Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Painting the wall
I'm looking at the painted sample color on the wall of the nursery. The nursery! The paint sample! But it looks good. Very good.
Monday, October 29, 2007
About Posting Journals, Part 2
Without being ironic, I can say that what's interesting about my journals--at least to me-- is that my "angst" or general continuous existential "issues" (crisis seems to imply a singularity which I just never had) became increasingly focused. As I solved my biggest problem, loneliness, it was replaced immediately by the sense of not having accomplished what I should [have]. And often times I still feel that way. Perhaps the daughter due in a few months will change that, too.
Oh yeah, and my parents read them at some point. What they must have thought!
Oh yeah, and my parents read them at some point. What they must have thought!
About Posting Journals
I had the opportunity to read the blog of a friend, and reading her cryptic descriptions of her life reminded me so much of how valuable it was to express myself in a public place without being so public. We all share the same angst, it's just different forms. But I decided to find my old works and put them up on display. At this point, it doesn't really matter. They used to be a way for me to:
* Track who exactly was interested in my life (regular readers of my proto-blog included a now-unsurprising list headed by my wife)
* Collect my thoughts
* Be utterly incoherent and yet weave it all back together somehow
* Remind me that I wasn't the only one
I expect they can still be used for this.
* Track who exactly was interested in my life (regular readers of my proto-blog included a now-unsurprising list headed by my wife)
* Collect my thoughts
* Be utterly incoherent and yet weave it all back together somehow
* Remind me that I wasn't the only one
I expect they can still be used for this.
My Journal, Part 6 (2002)
Having squandered much of my life on these accursed machines,
I'm left without mem'ries: I have only dreams.
(Too many days of video games and black-and-white friends)
"Cruising though a big city in a convertible on a hot summer night."
I spent my time wanting to be something I wasn't,
I try to make my mind follow and it doesn't.
(Long have I wanted to be that guy, I just can't)
"Spinning and spinning in a hazy subconscious euphoria to the
thumping bass."
Too much wasted [o]pining,
Way too much refining.
(I have cried too much and as a result tried too much)
"Those halcyon afternoons of cool swimming pools and warm sunsets."
What have I done?
Little have I won.
(I have seen a lot, sure, but to show for it?)
"Thinking about girls, the way they smile and smell and walk and talk."
Whither do I wither?
And why the hell dither?
"The way music sounds. That perfect song. The feeling in your stomach
and heart, and you know it's just right."
Crying from happiness,
Crying from sadness.
There's no dying from happiness,
Only dying from sadness.
Explosions and delusions of rapture aren't that different, are they?
They must be.
"The pure thrill of chase."
It's time to find that fun again: it's almost springtime for me.
And then there's summer!
Another chance for "almost." Is that my middle name?
"Action must be taken."
Isn't it about time that I did something about it?
Yes, yes it is, but what to do?
I'm left without mem'ries: I have only dreams.
(Too many days of video games and black-and-white friends)
"Cruising though a big city in a convertible on a hot summer night."
I spent my time wanting to be something I wasn't,
I try to make my mind follow and it doesn't.
(Long have I wanted to be that guy, I just can't)
"Spinning and spinning in a hazy subconscious euphoria to the
thumping bass."
Too much wasted [o]pining,
Way too much refining.
(I have cried too much and as a result tried too much)
"Those halcyon afternoons of cool swimming pools and warm sunsets."
What have I done?
Little have I won.
(I have seen a lot, sure, but to show for it?)
"Thinking about girls, the way they smile and smell and walk and talk."
Whither do I wither?
And why the hell dither?
"The way music sounds. That perfect song. The feeling in your stomach
and heart, and you know it's just right."
Crying from happiness,
Crying from sadness.
There's no dying from happiness,
Only dying from sadness.
Explosions and delusions of rapture aren't that different, are they?
They must be.
"The pure thrill of chase."
It's time to find that fun again: it's almost springtime for me.
And then there's summer!
Another chance for "almost." Is that my middle name?
"Action must be taken."
Isn't it about time that I did something about it?
Yes, yes it is, but what to do?
My Journal, Part 5 (2000)
9/28
It's been a while since I've needed this release.
All for good reason: college is finished, I'm back from Europe.
