‘How Will The Poets Sing of Suicide? (Eulogy)’

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Image

Gilman chose chloroform over cancer

She picked the etherized rag over all

Tumbling into darkness like a dancer

 

An old ranch hand missing youths mystery

Hemingway took Chekov’s gun from the wall

And blasted himself into history

 

Rothko answered the Primitivists call

Slashing up his wrists in a rush of red

Fagan could fly, but in Rome chose to fall

 

Woolf stuffed the pockets of her overcoat

Worn atop her favorite dressing gown

With stones and drowned, fearing she’d missed the boat

 

Plath put out breakfast in old London town

Then sealed herself off with the gas left on

Sexton chose her car with the garage door down

 

Gros sank in the Seine like a yearling fawn

In like a lion, fished out like a sheep

How does one mistake Baron’s ease for brawn?

 

Poor Jeanne, despondent enough for two

Dove three stories into Stygian sleep

Days from the date her second child was due

 

While watching industry and commerce creep

Christopher Wood chose rustic scenes to paint

By train he gave his passage to the deep

 

Tchaikovsky toasted with cholera-taint

Amidst a Petersburg epidemic

The spectre of the failed sixth, his name saint

 

A man may break his bones with stone or stick

But van Gogh revolved around the quick sigh

Of stars burning to singe the vigils wick

 

Like Mayakovsky he died by the gun

The modern end to the everlasting

When the sun reveals what the moon has done

The bane of the clipper ships half-masting

As the daylight plays out how the war was won

Quicker than the pole rigged up for casting

Removed of worm so nimbly there is naught

Left with mind enough or tongue to be taught

‘Balloons (Sonnet)’

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Image
the old coats of paint have started to peel
Cracking in sorry clefts near the wainscot
it’s a wonder what weather can reveal
secrets we hid and sorrows we forgot

most of these chores will bother me for weeks
Braving the swaying stairs to the attic
can wait until i’ve wrapped around these leaks
anything at all to soothe this static

with five senses to feel four seasons change
Each day you remain my single desire
still content to see the breeze kiss the range
sunsets go starless as our souls catch fire

with your name stuck in the back of my throat
filled like a balloon with your breath i float

‘Sestina (Silence)’

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Here, while l lie still beside your body

Immersed in blankets to harbor this heat-

Rising, falling like beach wash in silence-
In the lane the breeze rustles the dead leaves
But the tip of your tongue makes bold of night
Flickering gently like candles whisper

Your voice delights my ear when you whisper
Arising, moonlight welcomes your body
Waltzing towards the window you greet the night
And in this moment I long for your heat
But what would happen if one of us leaves?
(The other would contemplate the silence)

It is hard to fall asleep in silence
It is more comforting when we whisper
Discussing the season, the scattered leaves
The secret pleasures of your lithe body
Its fragrant nudity, its wondrous heat
The light it emanates into the night

Often I think about some lonely night
When I lay here without you in silence
Bringing blankets from the basement for heat
Speaking your name in naught but a whisper
Wishing myself nearer to your body
Hoping for footfalls in the scattered leaves

(What will I do with myself when she leaves,
Throw on a coat and search throughout the night,
Seeking some evidence of her body?)
Why should I disturb this haunting silence?
Because it is magic when we whisper
Twisted together like snakes for some heat

(But, as for now, I am blessed with your heat
And pay no mind to the sere, rustling leaves)
Let me serenade you with a whisper
That escapes on the wind, pierces the night,
And permeates the dead winters silence,
Breathing chills down your naked body

Your body is not like the fallen leaves
With its heat it burns holes into the night
Inscrutably, like a whisper (silence)

Image

‘Morning Song (Ode To Broken Things)’- A Poem in Terza Rima

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

imagesWe sway like tugs moored in moonlit harbors

Tethered each to each with fishermans coil

Dizzy we stride ‘twixt these lime tree arbors

 

now we have grown too frail for fields and toil

My hands they are wrinkled, weathered, and thin

Old as the alders asleep in their soil

 

I see the world turn and galaxies spin

In each unconscious blink of your eyes

They burst into being, and die again

 

When I feel it rain I know a star cries

All alone and no soul to fill the bleak

So I guess that’s why this land never dries

 

so let me take you here against my cheek

when we feel surrounded by this slow grind

to search your eyes for something more to speak

 

I’d say it all if i still had the mind

if never i’d lived to work and grown weak

When the time comes the right words i can’t find

 

