We were in bed smoking salvia, drinking wine, and listening to an alarm clock radio playing nineties rap and r&b hits.
"I don't know, I don't really fantasize." She said.
"No?"
"No, not really."
"Hmm." I nodded. The concept was foreign to me. "Not even during private shower head time?"
She shrugged. "Well, I mean sometimes. But, no, not really even then. If I'm at the point where I need to get off so bad that I'm taking care of it in the shower, I don't really need a fantasy to help get me there."
"Wait, I think you're looking at this wrong." I said. "You're not supposed to fantasize to just get in the mood. I mean, you could, I guess, but you do it to enhance the situation. Sure, I mean, I can do the job without it, just hand on dick very math-like and boring, sure. But you add a fantasy, some salt, some art, to it, and it becomes something else. No longer is it just guilty touching, but it becomes this whole other experience."
"Yeah, I don't know. My brain just doesn't work that way."
I pulled off of the wine bottle, passed it over to her, and took a drag off the salvia.
"Not everyone is the same, you know." She said.
"No, I know, it's just odd to me. The total disinterest."
"It's not a disinterest. You make it sound like I'm some dried up old fuddy duddy. I do masturbate, just not as much as you. And, occasionally I fantasize, just extremely rarely."
"Why do you think that is?"
This conversation had become perfectly me. A chemically influenced psychological analysis of my partner's masturbation habits.
She drank the wine, but passed on the salvia this time. "I don't know. It's just how I am. Why do you masturbate? Why do you fantasize?"
"Are you making a point, or do you want answers?"
"I'm making a point. Like you need a prompt to go on about your mighty sexual prowess and callused hand."
I smiled.
"All I am saying is, I'm not you."
"I know," I said,"I was just curious why you thought your brain behaved like that."
"Childhood? Society? Breakfast cereal? How should I know?"
"I love you."
"Why do you say that?" She asked.
"Because I do. It's a little adorable how you take offense to my inquiries."
"Well," She said, "it's sort of a private area, you know? I'm not used to getting into in-depth conversations about jerking off."
"Fair enough, beautiful."
We sat there for a few seconds. I drank the last of the wine, and she finished the salvia. She curled herself up under my arm, kissed my chest, and exhaled. I ran my fingers through her hair, and kissed the top of her head.
"Can we please shut this terrible fucking music off?" She asked. "It's making my pussy dry up."
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Found the Light
“Now what?” I asked.
Stephen didn‘t look at me. “I don’t know.”
He had hit a patch of ice, and we had slid off the road, overturning the old Buick in a ditch a few miles outside of town. We were both fine, and had crawled out the windows. The snow was coming down, and the night was well underway.
“Do you have a cell?” I asked.
“No. It’s home. Charging.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah.”
We both stood there a moment longer. The cold ached in my bones, and the tip of my nose was chilling quickly. Stephen kept shuffling around his side of the car, mumbling.
“I guess all we can do is walk,” I said.
“Okay.”
We climbed up out of the ditch, and took a few seconds to look up and down the road, trying to get our directional bearings. Which way we had come, which way we were going, which way was quickest. We went left (from the car’s perspective).
“What if someone finds the car?” Stephen asked.
“Yeah?”
“And we aren’t there?”
“I don’t know. They’ll probably call the police.”
“Will I get in trouble? Leaving the scene of an accident?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. But, what are you supposed to do? Wait in the cold? Die out there? Take the ticket if that’s what it comes to.”
“Yeah,” he said.
We walked into the black, weaving silently between the drifts of windswept snow, less like humans, and more like shadows now. Shadows in a world of frozen black. The whole idea was very romantic, and disturbed me. How does getting into a car accident, and then trudging ten miles of frozen barely plowed back road become some scene of beauty to me? What the fuck is wrong with me?
“If we see a house, maybe we should stop and ask to use the phone,” he said.
“Sure. It’s better than freezing to death.”
“Okay.”
Stephen seemed disappointed. Not in the sense that his car was in the ditch, but in the sense that he had been unable to prevent his car from going into the ditch. Some self-observed reflection on his character. I never understood that about him. His perfect ability to prove his own perceived worthlessness.
“My dad is going to be so pissed at me,” he said.
“Your dad?”
“Yeah. Fuck.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Sure he will, Christ.”
“He’ll probably just be happy you’re okay. I wouldn’t worry about it.”
“Maybe. I’d be pissed at me.”
“Man, you have to knock that shit off. It was an accident.”
He was silent.