No time for much but work, which, while totally fun, has caused me
to bottle up
a little bit of this stuff.
I'm moving tomorrow, an injustice perpetrated by my neighbor, whom perhaps
I shan't love as myself, but see if there has been retribution.
Minutiae, though; that's what that is. The bigger picture is clouded by
the details.
Cliche: Luncheon on the Grass from an inch away. Thanks, Ferris, for that
one.
The sky here is beautiful, a pure blue that doesn't exist in Baltimore or
New York.
And the sun is brighter,
or maybe I just notice it more.
I don't know whether to laugh or to cry sometimes, and I don't know which
is the right way to express the right emotion--
laugh at my mistakes/
cry in happiness. Is there a difference in my oxymoronic expression?
But I konw a lot more now than I did just a few months ago.
Texas:
Who would've thought?
My confidantes I don't see much any more--
we try but it's hard--
and so I need new ones.
We all need that.
Ideas like the loudest raindrops fall.
As do we all.
But when you're up, you make it meaningful:
I want to draw out those times, but do I?
It's so hard for me to tell!
About most things.
But I'd like to think that you think I can, and that I do.
I promise that I have a good idea.
can I tell?
And I think of my favorite bedtime story:
the story of me, ah, the self-indulgent
Drama.
You know, I made it all up, and I still do.
Full speed ahead.
Whatever that means.
Boys and girls,
Watch.
It's going to be a fun ride.
Between the Stars and a Cricle, isn't that right?
I need someone here to listen to
Who's Gonna Ride Your Wild Horses?
---
10/19
The same inspration amassed
with a blast from my strange past
makes me wonder if I've relapsed.
I should've been fast,
should've asked if I might have
passed her last test first,
but what's worse is what I
could've done.
The radio station plays the music
of my life. My soundtrack, cliche like me.
More questions:
Why aren't I living it up?
Am I? Is this all I can do?
I remember there being something else;
Or this time do I mean someone else?
Was I this incomplete before?
Did I have the gaping hole I never realized?
Why didn't I realize?
Waiting for it to materialize.
I'll be waiting a long time.
It's been a while since I've needed this release.
All for good reason: college is finished, I'm back from Europe.
No time for much but work, which, while totally fun, has caused me
to bottle up
a little bit of this stuff.
I'm moving tomorrow, an injustice perpetrated by my neighbor, whom perhaps
I shan't love as myself, but see if there has been retribution.
Minutiae, though; that's what that is. The bigger picture is clouded by
the details.
Cliche: Luncheon on the Grass from an inch away. Thanks, Ferris, for that
one.
The sky here is beautiful, a pure blue that doesn't exist in Baltimore or
New York.
And the sun is brighter,
or maybe I just notice it more.
I don't know whether to laugh or to cry sometimes, and I don't know which
is the right way to express the right emotion--
laugh at my mistakes/
cry in happiness. Is there a difference in my oxymoronic expression?
But I konw a lot more now than I did just a few months ago.
Texas:
Who would've thought?
My confidantes I don't see much any more--
we try but it's hard--
and so I need new ones.
We all need that.
Ideas like the loudest raindrops fall.
As do we all.
But when you're up, you make it meaningful:
I want to draw out those times, but do I?
It's so hard for me to tell!
About most things.
But I'd like to think that you think I can, and that I do.
I promise that I have a good idea.
can I tell?
And I think of my favorite bedtime story:
the story of me, ah, the self-indulgent
Drama.
You know, I made it all up, and I still do.
Full speed ahead.
Whatever that means.
Boys and girls,
Watch.
It's going to be a fun ride.
Between the Stars and a Cricle, isn't that right?
I need someone here to listen to
Who's Gonna Ride Your Wild Horses?
---
10/19
The same inspration amassed
with a blast from my strange past
makes me wonder if I've relapsed.
I should've been fast,
should've asked if I might have
passed her last test first,
but what's worse is what I
could've done.
The radio station plays the music
of my life. My soundtrack, cliche like me.
More questions:
Why aren't I living it up?
Am I? Is this all I can do?
I remember there being something else;
Or this time do I mean someone else?
Was I this incomplete before?
