call•me•jonah

Meeting People

2008-09-20T14:40:00.001-07:00

I have a real aversion to meeting people. Those first few moments of contact, when bullshitty smiles are worn to prevent misunderstanding, or perhaps to cloud true understanding. Pretend that I’m here to entertain you, to give you a happier Saturday. But what do I know of happy Saturdays. I would describe a happy Saturday as alone in a park or a forest or a mountain with a book or a pen and paper, he said.

Meeting People

2008-09-20T14:40:00.000-07:00

Jonah has a real aversion to meeting people. Those first few moments of contact, when bullshitty smiles are worn to prevent misunderstanding, or perhaps to cloud true understanding. Pretend that he’s here to entertain you, to give you a happier Saturday. But what does he know of happy Saturdays. He would describe a happy Saturday as alone in a park or a forest or a mountain with a book or a pen and paper.

2008-05-26T07:24:00.002-07:00

I have no stomach for those who will take no risks, he said, who play at only life’s surest games.

I want no part in the race. This rat race of yours, he said.

L

2008-05-05T00:27:00.001-07:00

I choose to drive late at night, when I must drive, after the sun has retreated and the stars claimed their stations above and the sky rendezvous with the earth in the cloak of darkness. And the streetlamps standing rigid like stoic guards of that concrete tunnel into night bid me onward in silence. The steady rhythm of their passing, coupled with the constant whirl of tire and engine bring me closer to the infinite and calm my nerves as I drift deeper into the depths of myself and venture further into the embrace of the night. As I drove, I thought of you, and I thought that I must write.

A Memory of an Old Man

2007-05-22T05:52:00.001-07:00

05.22.07

There are a million things that Jonah wants to say all the time. But he doesn’t. I think he is afraid that people don’t care to hear them. He is certain that his fear makes it so. He knows that his certainty bends reality. So he keeps quiet.

He’s kept quiet for so long about so many things, that they’ve becomes small hills, like grave mounds of thoughts, expressions, joys, fears.

He had the urge last night to hug his grandfather who died last year. It was the first time that he felt the absence of his death. It didn’t matter that he was thousands of miles from his family anyway. It was the realization that he would never hug his grandfather ever again. That that sensation was dead. He lay down in bed and focused on things he remembered until they became almost as vivid as life. His smile, his stoop, his worn arthritic machinist hands, his wink, his limp. When Jonah was little. Real little. Like four maybe. His granddad used to call him his shadow because he would follow him around and watch everything he did. But all too soon Jonah became self-concious of this simple act of homage and stopped doing it. Though for years he still desired to. He remembered these things because he wanted it to hurt.

Memories are beautiful that way aren’t they? That remembering something wonderful can cause pain. For memories are all dead things, absent things. Memories are all ghosts and nothing more. They tell us that what once was now is not.

He wanted to hug someone else’s grandfather. Adopt an old man.

This was an unusual emotion for Jonah. He doesn’t know if other people ever feel this way. As he lay in bed staring at the ceiling, he wished there was someone he could tell this to.

Reaquaintance

2007-05-22T05:22:00.001-07:00

05.22.07

A time always comes when he unwittingly returns to the path. Wandering off into the brush, he had little intention of coming back, though he knew he one day would. For it is his path. Though he did not choose it. It was chosen for him. Stumbling, lost, throught the wilderness, he finds that the ground under his feet, the curves in the path are familiar. He finds the rock where he stashed his gear and picks up where he left off.

In a way he’d rather you not read this. Cause he wants me to be honest about everything. But my voice is public. I can’t live in a vacuum. Alone. I can’t. When I make things I want people to share them. My drawings, music, photos, writings. Perhaps this is the characteristic of our generation. The first generation reared on the internet. Perhaps I am just a desperate exhibitionist.

In a way I’d rather you not read this. Because I know that I will inevitably bend to your expectations. I am a kite and you are the wind. I’d rather be a rock. But I’m not. So I return to Jonah. Or perhaps he has returned to me. He possesses a certain freedom of action that I lack. And he doesn’t know that you are reading this.

I hadn’t intended to meet back up with Jonah for another 7 months or more. But as fate would have it, our paths have crossed prematurely.

I was riding my bike home from work and I saw him fall. Collapse on the pavement. Huddled like a fetus. I wanted to help him but I was afraid. No, wait. I’m sorry. I didn’t know that man.

I entered a coffee shop. Too posh and too well lit. I saw him sitting alone reading a book. A book on politics. He was holding a cigarette aloft in his right hand. A long line of ash dangled from the tip. He didn’t see me as I approached.

“Jonah? What are you doing here? It’s been a long time. How are you? You’re smoking now? Life moving too slow for you? What are you reading?”

He smiled and nodded. Flicked the ash in his empty coffee cup and sat his book down.

Just socially, he said.

I realized he wasn’t the same kid I had left back home. Something was different. Something subtle, something underneath.

South Korea

2007-01-06T20:58:00.000-07:00

I'm afraid I have abandonded Jonah for now. I'm teaching English in South Korea. You can read about it here. I'll be back in a year.5. See you then.

mmm potatoes

2006-12-18T18:28:00.000-07:00

Jonah was thinking about calling up a bunch of friends to get dinner at Babes Chicken tonight. It would be great and everyone would have a great time. And laugh about the old days. And be sad and happy at the same time about the future. Many funny and memorable things would happen, things that would make you wish you’d been there. And they’d be out late, drinking and having a good time. They’d come home exhausted. And wish Jonah a safe year and a good life and a Merry Christmas, because they wouldn’t be seeing him for a year.

Then Jonah realized that he was actually thinking about Friends... So instead of calling anyone, he plopped the last four Green Giant™ red potatoes into a pot of boiling water, and set a plate at the empty dinner table.

And I laughed at him.

It’s karma man

2006-12-10T13:28:00.000-07:00

How unexpected. He was sitting there on the back porch, keeping the dog from whining. Keeping her from running inside and spoiling everyone’s fun with her muddy paws and dripping tongue. He had left his drink inside. He had mixed cranberry and orange and vodka. It looked like dilluted mud. He left it inside because he had to use both hands to lift the dog through the broken screen door. He was sitting on her leash thinking. The day was spent. So much had happened already. He had spent the afternoon eating turkey at his aunt’s house in nowhere East Texas, the evening in Dallas at an art show, and the early morning in Fort Worth listening to music. He had listened to his uncle tell stories of his world travels as they drove into the night, 5 little cousin’s children asleep in the back, he had met four enviable artists, he had listened to Travis Millard talk to him about pitching a television series to Fox, he listened to two friends’ bands perform before two different crowds in two different clubs, he had drunk liquid fire in a wooden chair and listened to a crowd of friends chanting his name, he’d reaquainted himself with old friends, and made a couple new friends. It was almost three a.m.

All this was so much and not enough, so he was sitting outside with the dog. Relishing the cold. Relishing being at a party and being away from the party. There was nobody else outside. People only go outside to piss and smoke. And there weren’t any smokers at the party. The door opened. Jonah did not turn. Two men exited the house.

One pulled up a lawn chair in front of Jonah, the other stood aloof leaning on a pole of the carport. Jonah knew most everyone at the party, but these guys he’d never seen before in his life. They must be friends of Nathan’s. Or maybe frat daddies crashing in on a bumping party. We had gotten a lot of attention. The cops had come by twice.

The sitting one had dark combed hair and a dark complexion and was wearing a black peacoat. He was lighting up a cigarette. The standing one was tall with glasses and had a duckhunting cap on his head. Earflaps and all.

“What’s your name?” The standing one asked, taking the cigarettes.

“Jonah.”

“I’m Mike.”

The sitting one blew a solid stream of smoke out the side of his mouth, “Michael,” and shook my hand.

“Mike and Michael?”

“We like to keep it simple.”

“Y’all friends of Nathan’s?”

“Think I met him once.”

Mike went inside. Jonah called through the open door, “Could you grab my drink?” “The one that looks like coffee?” “That’s the one.”

Michael turned to Jonah, “Have you ever read that book by Hermann...”

His ears peaked, his eyes got wide. “Hesse?” He was one of Jonah’s favorite authors.

“Yeah.”

Mike returned and handed Jonah his odd mixture.

“Yeah, have you read that book Siddhartha?”