‘Always’ is a song that the morning sings

This then is an ode to the broken things

Excerpt from Book Two ‘Lachesis’

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

‘For You, To Unravel Loves Mystery’, Book II: Lachesis, excerptImage 

The vaguely cosmopolitan mannerisms manifest in the young woman known by her friends and family as Emily were undoubtedly inculcated in her by a set of unhappily undivorced parents with unwarrantedly snobbish capitalist-class pretensions for luxury. As such, their privately educated daughter, upon graduation from her inordinately expensive, females-only preparatory school, was promptly shipped away to the out-of-state four-year institution of her choice. Having been forcibly cloistered for a far too numerous number of years without so much as the simple luxuries of donning a colorful, cute, and stylish outfit every so once and a while, the startlingly myriad amount of religious rules and regulations she was subjected to as an upstanding and well-to-do young lady of overly fine breeding became to chip away at her fragile-by-virtue-of-puberty psyche, slowly and surely. As the days dragged on in an interminable succession of assiduous study of even the most unimportant religious scriptures, insufferable daily sessions of prayer, worship, and confession in the school chapel, incessant reprimands and admonishments from everyone from nuns, rectors, and even the vicar himself on an occasion or two for the seemingly most unordinary and innocuous behavior, and not to mention of course the abhorrence of being forcibly paraded around in the bleakest and perhaps single most unflatteringly plain pieces of academic garments in all of known existence, she was very frequently forced to ask herself one of the most profound of existential queries: ‘how is a girl expected to acclimate oneself in the actualities beyond the cold, castle-like walls and spires of her institution?’ She was as if a veritably burning soul forced to undergo the tortures of being continually doused with equal parts ice water and dogmaa at regular intervals, or whenever even a hint of any immoral or unladylike behavior was suspected. For the simple sake of brevity, this early and lengthy institutionization was probably the sole determining factor in the sluttishness she was to embrace when provided with the opportunity to dislocate herself from the Catholic dogmatism of her formative teenage years with an admissions packet to college and a bank account filled with her parents funds. This is, however, not to say that there were no other remarkable influences in her dramatic transformation, but, truth be told, women of that class and age, for all of their insipidity and relative homogeneousness, are notoriously difficult to psychologize to any significant degree. And so we shall see.

As an inhabitant of one of the higher social spheres is so apt to do, Emily chose her friends with deliberate discrimination upon moving away for college. Though their numbers were diminutive, Emily’s social circle was comprised of only the most well-bred and elegantly dressed young ladies of the dormitory. They, too, were products of prototypically fine families, the forefathers of which had accumulated sizable fortunes in American industry, enabling the latter generations to settle down and breed in the safe-havens of their respective suburban residences. The constituents of the clan had been previously dispersed throughout the respectable urban areas of the middle-west:  Cincinnati, Indianapolis, and St. Paul, to name a few, so it seemed that by an act of an ordained higher power, or perhaps by an act that was decidedly less beneficent in nature, that they had all descended upon the same university. This is not to say that the discrimination perpetuated in the assembly of her social circle was in any way sexist, because such an assertion would indeed constitute the most horrendous fallacy. Gentlemen were accorded the same opportunities as the ladies, so long as they met the same criteria. In this case, one young man with impeccable taste in designer clothes was chosen for admission into the group. He fit in quite well with his soft-spoken, if not entirely silent, superciliousness and apparent disregard for the interests of the lower classes. However, he possessed several deficiencies, but these imperfections were capable of being overlooked due to their necessity. Firstly, he was not what one, especially one with a pampered fashionista’s sagaciousness, would consider attractive. He was a pale young man, tall, but not overtly so, with a pockmarked visage and extraordinarily thin brown hair that was both wispy and patchy enough to suggest androgenic alopecia to some first timers, but to those in the know, his significant amount of follicular degradation was, considering his age of only 19 years-old, almost impossibly symptomatic of male-pattern baldness. That having been addressed, a consideration of his body type must be at once taken into account for further explanation of the previous hypothetical conjecture. Built upon an exceedingly slight and slender frame of somewhere around 5’10-11”, his body was kept cooly emaciated by a very stringent dietary preoccupation with eating little to nothing on a daily basis interspersed with intermittent bouts of excusing himself to the water closet for a quick and friendly purge. His diet, though incredibly unsound from both a general medical and basic human standpoint, was supposedly doing quite well for him. It was doing so well in fact that those members of lesser society without the keen eyes of the beautiful and luxurious fashionistas would likely attribute his pitiable physical condition to a humdrum case of anorexia nervosa. As it is truly a miraculous occurrence that his tiny body could support even so much as his roughly 110 pounds without simply toppling over like a dried and withered walking skeleton, his place amidst the ranks of the gorgeous and disinterested was set by virtue of his trial by hunger. Yes, he had indeed passed the test in spite of his having more than likely both self-initiated it and self-sustained it. Plus, he always wore the latest high-fashion styles from the runways of Paris, Milan, Tokyo, and London, and always in a size at least one smaller than any of his female cohorts.

