call•me•jonah

The one voice demands that i live in truth, the other that i live in romance. The one is loyal to the emperor Cranius and the other insurgent Heart. i confess my loyalties tend towards truth. something objectifiable and tangible. but i am not without my doubts. to live on impulse, to declare 'all for love' is an attractive lure and i in moments of untenable weakness have been known to bite. and briefly declare, if only in the corridors of my chest, that i am justified by art, by ideals, by impulse, by love for whatever action i take so long as it is true to my heart (or at least is not provably false). is it not those things we can't explain, those mistakes we recognize, those strides beyond reason that signify humanity, separating us from the machine and unifying us with nature.

yet.

this is reasonable. this is reasonable? even now. this is reasonable. king Cranius seems to have adopted a pseudonym and to lead the insurrection in disguise. he steps forward to defend his adversary. he is always in control, even when he lets the rebels run amok.


and what of truth? to hell with sentiment? shall i be a stoic? at times, yes. are there not rivers that should flow and rivers that should be dammed?

who are you truth? where shall i find you? should a friend ask my opinion of a photo he had taken, is my distaste of the photo truer than my desire for his happiness? ah! but should his happiness be more complete by my erroneous praise or my careful criticism? lead him to the truth, but lead him gently. a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down.


and what have you, romance, to do with this? you, subject to whim and fancy, what do you know of objectivity or balance?
you who threaten to reign by heartbeat flutter or coin flip, you stay far from the throne, you shall never be king. but here is a bedroom in a high tower of the palace. stay here a while. i may have need of you yet. for you know about the secret power of the senses. the crashing voice of wave on rock, the ephemeral twinkle of stars in the night sky. you understand that secret language unheard by ears, spoken beneath sound. you shall reign over the province of beauty. all that resides therein is thine. reason has no authority there.

Last night would have been a great night to curl up in a laz-e-boy with a blanket and mug of hot chocolate and do some leisurely reading, listening to the pit patter of rain outside. Last night, however, was an awful night to be running cars. I was drenched head to toe. And the tickets kept falling off the rings. And my pen bled on my shirt and i almost got hit by a car. On the bright side Kelley found a Reata rain jacket for me to wear. If i hadn't had that i probably would have drowned. Also tips were a little better the normal. I think every single person in the restaurant valeted.

Whoever that heartless bastard is who stiffed me. I hope go you home and you reflect on what you've done. And i hope you feel awful. AWFUL.


PET PEEVE: pens with broken clips. if i let you borrow a pen. don't break it off. just don't. especially if it's my favorite G2 pen. don't do it. my blood boils just thinking about it.

we had been discussing her trench-coat and the implications it held regarding her personality. then she abruptly turned toward me and said 'now lets discuss nathan's sweater. what does it say about him?' and everyone in the circle turned and looked at me. what unexpected luck. i almost hadn't worn this sweater today. i must have made a funny expression because some people chuckled.
he's trendy-oh i don't think he's trendy-EMO-yeah he's emo-yeah?-indie-yeah he's an indie kid-elliott smith?-indie is trendy-i think he's indie and it just happens to be trendy-where did you get that sweater?-shoe gypsy-yep definitely indie
and like that they had me pegged. i haven't decided whether i like this identification or not. i guess it probably fits well enough. i need to stop reading pitchfork.

This sweater sure seems to get a lot of attention.

i had no idea the gypsies were in town. but there they were. a dozen leprechaun boys. round, freckled baby faces with dirty mouths and malicious wit. polo shirts and baseball caps. braces on each tooth. they railed poor joey. but he took it in stride. jesting that he was 45 and his girlfriend was 82. they struck at every possible nerve they caught sight of. but even when they accused his hair of thinning, he laughed loudly. i couldn't figure them out. i'd never seen gypsies before. i thought they were renegade jr. highers with an evil sense of humor. but they were a lot older than that. or so they said. and i'd never seen anyone so cruel. joey knew they were gypsies right off. apparently they've got a look. from inbreeding and what not. and the clothes they wear. look for leopard print. and they're loaded and the girls look like pygmies and dress like skanks. and they travel in droves in taxi cab minivans. they scrammed when they thought joey was calling the cops. he was actually calling kelly, who gets a kick out of gypsies. one quiet boy lagged behind. "here's your biggest fan" joey said, handing him his mobile "say something."

"i'm a gypsy," the boy said with a quick and unmistakable irish accent, then disappeared like the rest.

I worked superbowl sunday. which ordinarily would suck, but seeing as i had no vested interest in the game, all i was missing out on was gorging myself with junk food in the company of friends while turning to the tv every commercial break. and i got free dinner at REATA while i was working. it was a slow night, consisting mostly of music and travel discourse with melissa while devouring a Buffalo Ribeye and bacon wrapped shrimp. i've never had buffalo. it was mucho deliciouso and apparently very healthy. but her pan seared tenderloin was orgasmic. do yourself a favor and start a savings account. you won't regret it.

This semester i will try to find a story for everything. I will fail I know. but this active exploration. This creative dialogue is an important part of what. man i cannot think of words. an important part of. i think that steady grinding noise coming from next door isn't helping. what the hell is going on over there? that can't be music. it sounds like a saw. maybe they're watching a documentary on lumberjacks with their deaf grandmother, who hasn't yet discovered that she's not actually deaf, but just has a massive cotton fiber dam in her ear canal from poking around with q tips for forty years.

I think that a year ago i made an active effort to find beauty in everything. And the thing you find what you are looking for. I saw a lot more beauty then than now I think. So this semester i'll find stories. I'd better, cuz me writing is sucking.

i thought i would now digress into some psychological humdrum. some explanation for my behavior. an answer for why i am who i am. but i can't remember what i was going to digress about.

i found this animation mesmerizing. beautiful really.

PLAY