So this is how it started. That long conversation spinning derelict into the night. Two strangers with like names. Enter the stage from nowhere. And later disappear likewise to nowhere. Weaving discourse and philosophy. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are surely not dead. Turns out they’re Buddhist.

At a Christian ex-fraternity party near the campus of Texas Christian University. These two fellows suddenly seemed like frogs in fish bowl.

They used words like dig and cat. Like the beats used to. They spoke with intensity and calm. They believed strongly in everything they said. And disputed with one another openly and earnestly the efficacy of the details of their individual journeys. As if the true debate was among themselves and I was just a witness.

“Homeboy doesn’t need to know that yet.”
“Yes he does. He will understand.”
“I’m curious about what you mean by meditative state.”
“Will you let me tell my story?”
“You will confuse him.” To me. “There are many levels of understanding.”
To me. “Are you confused? Are you turned off by what I’m saying?” Jonah shook his head no. “Actually, I’m fascinated.” “See.”
“Your drunk. This is not the time to impart the profound teachings of the Buddha.”

It was Michael who was describing to me his experience receiving a blessing from a Danish Llama. I think Mike was right, Jonah couldn’t understand he could only listen.

The conversation continued deep into the early morning. Deeper into Buddhism. It was the last thing Jonah had expected that night. He thought perhaps they were inebriated Buddhist angels from a Kevin Smith movie. Or wandering souls, popping in and out of parties like electrons.

It would be futile to write a transcript of their conversation. Of words on meditation and Christiandom, of Buddha and kindness and purpose and self. Of reincarnation. Of the three jems. For I did not wholly understand as I listened in the shadows. What is potent is that these words, each one of them, resonated deeply within Jonah’s cage. Each entered his ear and found harmony inside his mind. He will contemplate what was spoken for many days. These words spoken from strangers lips will stay with him for a long time, and return to him when he has long forgotten the faces that uttered them.

And when it was late. Later than late. When the sun threatened to ignite the horizon. When Mike and Michael parted ways with Jonah. Mike smiled big and hugged Jonah, and hugged him again. And Jonah said, Man this is the last thing I had expected, I live right there in the garage and I wasn’t even sure if I wanted to come home tonight.

Mike laughed.
“It’s karma man. It’s karma.”

2006-12-06T14:48:00.000-07:00

Idleness

2006-12-03T19:51:00.000-07:00

Jonah doesn't know what to do with himself. I mean specifically. I mean right now. This hour. Today. This week. How many movies watched is too many? Is watching too many movies, better than nothing? Is reading a book a viable day-filler? Should he produce something, make progress somehow, enlarge his bank account?

I suppose Jonah needs some sort of structure. Like a school calendar. In order to get stuff done. And he needs a reason to do said stuff. Perhaps if it was written on a calendar...

There comes a time when a to-do list of BRUSH TEETH and BUY MILK just doesn't seem like enough anymore.

Watching Jonah, it has occured to me that he could take advantage of this idle time in his life to practice meditation, or study some new craft. Indeed, he has spoken of a desire to do both of these things. But, ironic as it sounds, when he sits down to begin, the time seems too short and besides there are so many other things that need to be done...

You Say it Like You Know

2006-11-28T19:28:00.000-07:00

He said, “man I don't give a shit about your cool and your righteous, just give me the sincere. Those life livers, those truth seers. Be simple or elite, young or old. Man, this man as God, hip as hip shit is for the birds.” And with that he flung his scarf around his slender neck and donned his cooler than cool cap on his cooler than cool hair. Took a final sip from his iced mocha latte, tossed it in the recycle bin, and drove off in his black jetta with missing hubcaps, went home to his space heated cave and wrote a song in the darkness about something he didn’t understand.

Immortal words

2006-11-27T12:08:00.000-07:00

this is the moment Jonah's been waiting for. that murmur of dissatisfaction. those pacing feet deep down inside his belly. a whisper, a plea. from long off. a dead man, lying silent. as people gaze. and touch his molded fingers, lay flowers down.
his lips part only slightly, so that only one boy sees and leans close. placing his warm ear to those cold lips to hear these immortal words.

"it's so hard to remember. it's so easy to forget. you only have one life."

It's so simple. Life is sometimes.

2006-11-26T17:09:00.000-07:00

When you sit around a crummy bar and drink some drinks with good friends. And at the bar you're all good friends. Miraculously.
There's a woman turning 30 right before your eyes. She's drunk and tells you to remember her. When you turn thirty. She warned you she says. It happens so fast. I came here on my 21st birthday, she says. She's drunk, but not as drunk as her friend, who demands that you admit that this is a good song. You confess you don't know the song. It's Journey. Her husband asks if you know any Journey songs. Yeah. Name one.

One day this will be you, sitting next to some kid at a college bar. Name a Radiohead song, go ahead. Forgetting that you didn't even listen to radiohead in college, convincing yourself that age is synonymous with importance.

You laugh, wishing you had something to drink. You can see yourself, already though you're still a kid, reflected in these people's aging faces. Wheel in the Sky, you say, I know that one. Their heads all bob in drunken approval.

Now you're bouncing from friend to friend. Jumping in the middle and leaving conversations hanging in the air. Talking about something important. Everything is important and nothing is as well. Because everyone is smiling. You're not even drunk, you can't afford it. But all your lightweight girl friends are. And they're having a time. Can't help but laugh, because the air gets so light, despite the musty walls and stagnate air. You don't even notice how your stomach hurts from dinner.

Now driving Manda's car, windows down, music loud, screaming like megaphones to all the choruses of your favorite songs. Pumping your fists like anarchists pouring volume down the highway at night.

Now sitting on the balcony passing a glowing wad. Talking in quiet almost-whispers. You laugh really hard. Don't remember why. Something Chris said.

Now it's late and the girls are heavy eyelids floating like buoies on the wake of unconciousness.

JB can you give me a ride?

Half way back you feel a key in your pocket. Too late now, she'll call in the morning...

Thankfulness

2006-11-23T23:48:00.000-07:00

Thankfullness is healthy. At least according to the book Natural Cures "They" Don't Want You to Know About. Of course, I guess we all know that. Just like smiling helps you stay happy.

Jonah tried to be thankful. There was plenty to be thankful for this Thanksgiving. There was all the turkey and sweet potatoes and brocoli rice casserole and stuffing. And his family changed plans so he could watch the Cowboy game. And the Cowboys won. And his whole family was there, and they didn't really fight. And he got two phone calls and two text messages wishing him well. And besides those things. He had graduated from college, and was living in a garage, and preparing to go to Korea. He was healthy and happy and his brother and sisters and parents were healthy and happy.

Things were good. I wouldn't say that Jonah was unthankful. Just that the whole thing kinda slipped by. No one handed him a crayon and asked him to draw all the things he was thankful for on a piece of orange construction paper like they used to.

Well that is....

...until now.

Fish and Engineers

2006-11-23T00:31:00.000-07:00

Being home for Thanksgiving, that wonderfully gluttonous celebration, I am reminded that my brother is an engineer and my sisters hang out with engineers. One recently began a relationship with an airforce pilot. This is when self-awareness peaks. Gather world-builders and problem fixers together. Now art seems like masturbation and philosophy nonsense. This is of course self induced. Though with a little persuasion no doubt.

Clash of paradigms:

There is a poster on the wall in my brother's apartment, where he lives with three other engineers. It is a view from the moon of a half lit earth. An image that would fit lovely on an Arthur C. Clarke story collection. The caption reads "If the world was perfect there would be no need for TOMORROW." I laughed out loud. How perfect.

If I had written the caption it would say "If the world was perfect, who cares?" or "Tomorrow the world will be the same as it was yesterday," or " Everything you build will fall, everything you say will be forgotten, and eventually you will return to the same darkness you left in your mother's womb."

Is that pessimistic? I don't think so. Hell, keep building and talking and having babies if you can find a reason to. Maybe people are like fish. We have to keep swimming around in the water to breathe. But we're in a fish bowl. And we only have a two second memory. So we swim in circles but think we're actually going someplace.

But we're not.

But if we stop we die.

How vicious.

...still a part of me wishes I was an engineer trying to build a bigger fishbowl.

A New Plan

2006-11-22T09:30:00.000-07:00

So I'm trying to wake up earlier in the morning. By earlier I mean before 9:56 am, which is the time that my anatomical clock dings. I've never been one to sleep that late. I think it helps that in the garage there are no windows. So the sun never shines. Well except through a hole in the giant Whopper poster covering the window.