But despite his overwhelming number of similarities with the other ladies of his clique and the fundamental soundness of their friendship as a whole, cohesive unit, the others were naturally harboring some ulterior motives for ingratiating this man into their elite social scene. His very unattractiveness in the purely physical sense was an essential component to the integrity of the groups infrastructure, as they deemed masculine beauty subsidiary to that of the feminine on the basis of principle; and, moreover, in the interest of hypotheticals, if he was exceedingly handsome, the possibility of quarrels amongst the heretofore catty, but more often than not friendly, female group members would increase exponentially in direct relation to the degree to which he was handsome. Secondly, and perhaps most importantly, he was of the homosexual orientation, so even if he was a burly, handsome, high-cheekboned bruiser with aspirations to toss the pigskin like a champion for the school team, which he most certainly was not by any stretch of the imagination, any chance of internal strife relating to the feminine pursuit of his affection was effectively nipped in the bud.

Emily herself, by all means the unspoken leader of her set, exhibited the same tactful discernment in her acquisition of prospective lovers as she did when selecting her retinue. Although most women, and men, for that matter, would undoubtedly prefer a handsome partner, this feminine predilection is not in itself by any means unnatural; but her methodical process, however, was decidedly megalomaniacal, and in many respects analogous to the way in which a modeling agency is owned and operated. Both her conception of, and insatiable appetite for, masculine beauty had obviously been influenced by her vociferous consumption of all the popular fashion magazines, enamored as she was of well-defined cheekbones, glowing skin, and minimal body-fat percentages. The physical attributes of the male models she swooned over, superlatively seldom though they were in actuality, nevertheless shone the guiding light in her quest to descry and procure as many of these unnaturally beautiful men as possible, essentially in the same manner that a young girl, once she has experienced the previously unknown pleasure of receiving, and subsequently manipulating, her first toy doll, will attempt to appropriate at any cost and by any means, a multitudinous array of them in a passionate display of frenzy. The fundamentally malevolent obsession inadvertently inculcated in her by the well-intentioned gift of a pair of doting parents, desirous of inspiring happiness in their little girl, innocuous as it at first seems, proves to be uncontrollably virulent, becoming with startling celerity an awe-inspiring act of incessantly avaricious desperation. The happy little girl whose face lit up like the beacon of a lighthouse when she opened that fortuitous first gift, on realizing the possibility of obtaining complete control over her possessions, who has subsequently crowned herself queen of the kingdom she has created in her imagination, begins a prodigious psychological and emotional transformation. Reality becomes merely a realm of unnecessary subordination to parents, school-teachers, and other figures of authority. Vexed to discover any exhibition of her developing sense of entitlement is regarded as puerile insolence, she sheds the skin of innocence by her constant friction with those who attempt to exercise any authoritative influence over her, thereby completing her transformation into a purely egotistical and audaciously capricious creature, one inclined to kick, scream, gnash her teeth, and cry the tears of an almost Biblical deluge to obtain the objects of her desire. So the parents who unwittingly gave birth to this child, who still bears a frightening physical resemblance to their beloved daughter, but who, in relation to her former countenance, ceases to possess any such similarity, are forced to acquiesce to her every whim, and to do so with obsequious felicity, lest they seek to expose themselves to the jagged rocks and unrelenting riptides that surround the shoreline where the lone lighthouse that was her face has discontinued to emit its lovely glow. The wrathfulness at all times in uncertain dormancy beneath the folds her cornflower-blue sundress and her bowed tangle of dark-brown hair promotes the parental acquisition of new dolls, entirely new families on a miniature scale, which are purchased with extreme haste and immediately bestowed upon her for fear of another outburst, thus facilitating the expansion of the petulant little queens empire. And, for a time, she is once again elated to take leave of the real world, to retreat to the depths of her imagination where her word is incontestable and her rule over her subjects is unremitting. Unfortunately for our protagonist Dmitrii Donatello, these behaviors once they have become inveterate are the bane of all members of functioning society, not least of all by any means the males.

