call•me•jonah

While I’m abroad all new posts will occur here.
Follow along on my exciting adventures.

An hour and a half ago I set off for a jog to the river. I’d been working in front of the computer all day and decided it was time a got some exercise. I don’t know how far it is to the river, I ride my bike down there once in a while, but I’d never run it.

When I got there it was dark and I was alone. I walked around briefly, stretched, and listened to the flowing river. I sat on a rock in the middle and meditated, focusing on the rushing water and my breathing. I haven’t meditated in over a year now. But I enjoy it when I do. Like sleeping awake. Or walking consciously into a dream. A very peaceful feeling.

It is amazing the stream of endless thoughts and images that flow through your mind as you try to clear it. Where is this activity when I’m trying to brainstorm? Mostly I saw images of Jedi Knights battling, having just finished watching the animated Star Wars Clone Wars series by Genndy Tartakovsky (awesomely superior to any of the last three movies). Eventually the battling subsided and the music of the river began to take over. But I had to get back home so I cut my meditation short and got back on my feet.

Jogging back, I had an amazing long and in depth interview with Oprah Winfrey. I was on her show. I had just published a book full of my philosophical musings. It was about five years in the future.



We started off talking about “Do what’s right, at the expense of ease”. I explained to her that the right thing would be different for most people. Not in a relative, grab bag morality sense. I told her I believed that everyone, except in extraordinary cases, knew the difference between right and wrong. But it would apply differently at different times. I gave an example: exercise. I ought to exercise, you ought to exercise. But for me the right exercise might be running down to the river, whereas that might not push you enough, maybe you ought to run a marathon. In fact this opens up a liquid morality in which more is never enough. Indeed it is not the ends but the exercise itself that is important. Therefore you should never be content to continue at the same rate year after year, for then you have succumbed to the allure of ease...

We went on and on. She asked me about everything from God to meditation to employment (I was unemployed by the way, and I refused to write professionally). I told her that I used to spend a lot of time talking to God, but not much listening. I said that Jesus spent hours praying, do you think he was talking the whole time? Meditation is a way of silencing the noise and listening to God.

Everything that I told her I spoke with conviction, honestly believing everything I said. I think that was because I was actively living out every conviction I shared. Much of my uncertainty now is, no doubt, intrisically tied to my inability to live consistently.

My conversation with Oprah was one of the best I’ve had in a long time. She is a very good listener.

Funny thing, I’ve never even watched her show.


I’ve been thinking a lot about community lately. How important it is. How I’ve spent most of my life actively rejecting any real sense of it. How I’ve embraced solitude. I asked myself if this was beneficial. If this was wise. If I could, would I do things differently. No doubt much of who I am today was shaped in loneliness. But I don’t think I can answer that question. If I say “No I would change nothing,” am I not motivated as much by fear and fatalism as I am by satisfaction or optimism? And if I say “Yes I would change the past,” am I not succumbing to futile and wasteful regret?

Time is a like Tetris.
The past is each brick laid.
The future those yet to be.
And the present the brick in hand.

I finally bought a book for my travels, in fact I bought four.

They are:
1) Brave New World Revisited - Aldous Huxley (I just realized that this isn’t actually Brave New World, it’s Aldous writing essays on society)
2) Steppenwolf - Hermann Hesse (I was looking for Siddhartha, but...)
3) Dharma Bums - Jack Kerouac
4) The Selected Poetry of - Rainer Maria Rilke

Now the question is: is it a good idea to lug four books (plus Metamorphosis for class) around in my backpack for a month? If not, which do I take? Dilemma. Steppenwolf sounds fascinating


But it would be a shame not bring Kerouac. And some poetry sprinkled in here and there could be nice.

The beautiful thing about art, of course, is that it is essentially meaningless. Like language has been reduced to a dog’s bark, no to a recording of a dog’s bark, no to an imitation of a recording of a dog’s bark. There are all these fuzzed out barking chihuahua robots reaching white noise. Yip yip yip yip yip. I’m an artist listen to my robot dog yip. I don’t care if you built it yourself, with your own hands, out of your own feces.

