speaking of yogurt, I got my wisdom teeth out. The procedure was just fine thanks to my new buddy Nitrous Oxide, but recovery was a bitch-- sure Vicodin calmed the pain, but it also made me want to just sit around and mope. So that wasn't cool. I'm still not allowed to eat certain things and I need to make sure I clean my gums thoroughly, lest food get trapped in there and grow alien-spider legs-- effectively "body snatching" me.
But anyway, more recently I started writing a new short story. This one's going to be longer than mine tend to be. I typically would now say "maybe I'll post some of it sometime" but never do, so I'll abstain and keep your expectations low. If you're itching for some spoilers, I've got these to offer you: Unlike most of my stories, which feature urban settings-- this one takes place in Wyoming. It's in first person. Like I tend to do, it abuses the present tense. It has a staggered timeline and doesn't necessarily move chronologically. There isn't any drug use and uhhh... only slight pervasive language.
Writing it is a trip, but one I'm enjoying.
Well, I'm beginning to lose focus so I guess I'll start wrapping this up. I'm excited to go back to school and see everybody-- hell, I'm even a little bit excited about my classes. I want the acoustic shows and special events and parties and creative opportunities that come along with a semester at Ramapo. So I guess I never did come up with anything insightful to say. It's all good, we got time for that.
I guess that about says it.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
Sunday, August 03, 2008
Outta town, blowin' up
Yeah, things done changed.
August, with a bullet. It's been a long time since I've written anything on the internet or elsewhere-- I guess because I've been working so much and pausing so little, a gesture saved for hesitance, because it isn't even that I haven't anything to say. So without further ado, let's recap my summer and cast a wary eye forward, remembering always the peripheral.
August, like the stick on the pink of my neck, I find myself a little rearranged. For better or for worse-- pragmatism alludes me sometimes. I am on the closing action of a crush, one that I let fold and dissipate into the past tense like too many others, inaction again my worst enemy. Meanwhile, I dawdle unnecessarily between the introduction and rising action of my newfound interest in fitness. And now I digress...
I find it interesting and strange and sometimes frightening how people grow and change at different speeds, bloom at different times and such. I'm gradually coming to the conclusion that I bloom late-- I tend to get into things, experience things, long after others have. Like my phases were put on standby by my youth and are only now rushing to catch up and prepare me for adulthood. If that's true, and I'll be damed if I know whether it is or not, maybe it's because we were always moving every 18 months or so between my second and seventh birthday. Maybe some reset button was hit every time I had to pack up and make new friends, get used to a new school, and shit like that. I'm young for my grade to begin with-- I think it's possible that my fast cars, fast women and fitness phase(s?) was(were?) put on hold, so I was still chillin' in a bean bag chair while everybody else was buying tubs of powdered whey and busting their asses for varsity letters. Of course, this could just be nonsense.
...but I digress. My listening habits of the summer have deviated strongly from the moody indie rock staples I've come to love lately, but I'm enjoying the more panoptic view of music. If I had a last.fm it would reveal that I've been listening to more 90's hip hop than anything else-- Wu-Tang Clan and all their solo efforts, Biggie, A Tribe Called Quest, Dre, and Outkast's criminally under appreciated Southernplayalisticadillacmuzik. Mix that in with The Raconteurs, Mother Hips, Gorillaz and Protest the Hero (a sick Canadian metal band) and you've got my summer soundtrack. As I type I'm listening to Tool-- happy to try to shed the pretense I've carried the past few years and enjoy music for what it is.
I leave for Puerto Rico Wednesday at like 3am to teach leadership and ceremonial performance. Hooray?
August, with the cinnamon tingle of September between ghost jacaranda breezes. I'm ready to go back to school. That is, I'm ready to live with three other guys and get into trouble and not have to worry about sneaking up the stairs so as not to arouse suspicion. That is, I'm ready to have some relatively carefree fun again. Finally. Some fresh air. I don't know what's to come this semester but I know I'm gonna hit it hard-- put as much of myself as I can into whatever it is I do and live it up. Live and breathe the dream. Rock me baby.