After a few minutes, I said; “Remember that time when we were kids, and I was sleeping over in your basement, and in the dark you walked into that fucking pole in the middle of your basement?”
I heard him chuckle. “Yeah. I do. What’d I say? I remember you burst out laughing.”
“Found the pole.”
He laughed. “Yeah. Found the pole.”
“It was hilarious.”
“It was. Fuck. This is the adult equivalent of that. Found the ditch.”
I laughed. “Yeah. I guess so. That’s a little funny in its own right.”
“I guess. Christ, wasn’t I supposed to change at some point, become an adult somewhere along the way?”
“What? What do you mean?” I asked.
“Well, like I said, this is the adult equivalent, I’m the same fucking person. Wasn’t I supposed to, I don’t know, get smarter, grow up, mature?”
“I’m pretty sure that’s a myth. Maybe adulthood is just childhood coated in a thick slime of defeat and shattered dreams.”
“In that case, my slime must be feet deep.”
“It’s all okay man. We’ll get your car out in a couple of hours.”
“Yeah.”
We walked on, and saw no houses.
My fingers began to go numb, and the serious fear of frostbite settled into my brain. I breathed into my sleeves, balled them up, and did all I could to keep my extremities warm.
“You keeping your fingers and shit warm?” I asked.
“Yeah. Still fucking freezing though. Why are there no houses out here?”
“Because we’re in the middle of nowhere. Remember?”
“Oh yeah. I’m trying to think of where the last house we drove past was, and now, I can’t remember even seeing one outside of town. That can’t be right though, can it?”
“I don’t know. Eventually, if we just keep as warm as possible and walking, we’ll find something.”
A glow filled the air, illuminating trees and snowfall. I could see Stephen for the first time in what very well may have been an hour or two. He was looking forward. “Do you see that?” he asked.
I looked where he was looking. The road ahead of us twisted off to the right, but the light shone through the tree line, straight ahead. “Yeah. House?”
“I don’t know. Just came on. Maybe a porch light?”
“Maybe. Want to check it out?” I asked.
“Can’t hurt. I don’t see anything else anywhere.”
“Okay.” I was excited. The prospect of warmth. A phone. Maybe a cup of coffee. A trip home to my bed.
We picked up our pace and hundred yards later, we reached the glowing tree line.
“Well? Ready?” I asked.
“Let’s go.”
I stepped off of the road, into the snow. My foot sunk down a few inches into the snow, and I almost immediately regretted my decision, but, a house so near by would be worth the wet shoes in the end. I walked between the trees, into the forest.
“This is kind of beautiful,” I said. The light cut deep, straight shadows among the trees, thick black lines against bright virgin snow and vertical trunks, who knows how tall. The light seemed to be filling the forest, like a stadium light, and it wasn’t until we had been walking among the underbrush for maybe ten minutes that it dawned on me.
“Does that light seem bright to you?” I asked.
“Yeah, it’s a light.”
“No, I mean, like really fucking bright. Stadium bright. Spotlight bright.”
Stephen stopped and looked at it. After a few seconds, he said; “Yeah. You’re right. What do you think it is?”
“Well, I think porch light is out.”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know. Is there a warehouse or a factory out here that you know of?”
“No, but, I don’t really come out here that often.”
“Right.”
“We should still find out what it is, though I think. Whatever it is, it seems like it could be useful. Where there’s bright lights, there’s usually a phone right?”
“Is that a rule?”
“I don’t know, but it kind of makes sense,” he said.
“Okay.”
Stephen walked on, and I followed.
Another ten minutes passed, and the tree line broke. We found ourselves standing in front of a great cavernous light, hundreds of feet tall, and half as wide, immeasurably deep, and just so gently warm.
“What…?” I asked.
“It’s warm.” Stephen reached his hand out. “It just, sends the cold away.”
“I wouldn’t touch it.”
“It’s okay.” Stephen smiled, his arm stretched out, and began to walk toward it.
I grabbed him by the collar and yanked him down into the snow, melting in front of the light.
He looked at me, kindly. “It’s okay.”
“No you fucking idiot. I don’t know what’s going in here, but we just walked a half hour into the forest to find a mile high pussy of light, and this is somehow okay to you?”
“Yes.” He began to get up.
“No. We need to leave. I pulled him backward as he stood up, back toward the tree line. I didn’t think I was warm enough to make the walk back out, but this wasn’t right, and I had to try. Something was happening to my friend, and I certainly didn’t need it to happen to me.
Stephen stopped and stood still, almost smiling at me.
I pulled on his sleeve. Yanked, but it had no effect. “Stop fucking around you asshole. This isn’t funny!”