So I’m pretty sick of art. I want to see something real. Or closer to it. Something without fingerprints all over it. You know, like people and cars and mountains. Buildings and shops, and dinner plates, old stuff, used stuff, broken stuff. Real stuff. Stuff without hidden messages and covert phalic imagery. I don’t care about the significance that this piece had in the art world. It doesn’t mean anything in the real world. I mean, sure if you want to jack off on canvases, then by all means, do what you gotta do. If it makes you happy, sure, if it pays your bills, sure.

I just don’t really care anymore.

Art has castrated itself, or maybe slept with too many filthy hookers. Either way it’s impotent.

Art is the first and lowest form of communication. Cavewall scribblings. Art is easy for a child, difficult for an adult. That’s beautiful. Know what else is easy for a child and difficult for an adult? Defecating in his pants. Know what a child can’t do? Must be taught to do? Communicate. Yes. What if language never developed to the state of being able to differentiate between “I’m hungry” and “My God, I shat myself”? We’d all be painters.

I shouldn’t attempt to define art, but I will anyway. Art: a nebulous cloud of gas, emitted from a butthole. Everyone likes the smell of their own art.
ex. Between you and I, Picasso’s art smells like he ate too much asparagus.

An engineer is, no doubt, anamored with the surface of his trade, the feel of polished metal or the shape of a screw. To a mechanic, an engine purr is like Chopin. The seamstress makes romance with the texture of her fabrics. The designer dreams of letterforms and lower case g’s. These things are beautiful, these people are true artists, ameteur artists, and their love is their art. A true unpretentious personal art. But this art does not an engine make, or a dress seam, or a poster print. And briefly the art is lost. But it will emerge again, perhaps so faint it goes unnoticed by careless eyes, but it is there, beneath layers of utility, each artist has infused his love within.

Maybe it is about time for professional artists to get their noses out of their asses and start making things that people (I) cared about. I hope so. Or else I’ll give up on the whole idea and go pick some flowers instead.

Most of my living this summer has occured at Reata. That’s where life happens: driving cars, greeting people, making small talk and occassionally big talk with co-workers all night long. Working there has really been a pleasure for me. And I’m a bit saddened to have to leave. I’ve been there almost a year, or approxiamately four times as long as I’ve worked anywhere else.

So here’s to the late nights, the rainy nights, the cold nights, the hot nights, the fast cars, the grateful tippers, Charlie with his cup on the corner, free bread and rolls, bad knees, philosophy, Joey, Kim, Jeff, Kelly, Colin, Suzanna, and Ian, all the bums asking for water or a buck, Mike the wandering dulcimerist, knee braces, and all the books I read on slow Sundays.

I loved it all.

In one week...
2:55 PM

what did i say? that was so opposite of what i meant to say. stepped left moved right. i’m so tangled that i am amazed that some people don’t notice. i must have spoken into a mirror. the connection was bad. my tongue was forked. how have i become like every other name crossed off the list? everything seems so nonsense. God save me from the mire of my self-righteousness. i would rather drown in self deprecation than stand atop the walls of a castle built on hypocritical sermons. i would rather fall headfirst in a well of self criticism than fly on wings of self praise. i will not become the judge and jury, granting myself pardon whilst condemning each defendant. i would become an honest fool drunk in my iniquities rather than be a sober and proud bigot.

i would chose a Hell of truth over a God of lies.

2006 MTV Movie Awards - Gnarls Barkley

You gotta watch it. I mean Chewy on the drums? Brilliant.

To wish my mother a happy birthday.

A very fulfilling night of work. Seriously, they did everything right. One woman looked straight at me and said “I really appreciate it.” Another guy was so psyched when I told him that we would pull his car up to the front and bring him his keys so he could finish the Mavs game, that he shook my hand and gave me $15.

Broken Social Scene video Fire Eye’d Boy. Everyone in that band looks like an actor. Don’t you think? Not in a bad way. But they just seem too good. Girls too (who don’t appear in this video).

Less than two weeks before I head to Central Europe. Am I ready?