Did I have the gaping hole I never realized?
Why didn't I realize?
Waiting for it to materialize.
I'll be waiting a long time.
My Journal in Europe
Part 1. On a train from Prague to Berlin
The American rock gives the train ride through what used to be East Germany a certain surreal quality; it is so out of place that it almost makes senese in this medieval land. A train from a modern Babylon, Prague, to one of the symbols of my lifetime, the reunified Berlin. A strange harmony here, in all these things; the great importance of understanding. It eludes me with people all too often, but I think I am starting to get it with cultures. The magnificent shock of arriving in a city and no even knowing the alphabet, saying nothing of the language. It is legendary, the modern rite of European passage, the required pilgrimage for a century. And, ah, the people. Not as different as they ought to be, it seems; most still friendly despite, well, whatever they may have to spite. We left a rambunctious city almost 1000 years old; a millenium. The sense of antiquity is pervasive, almost impossible to understand for me given my life. The link ot the past all-too-often discredited by me is explicit and ubiquitous. And then it's off to the other modern Babylon, Amsterdam, the American idol for debauchery. Whz don�t we do this in our own country? Oh, zeah, we do, but it doesn't have the inherent grandeur and overwhelming specialness that comes from the magic of being away from home. Sometimes I think it's all about being away from home, but it's not. Home, too, is good. It's all about experience, be it physical or meta-. And this land of thousand-year-old cities-cities with water for streets, and cities with places you've only dreamed about-is the ultimate, or is it developer of that oh-so-important next experience?
Part 2. Shrink-wrapped cliches for my wallet
List:
. The awesome responsibility of making thins better
. Ensuring that the future is better than the past by indulging in the
present or by mortgaging the present in a sacrificial rite
. Making sure everyone else can do the same
Therefore:
If I could only live up to these seemingly simple tasks! She thinks I
can, and if I can't, what then?
Do you ever get so overwhelmed bz existence or experience or just being
that you don't know what you could possibly do? Do you want to do
anything about it? Do you?
Do you think you're so, like, alone in the world that you find someone
that agrees with you, negating your cliched fears? Who?
Do you ever just want to indulge your senses as much as possible in as
many ways as you can find?
Do you ever think that people are amazing? Each one does their own
thing, and yet there is love?
Do you ever think of hate? Then of love? Then of the sheer
worthlessness of hate? What did it ever get you? Or anyone?
Can you let yourselfgo, imagning everything, everywhere, everyone?
Can you think about your own life on its own terms and make those terms
yours?
Can you see through the transparent and do you struggle to decipher the
opaque? Would you try? Harder?
Do you just want to know? About the human experience, about life, love,
happiness, and people? Can you imagine?! Will you try? More?
Can you life your life to the fullest, LIVING as much as possible? Do
you? Why not?
Can you grab your life and hold it in your hand and tell IT what to do?
Can you understand everything all together?
Can you imagine the implications of you?
Do you dream? Of good things and bad? Of the past and future? Of you
as yourself or as a part of something incredible? Of all that you can do?
Of all that you have done and that you will do? Of the 'unbearable'
desire for more? More life?
Do you laugh so much it doesn't hurt?
Do you want to be happy, and do you want it for everyone else?
Are you HERE to work or to play? To exist or to live? To get by or to
try? To ignore or to stare? To sleep or to dream? To hate or to love?
To be...?
What are you afrait of? What are you so afraid of? What made you fear
taking chances? Why can't you? What are you so afraid of? Are you
scared of failing? Of succeeding? Of the realization of your own
mortality? Of your own morality? Or instead do you fear the unknown?
Don't you know? What are you so afraid of?
Live.
Part 3. An Ode to, or perhaps against, the Lost Years
There are those lost years.
Those lost years you spent
doing things that now you
wish you hadn't done, but
there are also
those lost years you spent
not doing things that now you
wish you had done.
And then it comes about that
all these things that you could've
done
are set in front of you,
there they are!
You want to reach out and grab them.
But you can't,
you don't even know how!
And if you did, what would you do
with them!
Sights you never thought you'd see,
Thoughts you never thought you'd have,
And yet there they are: look!
But you don't have the courage
to ask to try. To try, ah,
to TRY.
