Hi guys and dolls.
So in short:
Vacation = a surly harlot.
Deadlines = a gaseous giant.
Computers = several boorish madmen.
Money = an invisible musty stench.
Family = no chance of parole.
Voice = wrenched.
Me = trying to please god and/or man and/or monsters.
therefore
Deadlines + Computers + Family + Me - Voice - Money - Vacation = A ferocious, mentally retarded chicken that likes to pluck out my eyebrows and then glue them on backwards.
But not to worry. I don't do Hudsucker moments anymore.
This moment of lucidity has been brought to you by the lack of REM cycles and viable purpose and may dissappear after the editor reads this and proclaims, "Back to the steamy depths from whence you arose!"
Peace,
Simon
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Friday, February 24, 2006
Monday, February 20, 2006
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
Distractions
The night was too cold for sleep.
"So. 26 in a 15 school zone crossing..."
I really need to get new wiper blades for the windshield.
"On your way to work this morning? Still asleep?"
The steam in the retention pond is doing some spectacular sky writing.
"Everything going okay at home?"
I wonder if I'll ever see Japan? Probably cold there this time of year, too.
"Your insurance card is expired. Better get that taken care of otherwise it's a $70 fine."
My cowlicks are in rare form this morning.
"Back in a moment."
My teeth are starting to hurt again. Guess I should get them looked at.
"This constitutes a $254 ticket."
Why doesn't this card fit in my wallet like every other card.
"You look like the face of a man who has more than a few distractions on his plate at the moment. I assume that this a gross underestimation?"
I look up for a moment.
He beats out a rhythm with the contents of his hands. He stares, pondering with intent. His gaze wanders around, on the pillow and blanket in the seat next to me, my toothbrush and a jug of water. He continues on to the two empty child seats in the backseat, the towel soaking up the spot where snacks were spilled, the dirty sneakers and soiled clothes.
"These are yours. Stop somewhere, wake up and then give it 110% while you are on the road, okay?"
There is no ticket in the stack he returns to me.
"On your way now."
Hey, look at the pretty colors in the sky...
There may have been some words on my part in all of that but I honestly can't remember a single one.
"So. 26 in a 15 school zone crossing..."
I really need to get new wiper blades for the windshield.
"On your way to work this morning? Still asleep?"
The steam in the retention pond is doing some spectacular sky writing.
"Everything going okay at home?"
I wonder if I'll ever see Japan? Probably cold there this time of year, too.
"Your insurance card is expired. Better get that taken care of otherwise it's a $70 fine."
My cowlicks are in rare form this morning.
"Back in a moment."
My teeth are starting to hurt again. Guess I should get them looked at.
"This constitutes a $254 ticket."
Why doesn't this card fit in my wallet like every other card.
"You look like the face of a man who has more than a few distractions on his plate at the moment. I assume that this a gross underestimation?"
I look up for a moment.
He beats out a rhythm with the contents of his hands. He stares, pondering with intent. His gaze wanders around, on the pillow and blanket in the seat next to me, my toothbrush and a jug of water. He continues on to the two empty child seats in the backseat, the towel soaking up the spot where snacks were spilled, the dirty sneakers and soiled clothes.
"These are yours. Stop somewhere, wake up and then give it 110% while you are on the road, okay?"
There is no ticket in the stack he returns to me.
"On your way now."
Hey, look at the pretty colors in the sky...
There may have been some words on my part in all of that but I honestly can't remember a single one.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
A Sum of Parts
I could go on about the horrendous behavior that besets our species on this day.
But I won't. You can find those words elsewhere. Because...
There seems to be an excess of people that don't need to hear about that. People with misconnected parts and missing pieces. People with their parts on inside out and backwards, trying to get with other peoples parts. Those with parts that are threadbare do fall apart easily. There is no instruction manual for reference.
I'd gladly give you my body or my mind if it pleased you, whichever you prefer, but I only have one of each to spare. And I don't know anything about souls or whether they exist. But my body and my mind tell me that if I see one that is lonely, then give what I am able.
Love cannot be an idle notion, but it runs the risk being an idol. It's something to do, not to worship. Love is to be consumed voraciously. When it's great it's really great.
Whether I have a soul or not, I am driven to hone that innate ability. Regardless of what I may think I do not place it in the framework of a day, but I will give the affections if I am able. Love can be automatic if you let it. And since you are there and I am here, this is all I can do.