Valets are humans too. You know and you should respect me. I just ran my legs off to get your car you lazy ass. At least pretend to be grateful. Or give me a five. Or even both. That really makes my day. Once in a while someone will look me in the eye and say “thank you soooo much” as if I just rescued their child from a burning building. I really appreciate that. I’ll even forgive a poor tip for that. But please don’t ignore me for ten minutes while you chat with your friends at the corner and then at the last minute scoop a handful of change from your pocket and expect me to be grateful as you drive off in your gold Lexus.

So here’s the rundown:
1. acknowledge my presence.
2. act like you’re grateful
3. tip generously (no coins please)



In other news, I resucitated my iPod. It hadn’t worked in six months. Simply a matter of replacing the logic board. $30 on ebay. If you ever have a problem with your iPod, ask me. I’m pretty much an expert now. Or just give me your broken iPod. Here’s how to open it up.

So I’m about 2/3 through Blue Like Jazz now. And I love it. I wish I had written it. His style reminds me of Vonnegut on his good days. The illustrations, the self defacing, the humor, the simple, repetitive sentence structures. It’s very personal and very real. I think I’ll move to Portland and meet this guy.

There was a time that I thought that nothing was necessary. And that the way to solve your problems was to (recognize that you) do whatever you wanted. Not in the Epicurian sense. Not eat drink and be merry. What I meant was, for instance, you follow the law, not because you must, but because you so choose. I thought by recognizing that life was, in actuality, without boundaries I could be relieved of the weight of external pressure. I could be free in the realm of my self, recognizing that everything was self willed and chosen. I could never again complain about the restraints of necessity, but could revel in the power of individual dominion.

I still believe that one’s self is the controlling agent in one’s actions. This has not changed. But I now believe that certain ideals must be established as superior to myself. Certain laws that I chose to govern myself. A democratic morality of one. I think that everyone does this reflexively. Eventually it becomes like breathing or a heartbeat. Something involuntary and unnoticed. Except that, unlike breathing, these laws can always be voluntarily ended.

The irony though is that the power of these self imposed laws resides in their ability to convince me that they are infinite and beyond my control. Yet, in the indiviual sense, it was I who placed them in authority over myself, and I can impeach them. But they must, to retain any potency, erase that thought from my mind.

It is possible that I have merely discovered that my self will is weaker than I would have hoped. And that to truely do what I, in my most pious moments, desire to do I must create my own demigod to govern me. This is entirely possible. It is possible as well that there are those entirely different than I who can bear the weight of moral responsiblity on their own. I should very much like to meet such a person. For I confess he is not I.

I do not think that Christians are saved from this existential dilemma. It is just that they, as well as any other moralizing group (AA, the democratic party etc.) have a preordained moral law set in place. But the choice is and is always there.

Bob Dylan already said all this though:
“You may be an ambassador to England or France,
You may like to gamble, you might like to dance,
You may be the heavyweight champion of the world,
You may be a socialite with a long string of pearls

But you're gonna have to serve somebody, yes indeed
You're gonna have to serve somebody,
Well, it may be the devil or it may be the Lord
But you're gonna have to serve somebody.”

Sometimes you avoid the easy way out simply because it’s the easy way out. And you go exploring past the no trespassing signs, hoping not to step in a bear trap.


I saw the proposition last night with Jay and his friend Jimmie (after everyone else bailed, and I determined to go on my own anyway). Interesting movie. Yes. Great concept. Great environment. Could have been a lot tighter I think. If it was a steak. It would be juicy, but small and grisly. I really liked Guy Pearce’s character, but he could have been fleshed out a lot more. I wanted to feel his torment the way he made you feel the boot heel crush the jaw bone.

After the movie, Jay said I could stay at his place and we went out for a drink. Let it be known that I don’t much care for going out for drinks. But he was buying. So I had a beer and got out of everyone’s way as fast as I could.

We got back to his place at 3:30. I looked around his Deep Ellum loft and laughed. “You don’t have any furniture.” And the floors were concrete. “You can sleep on that thing,” he pointed to a blue beach cot and handed me a blanket. I clicked the leg piece down a notch, curled up using my T shirt for a pillow, and fell asleep.