“It’s okay,” he repeated.
“No, no it fucking isn’t!” I pulled on him some more, and he turned back toward the great light, as if my pull had exactly the effect of a small insect. “Stephen, get your ass back hear you fucking asshole! Stephen!”
“It’s okay,” he called back to me. “It’s okay.”
“Stephen!”
I made one last attempt to stop him. I ran up behind him, threw my arm around his chest, and tried my hardest to yank him downward, but I just slid off. And he stepped into the great luminous abyss.
I was in the car. Upside down. My vision fading in and out. Someone was banging on the car.
“Hey you! You in there! Can you hear me?!”
My whole body ached. I turned to see Stephen next to me. He was bleeding everywhere.
“Are you okay?!”
“Are you okay?!”
Stephen didn‘t look at me. “I don’t know.”
He had hit a patch of ice, and we had slid off the road, overturning the old Buick in a ditch a few miles outside of town. We were both fine, and had crawled out the windows. The snow was coming down, and the night was well underway.
“Do you have a cell?” I asked.
“No. It’s home. Charging.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah.”
We both stood there a moment longer. The cold ached in my bones, and the tip of my nose was chilling quickly. Stephen kept shuffling around his side of the car, mumbling.
“I guess all we can do is walk,” I said.
“Okay.”
We climbed up out of the ditch, and took a few seconds to look up and down the road, trying to get our directional bearings. Which way we had come, which way we were going, which way was quickest. We went left (from the car’s perspective).
“What if someone finds the car?” Stephen asked.
“Yeah?”
“And we aren’t there?”
“I don’t know. They’ll probably call the police.”
“Will I get in trouble? Leaving the scene of an accident?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. But, what are you supposed to do? Wait in the cold? Die out there? Take the ticket if that’s what it comes to.”
“Yeah,” he said.
We walked into the black, weaving silently between the drifts of windswept snow, less like humans, and more like shadows now. Shadows in a world of frozen black. The whole idea was very romantic, and disturbed me. How does getting into a car accident, and then trudging ten miles of frozen barely plowed back road become some scene of beauty to me? What the fuck is wrong with me?
“If we see a house, maybe we should stop and ask to use the phone,” he said.
“Sure. It’s better than freezing to death.”
“Okay.”
Stephen seemed disappointed. Not in the sense that his car was in the ditch, but in the sense that he had been unable to prevent his car from going into the ditch. Some self-observed reflection on his character. I never understood that about him. His perfect ability to prove his own perceived worthlessness.
“My dad is going to be so pissed at me,” he said.
“Your dad?”
“Yeah. Fuck.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Sure he will, Christ.”
“He’ll probably just be happy you’re okay. I wouldn’t worry about it.”
“Maybe. I’d be pissed at me.”
“Man, you have to knock that shit off. It was an accident.”
He was silent.
After a few minutes, I said; “Remember that time when we were kids, and I was sleeping over in your basement, and in the dark you walked into that fucking pole in the middle of your basement?”
I heard him chuckle. “Yeah. I do. What’d I say? I remember you burst out laughing.”
“Found the pole.”
He laughed. “Yeah. Found the pole.”
“It was hilarious.”
“It was. Fuck. This is the adult equivalent of that. Found the ditch.”
I laughed. “Yeah. I guess so. That’s a little funny in its own right.”
“I guess. Christ, wasn’t I supposed to change at some point, become an adult somewhere along the way?”
“What? What do you mean?” I asked.
“Well, like I said, this is the adult equivalent, I’m the same fucking person. Wasn’t I supposed to, I don’t know, get smarter, grow up, mature?”
“I’m pretty sure that’s a myth. Maybe adulthood is just childhood coated in a thick slime of defeat and shattered dreams.”
“In that case, my slime must be feet deep.”
“It’s all okay man. We’ll get your car out in a couple of hours.”
“Yeah.”
We walked on, and saw no houses.
My fingers began to go numb, and the serious fear of frostbite settled into my brain. I breathed into my sleeves, balled them up, and did all I could to keep my extremities warm.
“You keeping your fingers and shit warm?” I asked.
“Yeah. Still fucking freezing though. Why are there no houses out here?”
“Because we’re in the middle of nowhere. Remember?”
“Oh yeah. I’m trying to think of where the last house we drove past was, and now, I can’t remember even seeing one outside of town. That can’t be right though, can it?”
“I don’t know. Eventually, if we just keep as warm as possible and walking, we’ll find something.”