For most of you, we've never spoken, we've never met, and yet if it weren't for you I'd still be futzing around in oblivion. So this is all I can humbly give you for now. I hope it fills you up at least a fraction.
click me
Love you guys.
Peace,
Simon
But I won't. You can find those words elsewhere. Because...
There seems to be an excess of people that don't need to hear about that. People with misconnected parts and missing pieces. People with their parts on inside out and backwards, trying to get with other peoples parts. Those with parts that are threadbare do fall apart easily. There is no instruction manual for reference.
I'd gladly give you my body or my mind if it pleased you, whichever you prefer, but I only have one of each to spare. And I don't know anything about souls or whether they exist. But my body and my mind tell me that if I see one that is lonely, then give what I am able.
Love cannot be an idle notion, but it runs the risk being an idol. It's something to do, not to worship. Love is to be consumed voraciously. When it's great it's really great.
Whether I have a soul or not, I am driven to hone that innate ability. Regardless of what I may think I do not place it in the framework of a day, but I will give the affections if I am able. Love can be automatic if you let it. And since you are there and I am here, this is all I can do.
For most of you, we've never spoken, we've never met, and yet if it weren't for you I'd still be futzing around in oblivion. So this is all I can humbly give you for now. I hope it fills you up at least a fraction.
click me
Love you guys.
Peace,
Simon
Sunday, February 12, 2006
Monday, February 06, 2006
Bring Out Your Dead
I suppose it was not a good idea to go see that movie* by myself. You know what I'm talking about.
I was alone in the theater. The last showing of the evening. It's just a movie. It's gotten hype. So what. It didn't make me cry. It didn't make me angry. In fact by the end of it, I was a zombie. Everything had been sucked out.
You know what makes zombies perpetually walk on the way they do even though they are dead? There is a ringing in their ears that keep their bodies active in drudging rhythm. It's a mechanical buzzing pulse that shoots signals through dead nerves, slowly jolting arms, legs, fingers, causing strokes and flinches and squirms.
I did squirm. I did watch. It was the kiss that did me in. Secrets and lies and marriage and love all in a flurry. I wish I had a fishing buddy. The fish hooks in my gullet are starting to show signs of infection. Snap out of it, it's just a movie.
I'm gay. So what? I was unfaithful. So what? I've broken through. So what? This is old news. She knows all this. I've never been gay bashed, harmed or flushed out because of what I did. Then why does the gaze through the screen mark me in that way. It's just a movie. Just a goddamn movie.
It is that I am an Ennis and a Jack. A grunting grope and insatiable lust all conveniently mashed up, screwing each other in a violent, incessant tumble. They are competitors in a quiz show, flipping those buttons that glow green and red, off and on, off and on, reject, accept, deny, comply, conform, reform, deform, buzz, buzz, buzzzz.
Those are the pulses that move my appendages. And I wish that they could bring satisfaction but the touch of your own rotting hand gets weary.
But it's just a movie. Just fleeting pieces of flickering light. I mumble a bit, stare at the reliquary and throw myself in a cauldron waiting to be reborn.
The ringing will go away. It's frigid in the empty parking lot. The pulse makes me stop moving for a while.
I become paralyzed because I am ashamed of the past.
-------------------
I work a lot. But I gather you know that.
I can't begin to describe to you the wall that stands in my way. It would be a lie to say that my current state doesn't give me thoughts that make me want to quit.
I didn't want it to affect me. But I can't stop thinking about it. I won't ever stop thinking about it. It's become so great that it interferes with my work. It's difficult when what you do, the thing you devote the majority of your life to, the bulk of your energy, serves no discernible end function other than feeding a frenzied mass of distraction.
I become paralyzed because I am afraid of the future.
But my cycle goes on. The deadline will come and go with or without me and I will still be here waiting for the next one to roll around. I'll press the buttons that make things pulse, present them with the similar lights and noise and hope the pattern is pleasing.
I'll get through it and remember that I have a cool job, I have people that are concerned for my well being, and I will go back to being one of the strong ones. One of the dependable ones. One of the safe ones.
Dead ends used to be easy decisions. You either stop or turn around. Even a non-choice is a choice, an inaction of "I choose not to choose" is in itself still an action. Give me an excuse and I'm done for the day. I go to bed, start again. Or I put it in reverse and go back to the familiar.