For a while I set my phone alarm to times like 8 am, but at that time in the morning the only rational I can consider is that I'm cold and the bed is warm and I'm sleepy and the bed is warm and I haven't any pressing reason to awake and the bed is warm. So I quickly hit snooze and curl back up in my sleeping bag. Then ten minutes later I hit snooze again, and again, and again. Until it's 9:56 and that's when I get up.

So I constructed a new plan.

I set an alarm on my computer. With music from iTunes. That way I would wake gently and would have to come all the way across the room to turn it off. I think it was a great idea. I did wake this morning at 8:45 to the balkan gypsy tune of Beirut playing Elephant Gun. And guess what. I decided to lie there and listen to the music for a little while. Then the song ended and Frou Frou began and I thought I'll just listen to this one too. Well before you know it, I'm asleep again. The songs loop until 9:56 when I rise and turn it off.

Tomorrow I'll try something less soothing. Maybe some country..

Jonah's Days of Secret Glory

2006-11-20T17:57:00.000-07:00

This is what Jonah's day looks like:
He gets out of bed around 10 am. Eats some cold cereal. Works on a few design projects until around 1. He eats a sandwich. Works on some more design, runs a few errands. A few times a week he goes to work as a restaurant valet in the evening. Before he goes to bed he draws a portrait from a book of Richard Avedon photos and reads Enders Game.

It is an exceedingly simple life. But if Jonah is content with it, then who is to convince him otherwise. For what purpose would Jonah interupt his happy little life? Will he one day convert to religious extremism, become a rabid activist? Will he sacrifice this for a wife and family? Will he turn to the promises of wealth and a career?

Contentment poses a serious philosophical problem. A problem that businesses, and activists, and politicians, and religious leaders must contend with, each wishing to convince the contented that they are content with the wrong thing and that this or that cause is the source of the only true contentment. Perhaps, among the liars, one is telling the truth. But perhaps it is best to ignore them and live by experience, learn to trust yourself, accept your mistakes and acknowledge your successes. Step from the well trodden path and lose yourself in the forest. Perhaps you'll like it there.

It occured to Jonah once while he was driving, a brief transient thought, that he may one day look back on these few months in the garage as the happiest in his life. He may even one day foolishly try to recreate it.

It is a strange thought, is it not? For what does Jonah have now that is worth keeping? What is he afraid of losing? Who is going to take it from him?

He googles antonyms for responsibility.

2 Things Bring Anger, 1 Thing Brings Relief

2006-11-08T00:14:00.000-07:00

The night dragged on; a half-paralyzed dog dragging his hind legs home. The three valets borrowed three magazines to pass the time. Kim read Time, Jonah read Newsweek, and Joey left the Rolling Stone untouched.
Everything Kim read in Time, Jonah said two minutes before. Sample:

Jonah (upon hearing about a shirt that simulates hugs): Pretty soon they'll be able to make android replicas of all your friends. You won't even have to see them anymore.
Kim: It says right here look. They've created an exact robot replica of this man. And they'll soon be replacing nurse's aids with robots.
Jonah: It's a strange world we live in.

Jonah (on Iraq): It is a country based on lines drawn in the sand by the British after world war II. It can't hold together because the only reason the Iraqi's were Iraqi's was because Saddam was holding a gun to their heads.
Kim: Did you read this article already?

Jonah meanwhile was growing increasingly irritated by the blurb in Newsweek written by Sam Harris entitled A Case Against Faith. Harris doesn't so much present a case against faith as blow a lot of steam about how absurd he thinks Christian beliefs are, and likewise how stupid the adherers to these beliefs must be. Summary:

A 6000 year old Earth? Idiotic. Embryos have souls? How inane! Jesus descending from the clouds to spare you from a righteous global genocide!? Within the next fifty years?! NUTS! WACKO! LUNATIC! DANGEROUS! Christians are no different from Muslims exploding like firecrackers in shopping malls!

Jonah was reconsidering his interest in Harris's Letter to a Christian Nation. He was rather uninterested in a selfrighteous athiest's narrow-alleyed rant on the pratfalls of faith. He had little interest in this or any religious war.

Let each man make of his life heaven or hell and let each look on to the great unknown afterlife with his own vision of happiness. And let God Almighty judge us. What else can we do?

He put the Newsweek down. Useless magazine. And tried not to watch four bicycle cops harrass Charlie. Charlie is a semi-homeless legless old black man who often sits in his wheelchair at the corner of Houston and Third and gathers money in a cup from the many people in Fort Worth who consider him a friend. The other valet's all hate him. Mostly because he made more money than they did most nights. And he wasn't actually homeless. Jonah couldn't care less. The guy was friendly even if superficially. And what difference did it make if the managers gave him a meal now and then and people gave him $10 for no reason. He wasn't exactly getting in anyone's way by saying "y'all be safe now." He never asked for money. He never bothered Jonah, so when Jonah saw the cops harassing him, Jonah began to grow resentful of the cops. Haven't they got anything better to do? After all Charlie wasn't even breaking a law. He soon cleared off, all sad eyed. He wasn't looking so good these days either.

Apparently minutes later Bennigans called the cops on him. Someone gave him a gift card and he wanted cash. When they refused, he asked for alcohol. Then they called the cops. Then he began ranting about the injustice because he was a black cripple...

Officer Simmons says he's got a nasty coke habit. I don't know if its true. He also says that his house is about to get abated, because its a crack den. Officer Simmons is a good humored, talkative cop who comes by the stand and tells stories practically every night. He has a good heart no-doubt, and a fierce love and devotion to his job. He's the kind of guy you want to make sure you're friends with. He says give money to Salvation Army and churches, not to the bums. Good idea I suppose. Anyway, he made Jonah feel a lot better about the cops. Maybe Charlie is a clever conman. Maybe the smiles and the friendly gestures are an act performed every night to feed his crack habit.

It's hard to know. Jonah probably won't stop being nice to Charlie, but he is still naive. He keeps thinking there are people who's motives aren't peppered with ill intentions. That there are bums who really are just trying to catch a bus to New Orleans and that there are intellectuals who really just want to know the truth. Because life is hard and everyone needs some friends. And you don't lie to your friends.

Maybe he wants to believe these people,

because

when he's reading The Myth of Sysiphus and The Koran,

when he's stranded a long way from home...

he wants people to believe him.

A Lesson From George Bailey

2006-11-01T14:29:00.000-07:00

He looked down at the padded manilla envelope number 5 sitting unsealed on the copy counter in Kinkos. Ten steps away, the mailing center. He had spent the drive over thinking, mulling over the possible outcomes. How many different paths could he tread? But as soon as he passed through the double sliding glass automatic doors, he pushed the red autopilot button in his head. His hands slid towards teh envelope without his requesting it. Pulled slowly the ribbon covering the sticky underside. He ran his finger down the checklist in his pocket. Everything is ready. Silently his fingers pressed the lip down, sealing the envelope closed.
"Ground or express?"
"South Korea."
"Oh well you'll need to fill out one of these."
Without hesitation, he penned in his home address and the company's address. Handed the form to the girl behind the desk.
"Forty six dollars."

And it was done. Thought can only carry you so far, before action must dictate. And the future discerns. Whether action was right. Or wrong. While thought remains safely behind to whisper "I told you so. I told you so."

How many times did he watch It's a Wonderful Life? Every Christmas practically. And how many times did he judge George a failure? Standing over the bridge, contemplating suicide. If not for the angel, the movie would be tragic. A virtuous, ambitious man driven to suicide by the failure of his dreams, by the harshness of the world. If not for divine intervention sparing his life, we would be watching A Christmas Carol on Christmas Eve instead. But how many angels will come to your aid as you sum up your life? Or is it your sole responsibility to satisfy yourself, by whatever means, that you might not come to that bridge with those malign thoughts?

George taught Jonah a lesson. And it was this: if you postpone your dreams and aspirations for whatever purpose, be it noble or otherwise, you are killing yourself. Slowly. And one day judgment will come upon you from within and you must judge by a jury of one whether or not you truly lived a worthy life. If you cannot answer 'yes' then everything becomes empty and an adversary. Your wife, your job, your kids, even your youth (now a shackle of idealism) and your dreams (a symbol of naive and harmfully selfish foolishness) are your enemies.