A glow filled the air, illuminating trees and snowfall. I could see Stephen for the first time in what very well may have been an hour or two. He was looking forward. “Do you see that?” he asked.
I looked where he was looking. The road ahead of us twisted off to the right, but the light shone through the tree line, straight ahead. “Yeah. House?”
“I don’t know. Just came on. Maybe a porch light?”
“Maybe. Want to check it out?” I asked.
“Can’t hurt. I don’t see anything else anywhere.”
“Okay.” I was excited. The prospect of warmth. A phone. Maybe a cup of coffee. A trip home to my bed.
We picked up our pace and hundred yards later, we reached the glowing tree line.
“Well? Ready?” I asked.
“Let’s go.”
I stepped off of the road, into the snow. My foot sunk down a few inches into the snow, and I almost immediately regretted my decision, but, a house so near by would be worth the wet shoes in the end. I walked between the trees, into the forest.
“This is kind of beautiful,” I said. The light cut deep, straight shadows among the trees, thick black lines against bright virgin snow and vertical trunks, who knows how tall. The light seemed to be filling the forest, like a stadium light, and it wasn’t until we had been walking among the underbrush for maybe ten minutes that it dawned on me.
“Does that light seem bright to you?” I asked.
“Yeah, it’s a light.”
“No, I mean, like really fucking bright. Stadium bright. Spotlight bright.”
Stephen stopped and looked at it. After a few seconds, he said; “Yeah. You’re right. What do you think it is?”
“Well, I think porch light is out.”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know. Is there a warehouse or a factory out here that you know of?”
“No, but, I don’t really come out here that often.”
“Right.”
“We should still find out what it is, though I think. Whatever it is, it seems like it could be useful. Where there’s bright lights, there’s usually a phone right?”
“Is that a rule?”
“I don’t know, but it kind of makes sense,” he said.
“Okay.”
Stephen walked on, and I followed.
Another ten minutes passed, and the tree line broke. We found ourselves standing in front of a great cavernous light, hundreds of feet tall, and half as wide, immeasurably deep, and just so gently warm.
“What…?” I asked.
“It’s warm.” Stephen reached his hand out. “It just, sends the cold away.”
“I wouldn’t touch it.”
“It’s okay.” Stephen smiled, his arm stretched out, and began to walk toward it.
I grabbed him by the collar and yanked him down into the snow, melting in front of the light.
He looked at me, kindly. “It’s okay.”
“No you fucking idiot. I don’t know what’s going in here, but we just walked a half hour into the forest to find a mile high pussy of light, and this is somehow okay to you?”
“Yes.” He began to get up.
“No. We need to leave. I pulled him backward as he stood up, back toward the tree line. I didn’t think I was warm enough to make the walk back out, but this wasn’t right, and I had to try. Something was happening to my friend, and I certainly didn’t need it to happen to me.
Stephen stopped and stood still, almost smiling at me.
I pulled on his sleeve. Yanked, but it had no effect. “Stop fucking around you asshole. This isn’t funny!”
“It’s okay,” he repeated.
“No, no it fucking isn’t!” I pulled on him some more, and he turned back toward the great light, as if my pull had exactly the effect of a small insect. “Stephen, get your ass back hear you fucking asshole! Stephen!”
“It’s okay,” he called back to me. “It’s okay.”
“Stephen!”
I made one last attempt to stop him. I ran up behind him, threw my arm around his chest, and tried my hardest to yank him downward, but I just slid off. And he stepped into the great luminous abyss.
I was in the car. Upside down. My vision fading in and out. Someone was banging on the car.
“Hey you! You in there! Can you hear me?!”
My whole body ached. I turned to see Stephen next to me. He was bleeding everywhere.
“Are you okay?!”
“Are you okay?!”
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
An Open Letter to the New Life Baptist Church.
Hello,
If this is the Pastor I am corresponding with, we have met once. I thought you were a nice enough fellow, and you seemed rather down to earth and clear headed. You invited me to your church, however, my beliefs lie elsewhere, and so I declined, although I enjoyed the visit.
However, I am afraid the reason I am writing to you today is less than positive. You see, I recently drove past your church and noticed the two phrases posted on your sign. I may be remembering them wrong, but I believe they read "Marriage is best God's way, between 1 Man and 1 Woman" on one side, and "Sodomy is Sin" on the other.