It will be okay because it has to be. But now I look for the other hidden option to that scenario, one that occurs to me after staring at it long enough. If I don't act I'll still be thinking whether that crack in the barricade was large enough to cause collapse with a well placed punch and what exactly is on the other side.
I aim to find out.
Peace,
Simon
*PS: Ironically, Dan Renzi today points to an article about the movie's aspects of adultery. I could have a lot to say about it but it's hard for me to be objective about it at the moment. You might want to comment there for any discussion on this to be effective.
I was alone in the theater. The last showing of the evening. It's just a movie. It's gotten hype. So what. It didn't make me cry. It didn't make me angry. In fact by the end of it, I was a zombie. Everything had been sucked out.
You know what makes zombies perpetually walk on the way they do even though they are dead? There is a ringing in their ears that keep their bodies active in drudging rhythm. It's a mechanical buzzing pulse that shoots signals through dead nerves, slowly jolting arms, legs, fingers, causing strokes and flinches and squirms.
I did squirm. I did watch. It was the kiss that did me in. Secrets and lies and marriage and love all in a flurry. I wish I had a fishing buddy. The fish hooks in my gullet are starting to show signs of infection. Snap out of it, it's just a movie.
I'm gay. So what? I was unfaithful. So what? I've broken through. So what? This is old news. She knows all this. I've never been gay bashed, harmed or flushed out because of what I did. Then why does the gaze through the screen mark me in that way. It's just a movie. Just a goddamn movie.
It is that I am an Ennis and a Jack. A grunting grope and insatiable lust all conveniently mashed up, screwing each other in a violent, incessant tumble. They are competitors in a quiz show, flipping those buttons that glow green and red, off and on, off and on, reject, accept, deny, comply, conform, reform, deform, buzz, buzz, buzzzz.
Those are the pulses that move my appendages. And I wish that they could bring satisfaction but the touch of your own rotting hand gets weary.
But it's just a movie. Just fleeting pieces of flickering light. I mumble a bit, stare at the reliquary and throw myself in a cauldron waiting to be reborn.
The ringing will go away. It's frigid in the empty parking lot. The pulse makes me stop moving for a while.
I become paralyzed because I am ashamed of the past.
-------------------
I work a lot. But I gather you know that.
I can't begin to describe to you the wall that stands in my way. It would be a lie to say that my current state doesn't give me thoughts that make me want to quit.
I didn't want it to affect me. But I can't stop thinking about it. I won't ever stop thinking about it. It's become so great that it interferes with my work. It's difficult when what you do, the thing you devote the majority of your life to, the bulk of your energy, serves no discernible end function other than feeding a frenzied mass of distraction.
I become paralyzed because I am afraid of the future.
But my cycle goes on. The deadline will come and go with or without me and I will still be here waiting for the next one to roll around. I'll press the buttons that make things pulse, present them with the similar lights and noise and hope the pattern is pleasing.
I'll get through it and remember that I have a cool job, I have people that are concerned for my well being, and I will go back to being one of the strong ones. One of the dependable ones. One of the safe ones.
Dead ends used to be easy decisions. You either stop or turn around. Even a non-choice is a choice, an inaction of "I choose not to choose" is in itself still an action. Give me an excuse and I'm done for the day. I go to bed, start again. Or I put it in reverse and go back to the familiar.
It will be okay because it has to be. But now I look for the other hidden option to that scenario, one that occurs to me after staring at it long enough. If I don't act I'll still be thinking whether that crack in the barricade was large enough to cause collapse with a well placed punch and what exactly is on the other side.
I aim to find out.
Peace,
Simon
*PS: Ironically, Dan Renzi today points to an article about the movie's aspects of adultery. I could have a lot to say about it but it's hard for me to be objective about it at the moment. You might want to comment there for any discussion on this to be effective.
Saturday, February 04, 2006
The Good Fight
...Agent Fiver to checkpoint...do you copy?
...voice fading. battery backup failing...fsshh...ust be quick. coordinates unknown. rain clear but cold coming fast.
big dogs closing in. copy?...pull up pull up pull up...copy? please advi...
...fssssssssssssssshhhhhhh....
...voice fading. battery backup failing...fsshh...ust be quick. coordinates unknown. rain clear but cold coming fast.
big dogs closing in. copy?...pull up pull up pull up...copy? please advi...
...fssssssssssssssshhhhhhh....
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