Perhaps the only solace can be found in God. An omnipotent being capable of being tailored to your life. A noble being who can justify every failure and sacrifice. A warm quilt to snuggle up to. A soft pillow to ease your worried dreams. A melody to calm your heart. As your eyes like heavy sheets close and you sink into sleep on that comforting deathbed.

I'm sorry I can't be there for you my friend. I hope you'll understand....

The Birth of an Accidental Nihilist

2006-10-29T22:24:00.000-07:00

It occured to Jonah midstride, halfway to the parking lot, hand on the unlock button, that he used to care so much about everything. Not in a sympathetic "I feel your pain" kind of way. More like every instant was imbued with a weight of uninteligible significance. A weight he bore directly on his scrawny shoulders. A weight which gave purpose and meaning to his introverted suffering, but offered little relief. Never did it offer to buy him ice cream and relax at a theater. Never did it provide answers, for always as he turned round and round it remained elusively on his back.

Significance never makes room for insignificance.

But these terms, are perhaps... retired.

It occured to him, as he sunk into the plush leather seats of the 2006 Acura LS, that he didn't care about anything anymore except laughing. Laughing not at humor, nor at irony, but at life itself. For everything, especially those deeply rooted, thick barked, long branched shade trees of purpose, on which he spent his youth swinging idly in epileptic fits of logical reasoning, wrestling privately with eternal truths, now seemed shaded with as many layers of absurdity as the absurdities it sought to revile. And this leveling of the playing field, this great misconception, if indeed it is a misconception, turns each tragedy into uprourious comedy. As the curtain pulls back it reveals each player as a clown unaware of his bright smile and shiny red nose. Unaware of his clumsiness and absurdity.

It is perhaps because he had reached absurd limits of seriousness, that he now finds himself in a wake of frivility. Having hotglued a cutout black-felt meanginfulness to everything he engaged, his church, his tennis shoes, his computer, his school, his books, his friends, his leisure, his food, his music, every footstep, every choice, this path or that path, each bite, each word, was either pointing in the right direction or the wrong direction. Everything was utterly and inescapably important. But without guidance and with wavering confidence, it was inevitable that this tower of significance would tumble. It is understandable that in it's wake, in the rubble and broken shards of past-meaning, now mixed homogenously with past-unmeaning, is awakened a fresh nihilism. A nihilism born not of rebellion nor apathy nor logic, but of a failed search for purpose. A search that reached towering proportions and imploded on its own absurdity.

Jonah has become an accidental nihilist. He is certain of the ultimate defeat of nihilism, if he ever finds the impetus to raise his sword against it. Nihilism he considers to be a purgatory, a gateway between the past life and the future life. The past life his withered, the future life has yet to be born, and so for now Jonah floats in an heterogenous compound of belief and unbelief, reason and unreason, and a will to imbue everything with emptyness.

If Jonah would stop smiling, nihilism would scare him. But his eggs are fried. And for now he's enjoying breakfast at a pitstop on the road to wherever.

A New Pair of Pants

2006-10-25T00:24:00.000-07:00

At the semi-mature age of 22 Jonah purchased his first pair of woman's jeans. He is a size 6. Many girls around the world would envy him for that. He brought his female friend the rogue typographer with him, hoping that people would think that he was shopping with her. Once at Old Navy, however, he soon realized that he cared much less about what people would think than he had feared. He found the perfect pair on the sales table. Skinny ultra-low-rise black jeans perfect for hip girls, emo boys, and Jonah.
Now before you begin to judge Jonah for shopping on the wrong side of the aisle or for copying cryface emo trendies. Consider that it's not his fault that he was born with toothpicks in the place of legs. Nor is it his fault that men's jeans (except perhaps those sold at exorbitant prices at express mens) are tailored for lumber jack legs. Jonah prefers to harken back to predecessors like Andy Warhol, Ewan Mcgregor in Trainspotting, old westerns, and Zak Kyes (who have all been known to sport skin tight black jeans). Screw those emo kids.
He believes he has felt a warm reception into the art world since donning the black skintights. He believes they were integral to his 30 minute conversation with the violinist from The Album Leaf, and to Brian from Art Prostitute actually looking him in the eye when he shook his hand. Perhaps they even had a place in shy Shannon sitting beside him on the couch and talking about cars at the Red Bull art of the can exhibition. He, however, refuses to attribute his recent addiction to Mario Kart Double Dash to his new leggings, siting that his addiction occured slightly before he had acquired said leggings.

Turning Muslim in Texas . People reverting to Islam in Texas.

2006-10-09T22:10:00.000-07:00


Ooo you gotta watch this. One of the girls graduated from TCU. Unfortunately she seems like a complete moron. Or at least a partial moron. Also it's interesting to hear a Texan accent coming from behind a burka.

911 Cover Up

2006-10-06T00:01:00.000-07:00


Loose Change 2nd Edition - Korey Rowe / Dylan Avery / Jason Bermas Jonah thinks this is scary. But is it true? In case you're scared witless go to: debunking911.com

An Affair with a New Pair of Shoes

2006-10-01T15:01:00.000-07:00

jonah is becoming a dangerous shopper. dangerous not to the institutions that prey on him, nor to the shopgirls who carelessly flirt with him or the salesmen who flatter him, he is becoming dangerous to his wallet. let me explain. jonah has, for the past few weeks been lazily searching for that pair of shoes that is at once comfortable and cool, drawing glimpses without knowing why. a sly pair of shoes perfect with a pair of slacks. those shoes that you could wear to an interview, to work, to the cinema, but not to the court and maybe not to a wedding (then again maybe to wedding).
but twice now he has left the shoe store holding the wrong pair of shoes. the pair of shoes that had been sold to him by those oh so crafty and kind-voiced salespeople. the first pair he was able to return, having only worn them once and kept them in immaculate condition. the second pair, the three shades of blue pair he's wearing right now. the ones that look like a 1980s ski jacket with sprint shoe soles. the ones that look much more ordinary than the ones he wanted.
but, they were on sale after all. half off. and the girls had been so nice. they were pretty and didn't complain at all when he asked try on so many different shoes. to top it off it was after hours. he happened to walk in after closing hours, but before they had locked the doors. they didn't seem to mind. but all those factors were running through his mind as he looked down at the shoes (the ones almost just right, but not quite, the ones he didn't need) and up at the pretty smiling blonde so eager to help, and down again trying to add up the numbers. she laughed, "those look good on you."
he smiled. "can't beat the price." wiggling his toes.
in the end, there was really no way out but to buy them. even though the ones he really wanted were sitting there a half size too small. he couldn't break the hearts of all those pretty girls could he?
but he didn't really want them. in fact he feels a little like he's betraying his beloved sambas by wearing them. but like i said he didn't have an option. that's why he's wearing them now. as a memorial. a reminder to never buy shoes on sale. to never try on shoes that you don't want to buy. to never walk into a store after closing time. and to never ever ever ever ever let a pretty shopgirl give you complements.