I will cut right to the chase. I am offended. As are a number of other people I have spoken to about this. Not because we are homosexual, because most of us aren't (I am in fact married to a wonderful woman, and have two excellent sons), but because it seems an awfully forceful way to speak your opinions. Okay, I will give you the "Sodomy is Sin" bit, only because it is fairly plainly stated as being so in the Bible (but allow me to point out the loophole that two gay women don't actually commit that sin). But, the other side of the sign. The "Marriage is best..." bit. That is pure, unwarranted opinion you are forcing down the throats of every motorist and pedestrian who has to travel that section of road (not to mention the numerous biblical examples of marriage that are not one man and one woman, but one rapist/one rape victim, one man/one slave, one man/many women, one man/one woman/many concubines, one man/one woman/whatever slaves the woman owns prior, one man/one prisoner of war, etc., etc...).
Sure, you have the right to free speech, it just seems odd to me that for a group of people (whom I have met, and witnessed), who preach so vehemently about love, that such a strong hateful, cherry picked message would be displayed. It seems counter-productive, and not to be antagonistic, but exactly what one would expect from a middle of nowhere Baptist church, unlike what I previously thought you were.
I am sure that the members of your church agree with you. I am sure that there are a fair amount of people elsewhere who do also, especially in an area like this one, but what is the point? The people against gay marriage are against it, and the people for it are for it. This late in the game, no one is really going to change their mind. It simply makes you look hateful, which I am sure you really aren't.
Now, I am not going to get into some massive religious debate with you (although it is definitely within my capabilities), I am only going to ask you to please change your sign, and keep your hate to yourselves. It's up to God himself to judge, is it not? And, so far as I know, no man is the voice of God. So, I implore you , display love. Display peace. Display understanding. Not bigotry and hate.
I know you will be getting a small flurry of these letters today, but instead of doing the stubborn "stand your ground in the face of adversity" thing, understand that people like myself are not attacking you. We are not "persecuting" you. We are not speaking at all against your beliefs. Only your publicly displayed message of hate. We are a small community, and the last thing we need is a tragedy like the Matthew Shepard incident (and hundreds like it) some years back to tear through our town.
So, I ask you one last time Pastor, as a leader in our community, preach love, not hate.
-Asa Morris
(to contact New Life Baptist Church, you can reach them here: http://www.nlbcministries.org/contact/)
**Update 6/22/11**
Whether or not this is the result of my (and hopefully others) letter(s), I would like to publicly thank Pastor Jon Hawkins for doing the right thing and removing the message from the sign. I appreciate it very much, and you, Pastor, have (needlessly) proven yourself to be a decent, and respectable human being, despite any issues you and I may disagree on. You could have told me (in polite terms, I am sure) to fuck off, but you didn't. I am thoroughly impressed.
Thank you, sir.
If this is the Pastor I am corresponding with, we have met once. I thought you were a nice enough fellow, and you seemed rather down to earth and clear headed. You invited me to your church, however, my beliefs lie elsewhere, and so I declined, although I enjoyed the visit.
However, I am afraid the reason I am writing to you today is less than positive. You see, I recently drove past your church and noticed the two phrases posted on your sign. I may be remembering them wrong, but I believe they read "Marriage is best God's way, between 1 Man and 1 Woman" on one side, and "Sodomy is Sin" on the other.
I will cut right to the chase. I am offended. As are a number of other people I have spoken to about this. Not because we are homosexual, because most of us aren't (I am in fact married to a wonderful woman, and have two excellent sons), but because it seems an awfully forceful way to speak your opinions. Okay, I will give you the "Sodomy is Sin" bit, only because it is fairly plainly stated as being so in the Bible (but allow me to point out the loophole that two gay women don't actually commit that sin). But, the other side of the sign. The "Marriage is best..." bit. That is pure, unwarranted opinion you are forcing down the throats of every motorist and pedestrian who has to travel that section of road (not to mention the numerous biblical examples of marriage that are not one man and one woman, but one rapist/one rape victim, one man/one slave, one man/many women, one man/one woman/many concubines, one man/one woman/whatever slaves the woman owns prior, one man/one prisoner of war, etc., etc...).
Sure, you have the right to free speech, it just seems odd to me that for a group of people (whom I have met, and witnessed), who preach so vehemently about love, that such a strong hateful, cherry picked message would be displayed. It seems counter-productive, and not to be antagonistic, but exactly what one would expect from a middle of nowhere Baptist church, unlike what I previously thought you were.
I am sure that the members of your church agree with you. I am sure that there are a fair amount of people elsewhere who do also, especially in an area like this one, but what is the point? The people against gay marriage are against it, and the people for it are for it. This late in the game, no one is really going to change their mind. It simply makes you look hateful, which I am sure you really aren't.