And now a question for the masses. At the end of this summer do I buy a Gibson Les Paul or a Playstation 3? Comment your vote.
Bomb the Blogosphere
and Happy August,
Mike
August, with a bullet. It's been a long time since I've written anything on the internet or elsewhere-- I guess because I've been working so much and pausing so little, a gesture saved for hesitance, because it isn't even that I haven't anything to say. So without further ado, let's recap my summer and cast a wary eye forward, remembering always the peripheral.
August, like the stick on the pink of my neck, I find myself a little rearranged. For better or for worse-- pragmatism alludes me sometimes. I am on the closing action of a crush, one that I let fold and dissipate into the past tense like too many others, inaction again my worst enemy. Meanwhile, I dawdle unnecessarily between the introduction and rising action of my newfound interest in fitness. And now I digress...
I find it interesting and strange and sometimes frightening how people grow and change at different speeds, bloom at different times and such. I'm gradually coming to the conclusion that I bloom late-- I tend to get into things, experience things, long after others have. Like my phases were put on standby by my youth and are only now rushing to catch up and prepare me for adulthood. If that's true, and I'll be damed if I know whether it is or not, maybe it's because we were always moving every 18 months or so between my second and seventh birthday. Maybe some reset button was hit every time I had to pack up and make new friends, get used to a new school, and shit like that. I'm young for my grade to begin with-- I think it's possible that my fast cars, fast women and fitness phase(s?) was(were?) put on hold, so I was still chillin' in a bean bag chair while everybody else was buying tubs of powdered whey and busting their asses for varsity letters. Of course, this could just be nonsense.
...but I digress. My listening habits of the summer have deviated strongly from the moody indie rock staples I've come to love lately, but I'm enjoying the more panoptic view of music. If I had a last.fm it would reveal that I've been listening to more 90's hip hop than anything else-- Wu-Tang Clan and all their solo efforts, Biggie, A Tribe Called Quest, Dre, and Outkast's criminally under appreciated Southernplayalisticadillacmuzik. Mix that in with The Raconteurs, Mother Hips, Gorillaz and Protest the Hero (a sick Canadian metal band) and you've got my summer soundtrack. As I type I'm listening to Tool-- happy to try to shed the pretense I've carried the past few years and enjoy music for what it is.
I leave for Puerto Rico Wednesday at like 3am to teach leadership and ceremonial performance. Hooray?
August, with the cinnamon tingle of September between ghost jacaranda breezes. I'm ready to go back to school. That is, I'm ready to live with three other guys and get into trouble and not have to worry about sneaking up the stairs so as not to arouse suspicion. That is, I'm ready to have some relatively carefree fun again. Finally. Some fresh air. I don't know what's to come this semester but I know I'm gonna hit it hard-- put as much of myself as I can into whatever it is I do and live it up. Live and breathe the dream. Rock me baby.
And now a question for the masses. At the end of this summer do I buy a Gibson Les Paul or a Playstation 3? Comment your vote.
Bomb the Blogosphere
and Happy August,
Mike
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Bare your summer teeth
If we're being honest here, and I like to think we are, there should be no reservation in keystroke. And so and so and so too much like I speak I lose it and begin again so if we're being honest here, and I hope to God we can be, there is always enough to say-- there is no reservation in fingerprick beyond the first so calculated-- and so beautifully like spring I haven't let my car windows up in days, even when it's raining, and I hope to God we can hold on because honestly, honestly, I think I believe it's okay to lose it and let it find itself because there is always, always, something to say. And that is enough for me.