Culture Shock

2006-09-23T16:21:00.000-07:00

jonah was lying on a picnic table again. this time in trinity park by trinity river in fort worth. he was reading a book called CULTURE SHOCK! CHINA. the guy writing the book didn't seem to like china very much. or maybe china wasn't such a great place. or maybe it was and he wanted it all for himself. it's hard to say for sure what the guys motives were. but he wanted the book to sell no doubt. he wanted to make a living no doubt. support his asian wife and his kids (if he had any). but he didn't say a lot of nice things about china. suppose that's the point though. it wasn't like it was a lonely planet guide or something.
Jonah began to regret reading the book at all. even though it said some very useful things, if he ever found himself in china. but maybe he'd rather be surprised, even by the unpleasentries. maybe he'd rather find out for himself. probably a character flaw he thought.
for lack of an audiece. jonah often speaks to himself inside his head. long monologues in an empty theater. for sake of added interest i have invented a friend, an acquaintance really, to the scene. someone who soothes jonah into sanity. for sane people converse with other sane people. insane people converse with themselves.
and so we find jonah sitting alone at the picnic table in the park. he chose this table because not only was there relatively little birdshite, but it was also in the shade. a virtual necessity on a texas summer day, even a pleasent mild one like this. it didn't bother him that he was sitting in relatively close proximity to the children's jungle gym upon which many mexican children clamored, shieking like monkeys while their mothers pushed strollers around in circles brimming with now-quiet-angel-babies soon future-monkey-children.
but for jonah their shrieks were distant enough to be forgotten. fased out along with the buzz of tires on pavement and honking of horns from the nearby streets. some escape into nature this.
"...but it's ok. most things are if you let them." jonah spoke to the young man who, passing, had sat down across the table. saying almost simultaneously "nice day," and "watcha reading?" "a book."
and the conversation continued. though rather stilted. jonah found that talking to another real live human took more effort than talking to himself. people sometimes take jonah's short replies as hostility. sometimes they are. but usually he just doesn't know how to reply any other way.
earlier, when jonah said "but it's ok." he wasn't actually talking about the park. he was talking about life in general. having a terrible mind for details, he often found himself philosophizing in the most egrarious generalizations, a trait he was quite aware of but as incapable of changing as a cripple his lame legs. that's one reason he kept a journal. to remind himself of life's peculiarities. those delicate moments lost to his memory were kept safe in a lockbox of scribbled lines on cream colored pages. often when he found himself retracing these lines with his eyes, images would return to him as if from a dream. of places and people long forgotten, of emotions long dead.
"so you're going to live abroad?"
"i dunno, maybe."
another personal trait, jonah noted to himself, all too aware of his own character. the inability to commit. but of course he could not commit. nothing is set in stone. even you must admit that it was also quite possible that jonah would not live abroad. in fact, you must admit that the only explanation for the future are those very words that jonah uttered : i dunno, maybe. the future is as certain as dice in middair. common sense prevented him from making a definitive statement about the future. well common sense and a lack of faith.
jonah wasn't sure if he enjoyed this boy's company or not. he had been perfectly content lying on the table reading to himself in the shade. but i put him there. i don't know why. just curious how jonah would respond i guess. he'll probably leave if jonah doesn't figure out something to talk about. some common interest. trouble is jonah isn't interested in a lot of common things.
what do children talk about? back before there were current events and celebrities and gossip and sports?
i don't know. jonah didn't know. he hadn't had a conversation with a child in many years.

one man camping

2006-09-18T15:26:00.000-07:00

the sun was already beginning to set when jonah pulled into the state park visitor center. he laughed. he didn't know why. it kinda burst out of him like a burp. as he approached the visitors center he began to ask himself questions like: will they care if i have a tent or not? should i ask? why would they care?

you want one near the showers? or does that matter?

(do i smell bad or something?) nah, secluded if it's possible.

i'll give ya 64. right here.

she highlighted the numbers on the park map. they were close to the left edge of the paper. jonah smiled.

perfect. he said.

thought the park wasn't big, it took a while winding through the twisted roads to reach the back. he pulled his black jetta into the spot and stepped out. it was perfect, just what he wanted. well almost. there was still a water spicket. he didn't need that.

i wonder if i'm paying extra for that.

there was also a picnic table. perfect, i'll sleep on that, he thought. he didn't have a tent. nor even a sleeping bag exactly. just a sheet sewn together and a fleece sack.

that night after the sun had set, after he had walked around the park a bit, searching in vain for the waterfalls of the camp's namesake, after he had dined on his honeywheat bagel and peanut butter and chased off two curious raccoons, he lay his fleece down for padding on the table and curled up in his cotton sheet. the air was heavy and hot even in the dark. his skin was damp with sweat, but he didn't dare get out of the sheet for the mosquitos. he wondered if mosquitos liked faces. if he would wake up pizza faced. he dozed. awakened ever few minutes by a strange noise or a little sting on his neck or shoulder. but he didn't mind. this is it man. he would say to himself and laugh.
eventually however the stings became too frequent, he had killed far too many ants. he sat up on the table. it was 230. he shined his flashlight down where his head had been. and saw it vibrating with excited ants.

oh my.

quite heavy eyed, and disappointed he began to exterminate the little pests one by one. then when he could see no more to flick off he lifted the sheets and shook them out violently. he wondered if someone saw him from a distance if they might think the sheet was a ghost. maybe a woman haunting the woods.

plan B. sleep on the car. it won't be that bad he thought. he propped himself on the hood up against the windshield. the engine was still warm. he looked up at the stars. they shone dimly through he clouds. it was difficult to keep from sliding off the hood, though it wasn't very steep. he placed his legs flat on it to create as much friction as possible and gradually fell asleep. he awoke shortly after to an ambulance and its coyote ensemble singing right along. they sound like they were inside the camp, not in the woods. they kept it up for a good ten minutes. but he fell asleep again anyway.

two hours later, feeling not very rested. and growing more irritated with the task of staying atop the car. he decided to throw caution to the wind and just sleep on the ground. choosing a leafy area close to the tent spot, he spread out his fleece once more and curled up in his sheet. it was growing quite chilly at this point. and ah what comfort. compared to the picnic table and the car hood, the cold hard ground was quite luxurious. he slept there until eight, when he was awakened by the ants. who discovered his new location and were punishing him vigilantly for his destruction of their brothers.

i need to get a tent. he thought.

in a car outside san antonio

2006-09-17T19:21:00.000-07:00

i always find myself in cars. if trains were more popular i'd probably find myself there. if i was richer maybe i would fly. i forgot how much i love my jetta.

life i think. to me is like those heartbeat machines. that green line that peaks and dips with each thump. telling the doctors that you're alive. as the sun was setting i was just reaching the texas hill country outside of san antonio. above me the sky was dark grey. military battleship grey. in front was a sliver of blue light. the grey was reaching down long skinny fingers into the blue. it was drizzling like a fog. and as i drove the rain seemed to be running up my windshield instead of down.
behind me the sun bled all across the horizon. a smeary crimson stain. i pulled over. i wanted to watch the sun set forever. hit repeat and sit there. i grabbed my camera. the pentax k1000 my aunt just gave me. and pointed it westward. i couldn't get the light meter to read right. so i fiddled with it. trying to find the right shutter speed aperture setting. when i finally got it right i looked up and the sun was almost gone. i took a picture anyway.
lesson: if you see a pretty sunset. don't waste it trying to make it last forever.

maybe i'll start writing about myself in third person. i'll call myself jonah and i'll rename everyone i know. i'll create symmetry for jonah and give him direction. i'll be jonah's friend and creator and god.

jonah turned the stereo up. he sang along to crooked fingers with a passionate if unskilled voice. he tried not to think about what he sounded like. if people would tell him to shut up if they heard him. if his mom liked his voice, if his sister liked his voice, if his brother like his voice. he told himself that it was the feeling that counted. that maybe he could make someone feel something with his voice. he imagined himself singing with a guitar in hand on stage in front of a small crowd. he saw everyone leave. no not everyone, a few people stayed and listened. he told himself those people were the gold. the others the sand. and the gold would go gather more gold and he'd be a folk legend.
but he tried not to think about those things. he tried to just sing along and appreciate the hillside and the setting texas sun and the feeling.

he loved the feeling that movement brings. he looked out the driver's window at the blurred blades of grass. the slash of green and black asphalt. like a rothko, he thought. a rothko in motion. the road ahead was straight and long and narrow. like texas roads ought to be. he was thinking about the west. how far does I10 go? he didn't want to stop or turn around. he didn't to ever stop and turn around. but sometimes you can't have what you want. in boerne he caught 46 east to 281 south. back into san antonio for the night.

2006-09-10T20:44:00.000-07:00

he lay. catatonic you might think at first, in the hospital room. mouth agape, eyes shut. but he can still understand. he knows whos there. and sometimes he moves his right arm, trying to communicate. his breathing is loud like a snore, dragging air past his tongue. his mouth gets dry as sandpaper so we have to dab it with a damp swab periodically.

everyone takes turns holding his hand. talking to him.
i wanted to tell him about my trip. but i couldnt. when my voice left my mouth it was aimed at the air. i felt foolish. and kept it brief. i wanted to talk to him as if he was listening. but it just didnt seem like he was. didnt seem like he was in there at all. but he was. he is. hes holding on longer than they thought he would. yet the funeral is scheduled for tuesday...

is it sad that everyone has to die? that someday this skin and muscle and bone will rebel against our wills. and trap us, suffocate our conscious and squeeze out our life.

my grandmother is dying in a different way. her mind is rebeling. and slowly she's forgotten most of the things she held dear. like the names of her grandchildren and the faces of her daughters. Aunt Becky soothed her sobs with the promise of heaven. she mumbles to herself. like she's doing a math problem in her head. she told me as i sat there silently holding his hand. 'its ok, he's going to heaven.' she assured me. i smiled and nodded. my grandmother is such a sweet child.

he always faced his death straight on. i remember him joking with me about it three years ago at the funeral of my mothers mom. 'i'll be the next one to go,' he said with a wink and a smile. i smiled uncomfortably, unable to laugh at death the way he did. holding onto conditioned shame. a little embarassed to be alive and young. my grandmother reprimanded him playfully. the idea of death didnt seem to bother him. i guess he was helping to prepare me. nobody expected it. the massive bleeding in the brain.