You've mastered the easy parts of
life --
now what?!
To try, to know, to experience.
You want to try.
But you don't have the courage
to ask to try.
You start to get that courage,
but you know these opportunities
aren't available forever.
You have to leap blindly at them.
But you're too cautious for that,
ah, Prometheus, if only you were your
brother!
Everyone else is like him,
dealing with repercussions AFTER the
event
instead of before.
Ah, everyone else.
Thanks, Mssr. Sartre,
hell is other people, isn't it?
But you've learned already that
it isn't.
So how do you reconcile it?
Two choices, do or don't.
You think that you could,
and even maybe that you would,
but your problem is whether you should!
You look out upon all that is
available, easy to get, that
forbidden fruit you've never tasted.
And now that you can smell it,
your senses are overwhelmed.
Reaction?
None.
And therein lies the difficulty.
The American rock gives the train ride through what used to be East Germany a certain surreal quality; it is so out of place that it almost makes senese in this medieval land. A train from a modern Babylon, Prague, to one of the symbols of my lifetime, the reunified Berlin. A strange harmony here, in all these things; the great importance of understanding. It eludes me with people all too often, but I think I am starting to get it with cultures. The magnificent shock of arriving in a city and no even knowing the alphabet, saying nothing of the language. It is legendary, the modern rite of European passage, the required pilgrimage for a century. And, ah, the people. Not as different as they ought to be, it seems; most still friendly despite, well, whatever they may have to spite. We left a rambunctious city almost 1000 years old; a millenium. The sense of antiquity is pervasive, almost impossible to understand for me given my life. The link ot the past all-too-often discredited by me is explicit and ubiquitous. And then it's off to the other modern Babylon, Amsterdam, the American idol for debauchery. Whz don�t we do this in our own country? Oh, zeah, we do, but it doesn't have the inherent grandeur and overwhelming specialness that comes from the magic of being away from home. Sometimes I think it's all about being away from home, but it's not. Home, too, is good. It's all about experience, be it physical or meta-. And this land of thousand-year-old cities-cities with water for streets, and cities with places you've only dreamed about-is the ultimate, or is it developer of that oh-so-important next experience?
Part 2. Shrink-wrapped cliches for my wallet
List:
. The awesome responsibility of making thins better
. Ensuring that the future is better than the past by indulging in the
present or by mortgaging the present in a sacrificial rite
. Making sure everyone else can do the same
Therefore:
If I could only live up to these seemingly simple tasks! She thinks I
can, and if I can't, what then?
Do you ever get so overwhelmed bz existence or experience or just being
that you don't know what you could possibly do? Do you want to do
anything about it? Do you?
Do you think you're so, like, alone in the world that you find someone
that agrees with you, negating your cliched fears? Who?
Do you ever just want to indulge your senses as much as possible in as
many ways as you can find?
Do you ever think that people are amazing? Each one does their own
thing, and yet there is love?
Do you ever think of hate? Then of love? Then of the sheer
worthlessness of hate? What did it ever get you? Or anyone?
Can you let yourselfgo, imagning everything, everywhere, everyone?
Can you think about your own life on its own terms and make those terms
yours?
Can you see through the transparent and do you struggle to decipher the
opaque? Would you try? Harder?
Do you just want to know? About the human experience, about life, love,
happiness, and people? Can you imagine?! Will you try? More?
Can you life your life to the fullest, LIVING as much as possible? Do
you? Why not?
Can you grab your life and hold it in your hand and tell IT what to do?
Can you understand everything all together?
Can you imagine the implications of you?
Do you dream? Of good things and bad? Of the past and future? Of you
as yourself or as a part of something incredible? Of all that you can do?
Of all that you have done and that you will do? Of the 'unbearable'
desire for more? More life?
Do you laugh so much it doesn't hurt?
Do you want to be happy, and do you want it for everyone else?
Are you HERE to work or to play? To exist or to live? To get by or to
try? To ignore or to stare? To sleep or to dream? To hate or to love?
To be...?
What are you afrait of? What are you so afraid of? What made you fear
taking chances? Why can't you? What are you so afraid of? Are you
scared of failing? Of succeeding? Of the realization of your own
mortality? Of your own morality? Or instead do you fear the unknown?