Now, I am not going to get into some massive religious debate with you (although it is definitely within my capabilities), I am only going to ask you to please change your sign, and keep your hate to yourselves. It's up to God himself to judge, is it not? And, so far as I know, no man is the voice of God. So, I implore you , display love. Display peace. Display understanding. Not bigotry and hate.
I know you will be getting a small flurry of these letters today, but instead of doing the stubborn "stand your ground in the face of adversity" thing, understand that people like myself are not attacking you. We are not "persecuting" you. We are not speaking at all against your beliefs. Only your publicly displayed message of hate. We are a small community, and the last thing we need is a tragedy like the Matthew Shepard incident (and hundreds like it) some years back to tear through our town.
So, I ask you one last time Pastor, as a leader in our community, preach love, not hate.
-Asa Morris
(to contact New Life Baptist Church, you can reach them here: http://www.nlbcministries.org/contact/)
**Update 6/22/11**
Whether or not this is the result of my (and hopefully others) letter(s), I would like to publicly thank Pastor Jon Hawkins for doing the right thing and removing the message from the sign. I appreciate it very much, and you, Pastor, have (needlessly) proven yourself to be a decent, and respectable human being, despite any issues you and I may disagree on. You could have told me (in polite terms, I am sure) to fuck off, but you didn't. I am thoroughly impressed.
Thank you, sir.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
A Plea to You, All of You.
You know what scares the shit out of me? Thinking I will never forgive anyone. My enemies. My lost friends. My father. Myself. That they will all die before me, some without me even knowing it, I will grow old, and the world will go on, and I will disappear into it, with my greatest memories long rusted resentment, and on my deathbed, in a moment of shattering clarity, I will stare up at that freckled white hospital ceiling, and think to myself "I'm sorry." And they will never know.
I have abandoned people completely over things that I knew would not matter in a year, or five, or ten. So some girl in high school I liked kissed you? So what? So you were young and angry and said some things you didn't mean? So what? So you made a few bad (or terrible) decisions? So what?
Years have gone by for most of you. Decades for some. And yet I can't help but keep my grudges. I don't carry them with me. They are no weight on my back, but in the rare occasion I am reminded of you, there they lay, waiting. That pinch. That dart of faded pain. That rule that says I have to be angry with you. Really, that's all most of them have become, and that is all any of them will become. A rule I make to dictate how I am supposed to feel about you.
But, you see, here's the conundrum; I am a firm believer in "if it won't matter in a year, why should it matter now?" So, what the fuck is wrong with me that I can't forgive you? Why do I feel it necessary to hold my arms up against you for decades while the world goes on, we both grow, times change, and I fucking know it?
Well, goddamn it, I forgive you. I say it here and now, drunk and introspective on the internet. I forgive you.
All you fuckers. You abandoners. You liars, thieves, cheaters. You abusers, elitists, you willfully ignorant. You imitators, impostors, and ingrates. You, you self deprecating bomb, I forgive you. It's okay.
It's okay.
I know it would mean more to name you. To call you and say, "Hey ____, I love you. I'm sorry." But I just don't have the time or resources for it. But, I think the important thing here is for me to look around my cobwebbed closet of bullshit and be able to say "God damn, glad I got rid of that box of unnecessary resentment."
Maybe it's something for you to think about, too. Not even you whom I have hinted at here, but you, reading this, and even you, who aren't. Yeah, they were assholes, but in the end, do you really want to feel that way toward anyone? Ever? Do you really want to give up on that chance of being a better person? It is so easy, and so wonderful.
It's not hippy bullshit. I want you to understand that, because reading this all back, I worry that it is coming off like that. It's not. Resentment, hate, grudges. They wear on your mind. Your being, your soul (if that's your thing). They bog you down as a person. maybe you don't realize it now, but in the blink of an eye, in a few decades, you might look up and say "oh shit, I have been a fool." And, keeping this anger makes you a fool, undoubtedly.
You can't get decades, or years, or days back. Once you spend them, in anger or otherwise, they are gone. Each moment you spend carelessly, is spent. You inch closer to an inability to fix small, human, beautiful matters that are both pointless and everything all at once.
I beg you, forgive.
Please.
I have abandoned people completely over things that I knew would not matter in a year, or five, or ten. So some girl in high school I liked kissed you? So what? So you were young and angry and said some things you didn't mean? So what? So you made a few bad (or terrible) decisions? So what?
Years have gone by for most of you. Decades for some. And yet I can't help but keep my grudges. I don't carry them with me. They are no weight on my back, but in the rare occasion I am reminded of you, there they lay, waiting. That pinch. That dart of faded pain. That rule that says I have to be angry with you. Really, that's all most of them have become, and that is all any of them will become. A rule I make to dictate how I am supposed to feel about you.