"he just wanted to hold his hand." she bit off the last word to hold back tears.

i wonder what its like to live ever closer to death. an old friend had come. he held tightly to grandfather's hand. Two worn, gnarled hands. expressing all the love he could not speak. his sunglasses kept his tears private.

i don't know what to do or think at times like this.

Study a Broad

2006-06-25T00:01:00.000-07:00

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

Now and then you’ve just got to get up off your bum and run down to the river

2006-06-21T20:15:00.000-07:00

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.

Some Books and Thoughts on Family Ties

2006-06-20T14:15:00.000-07:00

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

Harry Haller is a sad and lonely figure, a reclusive intellectual for whom life holds no joy. He struggles to reconcile the wild primeval wolf and the rational man within himself without surrendering to the bourgeois values he despises. His life changes dramatically when he meets a woman who is his opposite, the carefree and elusive Hermine. The tale of the Steppenwolf culminates in the surreal Magic Theater—For Madmen Only!

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

* * *

We perceive, I suppose, the world through inherited lenses. A frustrating predicament. My maternal lineage traces us back to the famed preacher Jonathan “Brimstone” Edwards. At least according to legend. No doubt he was a man who said many great things, and preached many great sermons. And I suppose I should read up on the man before I make any lasting judgments, but legend is greater than truth is it not? The overwhelming shadow of this legendary puritan hangs over my whole family.

At least it seems to me.

I don’t mean to denounce anything. It’s just that I don’t particularly care to sit in the shaded grass and wave the family flag.

Europe is far from home. At least it used to be.

I’ve been planning to keep a travel blog while I’m gone. A way to record my adventures for myself and for my friends. Or friend as the case may be. Or maybe just for myself (considering the number of comments I receive).

I ate a picnic lunch with three aunts and their kids. My upcoming trip quickly became the hot topic. First she proposed that I stay with missionaries (fair enough, I’m sure they’re pleasent folk), then that this would make a great opportunity to share my faith, then that she’d like to follow my blog (this was my fault, because I told her I’d be keeping one). I’m afraid that she sees my venture as a grand proselytizing tour. I hope to discuss a great many things with a great many people. But nowhere on my agenda is making disciples.

I mean she is a wonderful woman, and she is excited for me and everything. But suddenly, imagining her and the rest of my family following my path step by step makes me want to crawl beneath a rock.

My other aunt seemed oddly dismayed about the whole thing and just kept saying, to no one in particular, “you’ll sure meet some interesting people” over and over. She has a restless lazy eye that can’t decide which side of her face it likes better. I never know who she’s talking to, or which eye to look at.

Maybe I should just say “Screw it I’m sick of pretending to toe the family line. And you know what I’m going to get high in Amsterdam. And I’m going to read unChristian books, and I’ll curse now and then. And I’ll talk to people about Shamans and Nietzche and Buddha if they want to, and I won’t try to convert them. And I’m not like you. Accept it.”

I guess eventually I will have to say these things. I’d kinda just planned on eventually ceasing to attend family gatherings and let everyone forget about me. Guess that’s not a good idea though... guess I should give them a chance to know me. Guess that’s the hard way out.

Art.

2006-06-19T15:02:00.000-07:00

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.

Tonight Was My Last Night

2006-06-18T21:58:00.000-07:00

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.

Budapest

2006-06-18T13:39:00.000-07:00

In one week...
2:55 PM

Let Me Start Over Now; With Forceps I’ve Removed My Tongue

2006-06-13T12:35:00.001-07:00

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.

Don’t believe your friends when they ask you to be honest with them. All they really want is to be maintained in the good opinion they have of themselves.
Albert Camus

2006-06-10T13:52:00.000-07:00

2006 MTV Movie Awards - Gnarls Barkley

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

To Waco

2006-06-09T14:35:00.000-07:00

To wish my mother a happy birthday.

Someone Must Be Reading My Blog

2006-06-08T21:21:00.000-07:00

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?

Valet Rant, iPod Resurrected, & Book Recommendation

2006-06-08T07:58:00.000-07:00

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.

I was an injust task master

2006-06-05T09:58:00.000-07:00

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.”

Pagans Prostitutes Seedy Bars and Sleepless Nights

2006-06-04T08:56:00.000-07:00

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.

Saw Dave Kinsey at Art Prostitute. Got lost amidst the fog of pretentiousness. And wound up conversing in rhymes with a Boston poet, neo-pagan, lesbian in a hairy man’s body, dancer extraordanaire, autistic. This guy could rhyme faster than I could think. So it wasn’t so much a conversation as me listening to him rhyme incoherently. Then he paused “Do you have a cig? Are you clean? You don’t smoke do you? You’re gay aren’t you? You’re one of those clean gay non-smokers aren’t you?” This made Christina laugh. “You’re half right, I don’t smoke.” Interesting guy. Could have had an interesting conversation I think if he would have shut up for a minute. I found myself desparately looking for a diversion. Some reason to walk over there. Nothing, no reason to do anything. He turned a way, distracted like a fly in a roomful of lights. And I made my escape.

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.

Dear Mr. Sampedro,

2006-05-30T21:07:00.000-07:00

new credo #2:

beauty is truth, truth beauty (Yeats)

it was from the beginning a metaphysical argument. for at the base what do you find? Or do you suppose that laws float in a vaccuum, did human rights spring from the ground? You ask for the right to die, you ask for death with dignity. And I sympathize with you, I do, but your argument is a spaghetti strainer. Tell me, name for me a law, a “right” endowed by nature. Tell me, do, which animal observes these rights?

What is stealing what is murder what is rape?

Tell me upon whose authority do you deny me these things?

The state’s authority, you say? Should the state be the defacto moral compass? What is the state but an emblem of power? You know the atrocities of the state. Who is Martin Luther King? Who is Joan of Arc? Who is Jesus Christ? Who is Hitler? Who is Stalin? Who is Saddam? Might does not make right.

Wherefore does moral right arise?
In a person’s subjective conviction? Then let us be done with the fictitious state and live in anarchy.

It is and must be a metaphysical dilemma. No matter your reply.

An intellectual is someone whose mind watches itself.
-Camus

i wanted to tell everyone, but then came the sad realization that so few people really cared

2006-05-27T23:32:00.000-07:00

new credo:
live rightly at the expense of ease

now i have me very own 35mm! i fixed my parent’s old pentax ME this week. it hadn’t worked in 1.5 decades. the repair guy told my dad back in the 80’s it wasn’t plausible to fix it. HA! that’s what i say. 22 hours later and it works like new! Light meter et al. i took the whole thing apart piece by piece figured out how it worked then decided if it still worked, and then put it back together piece by piece. turns out the problem was the top shutter was jammed. i probably could have fixed it in 20 minutes had i know that. ah but the memories.

i think i’ll find another broken camera to fix...

also: i am watching ingmar bergman’s the seventh seal. if you don’t know what that means. it means that i am smarter cooler and more cultured than you. yes it does too.

Reminder to self:

2006-05-23T11:13:00.000-07:00

do more say more learn more clean more read more watch more love more talk more build more believe more love more forget more remember more forgive more believe more search more write more draw more believe more hope more encourage more.

doubt less think less worry less despair less fear less give up less worry less hate less judge less.

2006-04-25T22:28:00.000-07:00

Constantly risking absurdity.

-Lawrence Ferlinghetti

love/hate

2006-04-13T00:09:00.000-07:00

oh me oh my.
i want this shirt.

...and a leica.

...then i’ll be happy.