Don't you know? What are you so afraid of?
Live.
Part 3. An Ode to, or perhaps against, the Lost Years
There are those lost years.
Those lost years you spent
doing things that now you
wish you hadn't done, but
there are also
those lost years you spent
not doing things that now you
wish you had done.
And then it comes about that
all these things that you could've
done
are set in front of you,
there they are!
You want to reach out and grab them.
But you can't,
you don't even know how!
And if you did, what would you do
with them!
Sights you never thought you'd see,
Thoughts you never thought you'd have,
And yet there they are: look!
But you don't have the courage
to ask to try. To try, ah,
to TRY.
You've mastered the easy parts of
life --
now what?!
To try, to know, to experience.
You want to try.
But you don't have the courage
to ask to try.
You start to get that courage,
but you know these opportunities
aren't available forever.
You have to leap blindly at them.
But you're too cautious for that,
ah, Prometheus, if only you were your
brother!
Everyone else is like him,
dealing with repercussions AFTER the
event
instead of before.
Ah, everyone else.
Thanks, Mssr. Sartre,
hell is other people, isn't it?
But you've learned already that
it isn't.
So how do you reconcile it?
Two choices, do or don't.
You think that you could,
and even maybe that you would,
but your problem is whether you should!
You look out upon all that is
available, easy to get, that
forbidden fruit you've never tasted.
And now that you can smell it,
your senses are overwhelmed.
Reaction?
None.
And therein lies the difficulty.
My Journal, Part 4 (2000)
I thought that since I hadn't really thought in a while that I should. I
think I released enough before to make up for the rest of my life;
unfortunately, I still have more. Reflecting on the end of an era:
college is over, the die is cast.
I've found it that speaks for me or to me or even through me.
No, not that I'm
the mouthpiece,
the fountainhead,
the poster boy,
the quintessence (or the Fifth Element).
I s'pose I tried to be, and
it's likely that
I'll keep on trying.
Mincing words, losing my turn,
watching things burn.
There are some things you don't have to explain.
But most you do.
There's always those; explain them to me, would you?
Or whatever she said? could you?
And she'll understand: should you!
The intermixed strands of words that I was talking about.
Or maybe they're something else, that helix of reality,
or whatever stupid metaphor I try to use next, with
[my good friend yet arch-nemesis] Super Ficiality
(always, wannabe).
These past few years have been just that: few
& as much as I want them to be over
& as much as I want to get out "there"
& as much as I can't wait...
I can.
That I would've been a little smarter,
or just gone a little farther,
or maybe tried a little harder,
but it probably wouldn't have worked out anyway.
She understands, in her own way, as we all do, but
you know she has to have those little subtleties,
those itty-bitty nuances, those, well, you know, but
they're there, and as she says, they're so hers.
Oh, but it's been a ton of fun, and that's what important:
Constrained hedonism.
think I released enough before to make up for the rest of my life;
unfortunately, I still have more. Reflecting on the end of an era:
college is over, the die is cast.
I've found it that speaks for me or to me or even through me.
No, not that I'm
the mouthpiece,
the fountainhead,
the poster boy,
the quintessence (or the Fifth Element).
I s'pose I tried to be, and
it's likely that
I'll keep on trying.
Mincing words, losing my turn,
watching things burn.
There are some things you don't have to explain.
But most you do.
There's always those; explain them to me, would you?
Or whatever she said? could you?
And she'll understand: should you!
The intermixed strands of words that I was talking about.
Or maybe they're something else, that helix of reality,
or whatever stupid metaphor I try to use next, with
[my good friend yet arch-nemesis] Super Ficiality
(always, wannabe).
These past few years have been just that: few
& as much as I want them to be over
& as much as I want to get out "there"
& as much as I can't wait...
I can.
That I would've been a little smarter,
or just gone a little farther,
or maybe tried a little harder,
but it probably wouldn't have worked out anyway.
She understands, in her own way, as we all do, but
you know she has to have those little subtleties,
those itty-bitty nuances, those, well, you know, but
they're there, and as she says, they're so hers.
Oh, but it's been a ton of fun, and that's what important:
Constrained hedonism.
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