But, you see, here's the conundrum; I am a firm believer in "if it won't matter in a year, why should it matter now?" So, what the fuck is wrong with me that I can't forgive you? Why do I feel it necessary to hold my arms up against you for decades while the world goes on, we both grow, times change, and I fucking know it?
Well, goddamn it, I forgive you. I say it here and now, drunk and introspective on the internet. I forgive you.
All you fuckers. You abandoners. You liars, thieves, cheaters. You abusers, elitists, you willfully ignorant. You imitators, impostors, and ingrates. You, you self deprecating bomb, I forgive you. It's okay.
It's okay.
I know it would mean more to name you. To call you and say, "Hey ____, I love you. I'm sorry." But I just don't have the time or resources for it. But, I think the important thing here is for me to look around my cobwebbed closet of bullshit and be able to say "God damn, glad I got rid of that box of unnecessary resentment."
Maybe it's something for you to think about, too. Not even you whom I have hinted at here, but you, reading this, and even you, who aren't. Yeah, they were assholes, but in the end, do you really want to feel that way toward anyone? Ever? Do you really want to give up on that chance of being a better person? It is so easy, and so wonderful.
It's not hippy bullshit. I want you to understand that, because reading this all back, I worry that it is coming off like that. It's not. Resentment, hate, grudges. They wear on your mind. Your being, your soul (if that's your thing). They bog you down as a person. maybe you don't realize it now, but in the blink of an eye, in a few decades, you might look up and say "oh shit, I have been a fool." And, keeping this anger makes you a fool, undoubtedly.
You can't get decades, or years, or days back. Once you spend them, in anger or otherwise, they are gone. Each moment you spend carelessly, is spent. You inch closer to an inability to fix small, human, beautiful matters that are both pointless and everything all at once.
I beg you, forgive.
Please.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Niche Asphyxiation
A million people telling you what to be is not necessarily good advice. Much less a niche of the young and hip. I’m not saying you shouldn’t bear certain opinions and/or idols in mind when trying to discover yourself, but you shouldn’t spend the majority of your time worrying about what is currently fashionable in the world around you (or, worrying about what would be un-fashionable, as the current fashion seems to be). Ground breakers seldom come out of well established areas, and even when they do, across the board, it’s because they have tossed aside the ideals of the people around them and became something more.
Can you imagine David Bowie if he had simply stuck to folk/glam? We never would have heard from him again after 1980. Or how about Jackson Pollock (an example used so often in this argument it almost seems cliché)? Pollock knew how to paint. He chose to throw shit around. Bowie knew how to write a solid glam record. He chose to ditch genres completely. Another example, my last example, the man a friend once aptly referred to as “the original goth”, Jim Morrison. Jim Morrison was a poet long before he moved to California. He knew he wanted in on the music scene, the writing scene, the general creative, emotional era. But when he got to California, do you know what he did? He burned everything he had ever written. Every word, in an attempt to grow. He settled into the West Coast free love world and wrote songs of murder and terror. Self-deprecation and psychological expansion beyond (but definitely not excluding) the ever popular world of LSD. Jim Morrison, David Bowie, and Jackson Pollock all looked at the world around them and said “This is not my world yet,” and plowed over the masturbating bullshit and built kingdoms of genius. Because they understood that no true voice can come out of a scene which only survives by mimic.
I see in my life artists of staggering brilliance. Creative, dangerous, mad genius’. Held back by fear of losing credibility among the shrinking hordes of trends, scenes and idols. It’s beyond sad to me. It’s devastating. To know that such potential exists, not only in the world, but in my own backyard.
In better universes, what masterpieces have been created, free of the bounds of acceptance? What voices scream up from faces I see remain silent here in this one? What words could I type to free these creators, my friends and peers?
Stuck in a world where being the same means being cool, when do we grow? What can one hope for? Being admired for the ten minutes on stage and forgotten immediately afterward? Maybe someone will wander into your gallery and nod at your painting, your splatter paint bullshit, call it great, and then forget all about it. Maybe someone will stream your music online. Maybe someone will peruse my blog for a minute. Will they follow your painting career? Will they spend ten dollars on your next record? Will they pick up my book? No, probably not. Our inability to break free of a mass insecurity prevents it. We are pussies and we will be forgotten for it.
-A.