Emily’s love life, which encompassed nearly the entirety of her waking life, was something altogether peculiar from a scientific and sociological perspective, and, if for no other reason besides, it is interesting enough to discuss in some detail. She was never one to subscribe to any pithy maxim attributable to the majority of women, such as the observation that certain ones ‘prefer quality over quantity.’ This trend is in itself attributable to a certain egotistical viewpoint of the ‘kitschy’ and baser elements at work in society, those to which she would no sooner dignify with a contemptuous sneer in passing as take part in a Labor Day sale at a popular department store, primarily from a sense of education, breeding, and privilege, or the trifecta of power in America. She had the textbook sociopaths desire to conform to the social institutions, norms, and mores intended to provide a supplementary definition of her, as well as all those other members of her age group and gender, due in no small part to her desire to, if not challenge the status quo per se, at least attempt to rewrite the rules by which her early life had been governed. So, insofar as ‘quantity’ and ‘quality’ are concerned, her sense of entitlement, acting on behalf of her conscience, voted unanimously. The final decision was 1-0 for ‘I think I’ll have my pick.’

In spite of the inherent difficulties associated with any matter of proverbially having ones cake and eating it too, whether it be sex or some other much more mundane topic of conversation, it is natural to find that people are genuinely spurious of any acts of exceedingly inordinate copulation that are based essentially on pass/fail criteria. In essence, people are skeptical of the possibility that a fusion of the qualitative and quantitative aspects of a prospective lover can be, each and every time, successfully brought to fruition. It was in this way that Emily became a legend in her own right, so much so that she had developed quite the reputation of a fast woman, but an incredibly discriminating one at that. However, there seemed to be, to once again employ a clichéd expression,  a ‘method to the madness’ of her masculine acquisitions. It was in this respect that Dmitrii likened her to Picasso, whose blue and rose periods corresponded to her blonde and brunette periods, for it seemed that for some months, though she disposed of her boys with the same characteristically unvarying rapidity, she exhibited a tendency towards males of a certain hair color. So in the spring, for instance, she might go through only brunettes with the nonchalance of a sagacious socialite who deigns to wear only the most excellent seasonal pieces from her favorite boutique designer. So with the change in the air that marks the inevitable transition from spring to summer, she would begin to amass a collection of beautiful blondes a la mode, as if by some caprice she had grown tired of the outdated fashions of the brunette auteur, and, after unceremoniously informing him that his services are no longer required, proceeds to clean out her closet with the exasperated, yet excited air of a privileged girl who finds it exceedingly difficult to control her sense of entitlement to an entirely new wardrobe although each piece in her current collection is still as impeccable as the day (only a matter of weeks ago) on which it was purchased.

It was during this seasonal sea change that the ineluctable meeting of Dmitrii and Emily took place. It is not so much that their paths crossed by sheer force of fate, as by force of the indefatigable will of the implacable huntress.

She harbored a soft spot in her cruel heart of stone for the androgynous effeminacy of a well-dressed young man with pleasant features, someone she could wear like a lovely little accessory ‘round her borderline anorexic arm as a means to placate her most recent fancy, and, though it should go without saying, someone who would look dashing in the process.

So it is no wonder that her path should cross that of Dmitrii Donatello, for they had by now inhabited the same campus building for some time. She had been correct in her initial labeling of him as a high-class snob, but she had ultimately failed in determining to which specific school of snobbery he belonged, for the world of snobbery, multi-faceted as it is, is made up of disparate schools of thought, each with their own particular philosophical concerns and emphases on onomastics. The school to which Emily belonged, onomastically speaking, was concerned with Gucci, Prada, Gaultier, and Dolce & Gabbana, to mention a few, while Dmitrii’s school of snobbery, one concerned primarily with the benefits of intellectual and cultural advancement, placed more emphasis on the names of Beckett, Tarkovsky, Stravinsky, Cezanne, and Proust than the designers of high-fashion.

Dmitrii acquiesced to her advances with a variety of vague ideas, the primary function of which was to examine the girl and her retinue from the perspective of a veritably liberal academician. Given the intellectual significance of his former Picasso analogy, he desired to study her from multiple perspectives with the simultaneity of the Cubist tradition:  sociologically, psychologically, and, most importantly, sexually.