...oh and does anyone want to write this research paper for me?

he sat, deep in thought, in the corner of his cell plotting his revenge

2006-04-03T22:52:00.000-07:00

clint eastwood you bastard. breath held, leapt from the coffee table, dashed towards the couch. thought i wasn't watching? thought i couldn't reach? when will you grow weary of these vain attempts? when will you be happy?
i hear you now from the other room. gnawing and gnawing at the metal wire. standing on hind legs to reach the fresh air. this cage is your home. your home!
and where would you go, you ungrateful wretch? who would take you in? you have never seen the outside in your miniature life. you would be eaten alive by wolves! don't you see, you've got it made. everything is laid at your feet. if only you would be content. oh clint, if only you didn't hate me.
i want you to be happy.

you‘re too smart for your own good.

you see the world beyond the confines of your cage.

DSVC Student Conference 2006

2006-04-01T22:15:00.000-07:00

me and my pal chip.

James Victore, Ellen Lupton, Chip Kidd

Things I wrote down:
- life without edges is not worth living
- question authority
- don‘t open design annuals
- there is a style gland that turns malignant in nevada
- live every day as if you were dying of a contagious disease that turned everyone you bite into zombies

roll the dice
read by james victore

if you’re going to try, go all the
way.
otherwise, don’t even start.

if you’re going to try, go all the
way.
this could mean losing girlfriends,
wives, relatives, jobs and
maybe your mind.

go all the way.
it could mean not eating for 3 or 4 days.
it could mean freezing on a
park bench.
it could mean jail,
it could mean derision,
mockery,
isolation.
isolation is the gift,
all the others are a test of your
endurance, of
how much you really want to
do it.
and you’ll do it
despite rejection and the worst odds
and it will be better than
anything else
you can imagine.

if you’re going to try,
go all the way.
there is no other feeling like
that.
you will be alone with the gods
and the nights will flame with
fire.

do it, do it, do it.
do it.

all the way
all the way.

you will ride life straight to
perfect laughter, its
the only good fight
there is.

Bukowski

Two New Books for My Collection:

thinking with type. where has this book been all my life???

cheese monkeys. ok to be honest i bought this book so that chip kidd could sign it. i know that‘s lame. but someday you‘ll be jealous.

summation

probably the best show i've been to since that first creative summit two years ago when i heard jim sheridan, gary baseman, and stefan sagmeister all in one weekend.

exhibitions, nazis, and getaways

2006-03-27T06:57:00.000-07:00

i had this dream. i was looking for a place to exhibit the senior show. for some reason i wanted it to be in austin so i googled "austin universities" and this place called berkeley came up. i thought "i didn't know berkeley was in austin" so i booked a spot in their gallery. then the next day christina asked me "how is everyone going to get to california?" i said "it's in austin." she said "no berkeley is in california." so then i googled again and discovered that the berkeley in austin was a community college. i didn't really want to exhibit in a community college so i started searching again.

we ended up traveling to a nazi occupied eastern germany. we fought our way out of a huge mansion and ran out onto the beach, only to discover more nazis arriving by boat. one fat nazi with a large moustache was in front. some men were working on the sewage pipes and i thought about going underground.

i don't know what everyone else did at this moment, but i ran as hard as i could at the ocean. and following a very gracefully diving lance kearns, i dove in. when i surfaced i realized there were cars floating around in what was now a river. apparently it was part of a new nazi highway initiative. i climbed in the open back window of an old minivan. there was a woman driving and a young boy in the back next to me. "drive," i said. i didn't have a gun though, but was trying to be real mean and intimidating. she and the boy, however, were completely numb to fear. the boy pulled a cap gun on me, but i snatched it from him and pointed at something on the dash, as if maybe that would be more threatening than either of their lives.

we quickly emerged onto a raised railway. we drove parellel to the tracks. i commented on how cool all the billboard ads were. and they were very cool. the raised platform that we were traveling on was immense, but not intended for cars. eventually the platform we were driving on abruptly ended. we careened down one hundred feet from the side of the raised railway. neither the woman nor the boy ever even blinked. as we fell i said "at least i tried." we exploded on the ground in a ball of fire.

i heard the woman say posthumously "danny, remind me to send a thank you card to your mother, you've been such a good boy."

Skeletees

2006-03-20T10:43:00.000-07:00

Note to Self: Reward self for hard work by purchasing one of these.

i did not love arkansas, i did not hate arkansas.

2006-03-18T00:49:00.000-07:00

we are so penatrated by prefab images. packaged deals. so much built in. what we perceive is often a simalcra of what actually is. and in a sense fail to escape the bonds of our imaginations. and when our imaginations fail to escape the shackles of media input, our experience can be no more and no less than what is demanded by that stimulus.

what was i seeking in arkansas?
and what did i find?

life’s not what you think.

Love Panther After Feeding

2006-03-07T17:23:00.000-07:00

The civil war

2006-02-28T15:51:00.000-07:00

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.

What is this water from the heavens?

2006-02-25T14:12:00.001-07:00

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.

The Red Bird Sweater

2006-02-23T15:23:00.000-07:00

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.

Gypsies

2006-02-12T22:19:00.000-07:00

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.

unSUPERBOWL

2006-02-06T10:06:00.000-07:00

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.

A Resolution

2006-02-02T14:40:00.000-07:00

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.

play

2006-02-01T23:12:00.000-07:00

i found this animation mesmerizing. beautiful really.

PLAY

NEGADON!!

2006-01-22T12:07:00.000-07:00

i don't know what it's about exactly but check out this retro CG Anime Pretty cool.

Guardians of our Genome

2006-01-19T08:44:00.000-07:00

This article suggests that what we do and experience directly affects our offspring. Guardians of our Genome. I knew it.

Clint Eastwood

2006-01-19T00:14:00.000-07:00

I've never seen a hamster so intent on escape...

2005-12-19T17:20:00.000-07:00

I took a test that the guy at career services gave to me and turns out the top two career paths for me are social science and visual arts. anybody surprised?

Cara Descending A Staircase

2005-12-18T15:02:00.000-07:00

Painting - A
Acting - A

time for work.

Ahhhhh...

2005-12-15T14:32:00.000-07:00

glorious winter break.
finals are complete.

Independent Study in Graphic Design-A
Package Design-A
Death & Dying-A

so far so good eh?

2005-12-14T11:39:00.000-07:00

am i growing old or just getting boring

2005-12-13T23:37:00.001-07:00

something has gone terribly wrong. when i feel a need to conform to dress nice, speak right, watch my manners. when everything must line up make sense define. what went wrong? someone give me a good anarchist book to read. when did i start making the rules? and stop breaking them. when did i start telling you to be careful? when did i stop writing poetry or thinking philosophy or taking pictures of random crap? or walking alone by the river? when did the fuse suppress? when did i stop caring and start accepting? i traded pain for comfort, and spontaneity for order. kisses are the gentle, subversive suffocation. love is a reason to let the paint dry.

i raise my glass to discord and doubt and anarchy and rage and loneliness. to isolation and longing and idealism and pain. but i drink down the peace your presence brings. till i'm stumbling drunk on your love. and the familiar discord that i love so much sifts to the surface of my stupor to comfort me like sandpaper and lemon juice. and i float away lonely on a vast sea of your tears.

write more.

Today at the Reata

2005-11-06T22:28:00.000-07:00

So i was driving a lexus rx300. valeting it that is. we park it about two blocks from the restaurant. and i was pulling it up. adrian had already left, so it was just me working. as i turn down 3rd towards the restaurant, a plastic cup full of water tips and spills all over my lap and the leather seat. "stupid effing cup!" i say. what am i going to do? i ask as i park the car by the restaurant and hop out. he's not there. no towel. no way of getting a towel without letting him know i spilled water all over his seat. so i did the only thing i saw possible. i wiped it up with my butt. and pretended nothing happened.

if we can put a man on the moon why can't we put metal in the microwave?

2005-10-28T21:24:00.000-07:00

in the past three days i've slept 15 hours and missed the train 4 times.
i've got to get myself together.

2005-10-26T17:17:00.000-07:00

got me a new pair of socks today. etc...

2005-10-25T21:32:00.000-07:00

my bike has a flat tire etc.

Delicious

2005-10-18T12:19:00.000-07:00

There is so much to be thankful for. Like frutmost fruit juice, and their revolutionary fresherizing process. By golly it's good.

Speculation on time travel

2005-10-16T08:42:00.000-07:00

First off we're all time travelers. It's just that we're all traveling at the same speed through time. According to special relativity, as one approaches the speed of light time slows down. So if you're traveling faster it appears that you are aging slower, and therefore since time is moving slower for you, you return less aged than those around you. Now, the earth spins at 1000 miles per hour, and it rotates around the earth at about 67,000 miles per hour. the speed of light is 186,000 miles per second. could it be that the earth is in fact a giant time machine and it's rotation allows everyone on it to be a time traveler? And that the rate of time passage is directly related to the speed of the earth's rotation?