Can you imagine David Bowie if he had simply stuck to folk/glam? We never would have heard from him again after 1980. Or how about Jackson Pollock (an example used so often in this argument it almost seems cliché)? Pollock knew how to paint. He chose to throw shit around. Bowie knew how to write a solid glam record. He chose to ditch genres completely. Another example, my last example, the man a friend once aptly referred to as “the original goth”, Jim Morrison. Jim Morrison was a poet long before he moved to California. He knew he wanted in on the music scene, the writing scene, the general creative, emotional era. But when he got to California, do you know what he did? He burned everything he had ever written. Every word, in an attempt to grow. He settled into the West Coast free love world and wrote songs of murder and terror. Self-deprecation and psychological expansion beyond (but definitely not excluding) the ever popular world of LSD. Jim Morrison, David Bowie, and Jackson Pollock all looked at the world around them and said “This is not my world yet,” and plowed over the masturbating bullshit and built kingdoms of genius. Because they understood that no true voice can come out of a scene which only survives by mimic.
I see in my life artists of staggering brilliance. Creative, dangerous, mad genius’. Held back by fear of losing credibility among the shrinking hordes of trends, scenes and idols. It’s beyond sad to me. It’s devastating. To know that such potential exists, not only in the world, but in my own backyard.
In better universes, what masterpieces have been created, free of the bounds of acceptance? What voices scream up from faces I see remain silent here in this one? What words could I type to free these creators, my friends and peers?
Stuck in a world where being the same means being cool, when do we grow? What can one hope for? Being admired for the ten minutes on stage and forgotten immediately afterward? Maybe someone will wander into your gallery and nod at your painting, your splatter paint bullshit, call it great, and then forget all about it. Maybe someone will stream your music online. Maybe someone will peruse my blog for a minute. Will they follow your painting career? Will they spend ten dollars on your next record? Will they pick up my book? No, probably not. Our inability to break free of a mass insecurity prevents it. We are pussies and we will be forgotten for it.
-A.
Monday, June 13, 2011
No Sex God of Art
I used to think I’d someday grow up to be a famous artist. Some loft dwelling, wine swilling, crazy haired fucker. All the ladies would swoon over my drug addled body in the Leibowitz photo spreads. Torn white tee shirts and tight black jeans. My work, whatever it may have been, would sell for hundreds of thousands of dollars. I would be praised as a mad genius, a man outside of time, and I would die before thirty, smiling, drinking, and fucking, only to be lost amongst the great unfortunate mass of the beautiful dead.
Now, grown well past my prime, I leave shoes by the road. A pair of sneakers here, some Sunday best there. I buy them from my local Salvation Army for a few dollars, and every couple of weeks, I bring them out to some road, busy or not, and set them down. The cars drive by, and maybe they don’t notice, but, maybe they do. Maybe someone drives by, and thinks to themselves “Huh, I wonder why those shoes are there. They seem like a perfectly good pair.” And they would speculate a few scenarios, car accident, open gym bag misplacement, and then move along with their day, completely forgetting the shoes, and by association, me.
I think it’s my life’s work. My great art. My masterpiece. I have no idea what it means, other than possibly a simple leak of madness from my aging, and ever tired brain. Really, what other explanation could there be? My face sags. My stomach hangs over my pants and bulges against my shirts. I am no sex god of art. I am a lost hope. I am garbage in the street, perhaps once valuable, now crumpled and filthy.
So, I leave my marks. As small and imperceptible as they may be, at least I can drive past them on my way to work and say quietly to myself, “that was me.” At least someone knows who I am.
At least I can still see me.
Now, grown well past my prime, I leave shoes by the road. A pair of sneakers here, some Sunday best there. I buy them from my local Salvation Army for a few dollars, and every couple of weeks, I bring them out to some road, busy or not, and set them down. The cars drive by, and maybe they don’t notice, but, maybe they do. Maybe someone drives by, and thinks to themselves “Huh, I wonder why those shoes are there. They seem like a perfectly good pair.” And they would speculate a few scenarios, car accident, open gym bag misplacement, and then move along with their day, completely forgetting the shoes, and by association, me.
I think it’s my life’s work. My great art. My masterpiece. I have no idea what it means, other than possibly a simple leak of madness from my aging, and ever tired brain. Really, what other explanation could there be? My face sags. My stomach hangs over my pants and bulges against my shirts. I am no sex god of art. I am a lost hope. I am garbage in the street, perhaps once valuable, now crumpled and filthy.
So, I leave my marks. As small and imperceptible as they may be, at least I can drive past them on my way to work and say quietly to myself, “that was me.” At least someone knows who I am.
At least I can still see me.
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