Their relationship proceeded with an astonishingly alarming rate, for it had not been a full three hours after their first formal introduction and subsequent cursory conversation that they had become lovers.

The first few minutes of their intimacy passed rather awkwardly, characterized as they were by Dmitrii’s tendency towards silence. He stared transfixedly across the grass into the fading light of the late afternoon. Against the trend of popular conjecture, he was not entertaining any particular thought.

Retrieving an orange medicine bottle from the pocket of his jeans, and adhering to the niceties associated with polite conduct, he turned to his taciturn interlocutor to ask if she wouldn’t like some.

“What is it?” she asked rather listlessly, as if not completely surprised by the subtle temerity of the offer.

“It’s Xanax,” Dmitrii explained. “It’s my anti-anxiety medication, a benzodiazepine.”

“Sure,” she replied, extending her hand not so much in the interest of imbibing pharmaceutical drugs she knew little to nothing about with recreational intent, but more so out of a desire to provide an adequately polite response to Dmitrii’s idiosyncratically affable offer.

“Here you are,” he said, providing her with an oval-shaped pink tablet. “It’s only half a milligram. It shouldn’t mess you up or anything,” he added with a smile. “You’ll still be able to function normally, make the right decisions and so on.”

He took one pill out for himself before placing the cap back on the bottle. He swallowed it and relegated the bottle back to the confines of his jeans pocket.

“Thank you,” she said, proceeding to swallow the pill in the same manner as Dmitrii, without the aid of liquid facilitation.

“Good girl,” he said jokingly, making sure to take this opportunity to pat her on the back in order to provide some indication of flirtation like he’d read about in magazines and blogs. But this type of subtle behavior he simply could not stand with regard to females. There’s was too much on his mind for that breed of passive behavior.

“So, let’s go get wasted, alright?” he followed, not so much asking as informing in his typical manner of brash conversation.

Emily could not help but smile at his uncanny forwardness, so of course she had to say ‘Yes.’

Tips for Enacting Positive Lifestyle Changes

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Maximizing and maintaining maximum self-efficacy is essential to overall well-being, especially in today’s hectic, high-paced world. Yes, you too, are living in a business world!
While it is important to set goals, setting unrealistic goals is unhealthy, as failure to achieve goals with regularity produces adverse effects, namely depression and diminished self-esteem.
Strategize! Have a back-up plan!
Smile! Nothing is healthier than a bright smile! (Note: Schedule regular check-ups with your family dentist at regular six-month intervals.)
Practice smiling at yourself in the mirror before you go outside! Repeat: “I can do it. I can do it. I am an important and valuable person. The complicated societal infrastructure would collapse without my presence.”
(Are you too old for braces? Heavens no! Should your orthodontist recommend fitting you for braces, think of it this way: am I too old for a beautiful smile?)
Exercise.
Feel no shame for what you are.
Accept rejection as a normal human reaction.
Feel no shame for who you are.
Seek medical attention for insomnia.
Embrace insomnia, as it allows for enhanced productivity.
Lonely? Get out there! Become involved with singles night at your local Christian church.
Volunteer at an animal shelter.
Walking a disenfranchised pet benefits you and the animal in question simultaneously. Exercise enhances the immune system and produces positive emotions. Good company increases pleasure chemicals in the brain. The dog will wag its tale in approval! Just imagine!
Palms sweaty? Afraid to shake hands? Close your eyes and imagine the positive outcome. Take deep breaths.
Count to three.
Don’t give up now.
Keep breathing.
Be sure to tell a joke now and again. People will be more likely to spend time with you if you possess the ability to make them laugh. Laughter is nature’s best medicine.
Be social and display amicability towards everyone you meet. Kindness is contagious.
Heed these tips for positive lifestyle changes and you won’t be alone for long!
Obtain some telephone numbers. Give the gal of your fancy a ring some evening. State your name calmly, slowly, and confidently. Kindly remind her of where you met.
Ask her if she would be interested in spending time with you, perhaps by going to the picture show or having a nice, informal meal at the local burger joint down the street. (Doctors assert that consumption of ground beef releases pleasure chemicals in the brain.)
Always be a gentleman! If you own an auto, open and close the door for your female passenger. She will be delighted by your manners. Obey all traffic rules and regulations on the open road. Young ladies hate troublesome drivers and are more likely to engage in amorous relations with unimposing boys who tend not to quarrel.
If she happens to be engaged with another young male of reproductive age, don’t fret! Hopefully she will realize her mistake and allow you the opportunity to hold her in the dark as she falls asleep.
Stay positive.
Image