If so, all we need to do is build a giant planet and hurl it around the sun at an astronomical speed. I have a dream to do just that. I'm gathering a crack team of specialists as we speak. Join the team.

Each moment collides into the next like bubbles in outer space

2005-10-14T10:10:00.000-07:00

Flippin' sweet.

Got my photos back from Target. They didn't know what to do with my funked up negs, so they just printed as is. And they're sweet. I got doubles, but somehow the crop is different on each run, for two unique sets. Hurrah!

It is beautiful outside. I should go do something outside. I was going to go to dallas and visit my friends at matchbox but the train doesn't run again until after noon.

We need milk.

I had the trippiest dream last night, i swear

2005-10-10T10:55:00.000-07:00

ask me about it sometime, i'll read it to you.

if you find some time spend it here . i only watched the invasion video.

Perhaps the most beautiful day of the semester

2005-10-07T08:24:00.000-07:00

CLOUDY
50°F
Feels Like
46°F

A beautiful day for hot porridge.

Music Exhibits and Movies

2005-10-04T12:57:00.000-07:00

First off the new Broken Social Scene is out. And the buzz if off the charts.

Second off,Anselm Keifer at the Modern. Check it. I am. Tomorrow with my painting class.

Third off, Richard Avedon 'in the American West' at the Amon Carter.

Fourth off, check out the schedule for movies at the Modern. Mirrormask, Capote, Werner Herzog??? I'm going.

How are you and Jesus doing?

2005-10-03T07:04:00.000-07:00

I was at work downtown. And these street evangelists are always running around handing people tracts and shouting through megaphones. I get a real kick out of it. I'm thinking, here are some fellows who act boldly on what they believe. I don't know if they're right, but by god they've got guts. And i dig that. Well usually they let us alone, but this guy must have been new or something because he approached our valet stand and began talking to kim. Then he turned to me and asked me "how are you and Jesus doing?" To which i replied "well i don't know about myself, but Jesus is probably doing alright." Then he asked that question "do you know where you'd go if you died tonight son?"

"i guess only God knows that"
"not for the Christian, see the bible says that by faith..."
"right by faith, it's a matter of belief"
"Christian's believe that the holy spirit allows you to know"
"funny i was just talking about this with my girlfriend"
"well good that's good, son what's preventing you from praying a prayer with me right now asking..."
"i appreciate what you're doing, but i don't believe it works that way, you can't just pray a prayer"
"pray that the holy spirit will open your eyes"
"i guess i'll just have to wait for God"

then kim handed me a set of keys.

"i've got to run"
"thank you for your time"

i would have enjoyed a prolonged discussion with this man. Though not too prolonged, i doubt either of us was going to convince the other of anything. But sometimes i wonder if these crazy street evangelists are the right ones. Their certitude definitely speaks volumes.

2005-10-02T12:30:00.000-07:00

i wanted to write something. what did i want to write. it would have made you laugh. and think.

what was it

what was it...

i don't remember, but i tried removing a wart with a pair of justin's pliers, i got halfway through then felt a little queazy and had to give up.

some pics of chicago up.

On Death

2005-09-27T22:42:00.000-07:00

how beautiful it is to see people gather to pray for a friend.
i'm moved by the strength of compassion.

We were in the car for over 35 hours. Next we'll drive to Alaska.

2005-09-25T12:43:00.000-07:00

Chicago was wonderful.
Many thanks to our gracious hosts. You guys are awesome.

I really liked Chicago. Maybe i'll go back someday. For longer.

Sigur Ros was was... how do you say... a mesmerizing flood of sonic angel breath.

And Cara you are awesome. Period. I'd rather drive 15 hours with you than be eaten alive by rabid toothless chimpanzees. much rather. no joke.

(Pictures pending)

Chicago

2005-09-20T17:45:00.000-07:00

CHICAGO. Be back saturday.

Good day oh my brothers.

Takk...

2005-09-19T23:28:00.000-07:00

Buy this album now! I command you thus.

My... if sunsets were choirboys.

They might sound like Sigur Ros.

Last night I made enough money to buy this album, and pay my one dollar library fee and I still had a dollar left over. However, tonight was a different story. I swear the most interesting people wander the streets downtown. Met the Party King tonight. The party king was dressed in a tshirt and jeans, tennis shoes and black shades. He showed us a few moves, "Hey guys remember me? I'm tha.... party king!" Then he asked for fifty cents. To which Ian replied "can't while we're working," then the party king said "you could if you wanted to, you could if you really loved me, that's alright the party king still loves y'all" then he hugged me. It was a tender moment for all of us.
This other guy, a short fellow with a gimpy walk, just couldn't get over how fast I ran. "I betcha if ya ran a 200 meter race you'd win. By golly you were faster than a, than a, than a, jackrabbit that's what I said. By golly you're faster than a road runner." He was all smiles. Dirty teeth, but all smiles.

Hey tomorrow I'll be gone.

The Gunner's Dream

2005-09-17T10:56:00.000-07:00

Somewhere old heroes shuffle safely down the street
Where you can speak out loud
About your doubts and fears
And what's more no-one ever disappears
You never hear their standard issue kicking in your door.
You can relax on both sides of the tracks
And maniacs don't blow holes in bandsmen by remote control
And everyone has recourse to the law
And no-one kills the children anymore.
And no one kills the children anymore.

-Pink Floyd

/Howard was in town so Jay threw a party. Funk music drowned Kill Bill in groove. I sunk into a revolving black arm chair and sipped a beer slowly. Gray amorphous flowers bloomed from cigarette butts. A garden of smoke growing from lips. All the gardeners drenched in the fragrance of their breath. And I too, sipping slowly because I can scarcely stomach the taste. Naively the bear cub tests the trap, presses his paw to the steel teeth, a prick is allures before the metal jaw tastes blood. The temptress need not be beautiful so much as exotic. A promise for the pilgrim. And Uma Thurman painted walls with blood. Sprayed like sprinklers in the lawn. Her lips moved but masked in funk. Revenge, I knew she said. The blunting hum of voices imperceptible. One mass of sound, like a hive of bees. Don't let cognition kick in, just rest in the sound. Like a wise Buddha resting amid the chaos, not I, but the bong on the coffee table. A circle evolves around a pipe, pass around. I'm not in the mood to cough my lungs up tonight. I'm no good at smoking or mingling now. Droov was wearing a Pink Floyd shirt./

Dance like a Buddha whirlwind. oh come on. oh come on. yeah come on.

2005-09-14T20:52:00.000-07:00

This new blog represents a new life to me. I've graduated from xanga and its badgrammarskillz and moved on to a bigger better blog. A real blog, for real bloggers, with real things to say. Because i have real things to say. This blog represents to me in alphabetical order: atonement, blessings, cult status, dogs, effervescence, fruition, godmode, happiness, infinite gladness, jubilee, killerbees, lollipops, malnutrition, nothingness, opulence, persistence, quasi neptune, resistânce, sheen, trapezes, up up and away, victory, winged glory, (post)xanga, youth eternal, zebras.

Suddenly i have things to do. And i've been doing things. Projects and things. But not what i have due tomorrow. Mockups. For my package design class. So...
Ideas?

If you're on the throne at the digs be sure to reach behind your head and read some Zen. I realized it had been a while since i had read some Zen and that there was nothing to read in el baño. So i remedied both at once. Be sure to thank me when you attain enlightenment.

Speaking of enlightenment. I still have not received the new SIGUR ROS which you want to buy for me. (pronounced see-er rose, say the rose real fast, don't judge me it says so on the website. silent g that's right). Oh something you should know. I'm driving to Chicago with Cara to see them live. In Chicago. I won't tell you where i live, but from Fort Worth that's a 15 hour drive. Oh and my car doesn't have AC as of last week. Oh, Cara my car won't have AC. I'm sorry. But i don't have $850 to fix the compressor right now..... BREAKING NEWS! HOLD THE PRESSES! My parents are going to let us take their Honda. Glorious!

New Blog

2005-09-12T08:00:00.000-07:00

Here I will post the thoughts and happenings in the life of Nathan Sharp. They are of utmost importance. Read carefully.