If I could make a midyear resolution considering everything around and inside me thats shifted, it would be to trust more. As much in myself as anything. I found myself trying to explain to someone today how I feel uncomfortable in groups I'm unacquainted with and it occurred to me that I wasn't exactly telling the truth. I'm uncomfortable in groups I'm un-perfectly-acquainted with. What is it that makes me still shaky about people the umpteenth time I'm hanging out with them? That isn't natural. I think I have this fear of being unwelcome and unaware of it, a social burden or someone [I begrudgingly allude] Dane Cook would title "Brian." Ridiculous, yes. If only because a definitive characteristic of "Brian" is his unwelcome feeling of belonging and therefore inability to have written this paragraph. Oddly, reading this over and realizing the impossibility, by definition, of my being "that guy" is comforting. To a point. There is, as with all things, some comfortable medium alluding me here. So I make it my midyear resolution to accident upon it. Wish me luck there.
I started work a little over two weeks ago which, for those of you keeping score at home, comes to pretty much right after Spring semester ended. The absence of any breather between finals and 50+ hour work weeks is proving a little rough not so much on me physically or even mentally, but on my concept of summer and it's chronology. Like, I'm working 5 to 6 days a week and trying to grasp when my friends are around and when they're working or going on vacation or away to study abroad. And juggling work with all the stress and drama therein has been no cakewalk.
Speaking of work, to better myself as a Lead of Looney Tunes and the Justice League, I just attempted to get myself up to date on 70 years of the DC comics universe. It's impossible. I understand it no better than if I had just tried to put Calculus together via internet math team forums. Apparently there are multiple universes, but when DC gets confused they publish a series where some villain destroys these universes and everything is reverted to zero-- allowing DC to rewrite its own universe's history and fix all the paradoxes that dozens of publications per month creates. It's like a cold reboot when your computer hangs up. Kind of a cop-out, and very difficult to understand. Especially because apparently the superheroes are currently (yeah, May 08) going through another "crisis." So why am I bothering to read up on this when its all going to be rewritten again soon? I'm at a loss here.
Ignore all of the previous paragraph.
Well, its good to be writing again. I'm still working on that screenplay, maybe I'll post a page or two of it in here when I'm happy with it. We will have to see.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
If I could make a midyear resolution considering everything around and inside me thats shifted, it would be to trust more. As much in myself as anything. I found myself trying to explain to someone today how I feel uncomfortable in groups I'm unacquainted with and it occurred to me that I wasn't exactly telling the truth. I'm uncomfortable in groups I'm un-perfectly-acquainted with. What is it that makes me still shaky about people the umpteenth time I'm hanging out with them? That isn't natural. I think I have this fear of being unwelcome and unaware of it, a social burden or someone [I begrudgingly allude] Dane Cook would title "Brian." Ridiculous, yes. If only because a definitive characteristic of "Brian" is his unwelcome feeling of belonging and therefore inability to have written this paragraph. Oddly, reading this over and realizing the impossibility, by definition, of my being "that guy" is comforting. To a point. There is, as with all things, some comfortable medium alluding me here. So I make it my midyear resolution to accident upon it. Wish me luck there.
I started work a little over two weeks ago which, for those of you keeping score at home, comes to pretty much right after Spring semester ended. The absence of any breather between finals and 50+ hour work weeks is proving a little rough not so much on me physically or even mentally, but on my concept of summer and it's chronology. Like, I'm working 5 to 6 days a week and trying to grasp when my friends are around and when they're working or going on vacation or away to study abroad. And juggling work with all the stress and drama therein has been no cakewalk.
Speaking of work, to better myself as a Lead of Looney Tunes and the Justice League, I just attempted to get myself up to date on 70 years of the DC comics universe. It's impossible. I understand it no better than if I had just tried to put Calculus together via internet math team forums. Apparently there are multiple universes, but when DC gets confused they publish a series where some villain destroys these universes and everything is reverted to zero-- allowing DC to rewrite its own universe's history and fix all the paradoxes that dozens of publications per month creates. It's like a cold reboot when your computer hangs up. Kind of a cop-out, and very difficult to understand. Especially because apparently the superheroes are currently (yeah, May 08) going through another "crisis." So why am I bothering to read up on this when its all going to be rewritten again soon? I'm at a loss here.
Ignore all of the previous paragraph.
Well, its good to be writing again. I'm still working on that screenplay, maybe I'll post a page or two of it in here when I'm happy with it. We will have to see.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
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