‘Take Your Pants Off: or, A Positive Way of Looking at Things’

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Image

Alexander Frost ‘Goodnight, Lover’ Promotional Photogaph

i almost forgot to share this rough diamond of precious advice with you before repose: do you find yourself unnecessarily stressed, worried, unnaturally sweaty, fearful, anxious and uncertain as to what to do when all you really want is to look cool? do you refrain from shaking other’s hands upon greeting, and once again upon saying adieu, due to those unbearably perspiring palms? i used to be a nervous wreck all the time. i was afraid of school, trains, sleep, sudden death, serial killers, lightning, trying to keep up with the cool kids whilst being still a little wussy dork who hadn’t a single shot to make it to the upper echelons of society, as well as myriad other things. but i’ll tell you what changed all that. it took me a very long time to ever hold hands or kiss at the pictures with a girl, and as time went by with no better end in sight, i felt doomed. ‘what in the world am i going to do? everyone’s laughing at me and i can’t stand myself!’ i’d say that over and over until a young woman came into my life with a very severe dependence upon alcohol and a gleam of attraction in her eye. she told me these words i shan’t forget: ‘so go ahead and take those pants off. i need to get laid.’ that piece of infinite wisdom allowed me to grow confidently into a man, a man with incessant ulterior motives, but a man none the less. and i stopped being afraid of life because i knew someone enjoyed sleeping with me. i used to get bullied and picked-on and insulted, so on the rare times it happens in adulthood i say ‘hey, dude. you need to get those damn pants off.’ it’s the greatest thing ever to say to the one bozo jock in the sports bar so much drunker than the rest that he’ll approach the one person who doesn’t look very nice at all to start something. people have absolutely no idea what to do with themselves when you can keep it so cool it’s creepy whilst turning the predator/prey model on it’s head. do you think his girlfriend is going to let him hit that in a stupor after she gets done vomiting in the alley with 4 of her friends to find he’s walked away from the creepy white dude? no. and i wouldn’t either. i’d make her clean it up. just take your pants off man.

-AF

The Soundtrack to The Previous Post: Things Falling Apart

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

The soundtrack to the post located below. I can remember listening to this song in the dead of winter, when all my plans and hopes for the future had vanished, when I had nothing to live for, and I would wait for my phone to ring…but it never did. I was looking forward to meeting someone in a new place, to leave the old memories behind- and I was so happy for once that I didn’t feel like me. And I watched it all crumble; but my plans were already made, the gears set in motion, and I had to somehow find something positive in moving thousands of miles to a place where I knew no one, except for the girl who decided out of whimsy to throw it all away.

Reflections: Positive Living

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

i realized the most common phrase i’ve encountered while playing in bands pre-show is: ‘hey, which one of you brought the blow?’
the most common phrase post-show is: ‘hey, do we have any of that blow left?’
and between song communication is usually along the lines of: ‘hey, this is awesome. did you make sure to put the blow away safely? you did, right?’
and it’s always a riot to lean over to someone mid-song and say ‘i do cocaine’ in a whisper, a la Dr. Rockzo, who bears an uncanny and i’m sure intended resemblance to david lee roth, minus the face-painit of course. so, if you’re a young musician, please believe me when i say that i am not advocating drug use. in fact, i’d say if you’re good to go without it, then steer clear. but i’m also an advocate for thinking for yourself- so don’t take advice from me or anyone else. sure, i’m an excellent role model. i try to be everything men today seem to be lacking- chivalrous, well-educated, a notable polymath, and an all-around sophisticated gentleman who isn’t afraid to fight for honor- whether by gun, knife, sword, or hands. but i don’t smoke or drink, not because i’ve been blinded by fear from joe schmos and regular church going, law-abiding folk who’ve stuck to the straight and narrow, that path that inevitably leads to the middle class. they’ll tell you that illegal is the same as immoral, and that you’ll hurt your body as well as be looked upon as a misguided misfit by all the other regular folks who’ll sooner point the finger than lend a hand. that’s not true, i don’t believe- if you do what you feel is right and put in enough hard work and risk, no one will be looking upon you. i like to have fun and kid around just as much as i like to be dead serious and work myself into the ground in hopes of doing something that matters- it’s transcendental, this learning to discover things for oneself; and if only in that way, you’ll raise yourself, your awareness, your very essence above everyone who’s got the nerve to say what you should and should not do, and in so doing, you will realize that it’s you who’s looking down on all of the rest and not vice-versa. you can be a star, and i don’t mean in the sense of a celebrity per se, but in the sense that you’re beautiful and amazing and everything going on inside of you, though it one day must come to an end, is absolutely mind-blowing. you can cast your glow upon anyone who’s the presence of mind to look up every now and again to remind themselves that we’re all floating on a ball of rock in space, and that though humanity is gorgeous, knowing that we all live on this hospitable planet (perhaps the only one in the ever-expanding vastness of the universe), that we are able to form relationships at all and communicate with others though we feel very much alone at the same time. but we are very much alone in the scope of things- despite the progress we make as adaptive, intelligent beings, for every advance we make in ridding the world of some ill, we seem to come up with many more new methods of more efficiently annihilating one another. and we’re doomed to die anyway regardless. so what’s the use? no, this isn’t a rally for peace, because i know better. and i’m not a hippie- this machine destroys hippies and their songs that are basically just long-ass guitar solos, their bumper sticker politics, and their pacifism. i’ve had enough from being exposed to that crowd- hang out in bars, listen to music, smoke, drink, and play frisbee or unicycle football. it’s the same old shit: they’re reacting against jocks by doing the same things. only the bar is different, the music is different, and it’s just old-fashioned pigskin (minus the circus sideshow aspect)- and they smoke and drink themselves into the same fucking stupors. no one’s reacted against anything really. just each other- the fellow man we regard as the ‘other’. the ideology is the same- get fucked up, try to be as normal as possible, even though that entails never actually accomplishing much. and people, some of them i’ve put my trust into and made sacrifices for, will call me ‘anti-social’ ad chastise me for trying to ‘make everything like a fairy-tale’, though i’ve done nothing besides something: reacting against it all, because it’s all the same. life is a fairy-tale, so long as you have some determination, ambition, decency, and class. some girls will think it’s an act of desperation to hold the doors for them, to open their car door and close it for them, to run their bath water and try to bring a little bit of light and romance into someones life. and i know a girl or two who is desperate because she ‘wants to be treated badly’, ‘not made to feel like a princess and perpetually in a swoon’, and despite their talk of not wanting to be thought of in terms of their looks, some girls will hold it against you when the room turns to stare, not at them, but at their boyfriend instead- and they’ll realize that all their other friends have average-looking, but below-average when it comes to having some class and showing some common courtesy, so they’ll throw away every single plan, every single sacrifice, to acquire a downgrade. that said, you can be a star- you may frighten people away with your brilliance and intensity, and it’s so much easier not to be great, but it can be done if that’s what you truly desire: being extraordinary. you just have to get higher than everyone else. that’s how it starts, so you may take that how you will. it’s an allusive device that creates circularity back to my original thoughts, for one, but it’s your life. do with it what you will. go find your pieces- i know i’m missing someone. it’s nice to believe that there’s someone for you, though i’ll sleep alone, wake up the same way, and all the while some little girl who doesn’t know what she asked for threw something priceless away. she won’t sleep alone. she’ll spread herself wide open looking for something to fulfill her, though she knows its gone for good. and she will get hers. it’s nice to know that you all exist- even if you don’t like me and don’t talk to me. i’m used to it, or so i try to tell myself. but one never really makes peace when he’s trapped inside his own mind. i love you all. don’t do drugs- unless you can share. sharing is caring. i share all kinds of deeply personal shit, and people still think i’m cold. no, i’m burning. i’m on fire. i’m quite warm. so don’t be strangers. say something….anything at all. my favorite thing was talking on the phone to a girl until she’d fall asleep, telling me her dreams, her hopes for the future, our plans together. and we’d say ‘good night’ and i’d be happy knowing she was safe and sound. i left her flowers on valentine’s day because i knew her ‘man’ wouldn’t. he made her cry. so after messing it all up, she calls me up, tells me that it made her night- finding a gift and a note waiting for her in bed when she’d come home crying from the bar. she asked me out for coffee. i declined. i did it out of spite. i give beauty in everything i do, no matter. i’m glad she cried, and i hope she cries all of the time- she was actually very pretty when she cried. she’d show some emotion, and i’d kiss her tears away. because i enjoyed the taste. and i’ll remember it always. goodnight, lover.