My Friend

A friend of mine came into the smoke-filled coffee shop (By 'friend' I mean one of those people you like a fair amount, whom you spend time with out of convenience, and may or may not speak to when you are separated by long distance). I said, 'Whattup, what's goin on?' He said, 'Whattup, aint much.' 'Whatch you been gettin up to?' I replied profoundly. He said, 'Packin. I'm out. Goin somewhere new.' 'How's that?' I said, half-paying attention, half-winking at the cosmopolitan woman with the shine in the corner. Then he got all serious on me, 'Funny thing is I packed up my stuff the other day and it all fits in two boxes. Everything I own, sitting there in two medium-sized cardboard boxes. Clothes, Memories, Stuff.' Trying to pay attention now, 'Does that depress you, or does it make you proud of the way you live?' He took a sip and said reflectively, 'I don't know.' Strange.

Me and You and Text

Please don't look for me or you in this text. You may not find me--amidst the smoke, the sea, the confusion. You will certainly not find the me you are looking for. That may frustrate you. Sorry to let you down. Sorry you are looking for something that doesn't exist. You will definitely not find you here, and that might disappoint you. So, don't go looking and don't go interpreting and don't go flattering yourself. See you all soon.

In the Sun

"I picture you in the sun wondering what went wrong
And falling down on your knees asking for sympathy
And being caught in between all you wish for and all you seen
And trying to find anything you can feel that you can believe in."

There you are. The one. The road. The journey. The experience. It's been surreal. The venom and the anger--now wrapped in tears and vulnerability. The frustration and misunderstanding--now flowing down your cheeks, your hands trying to cover not the hopelessness, not depression--no, don't get it confused--trying to cover the utter and complete emptiness of non-being; of having yourself evicted from yourself because of another.

"I know I would apologize if I could see your eyes
’cause when you showed me myself I became someone else."

Strange. Ironic. I can't see you. I don't get to be inside anymore. Your eyes are shielded, begging me to stop looking--to stop gazing--to stop being inside. The vulnerability that is so evident you try to hide. But, I can't help it. I am inside. And I feel how alone you are.

But here is the cruel paradox. It was only you who showed me--helped me--enabled me--to be me. When I looked into those eyes--the ones I'm no longer given the privilege to see--you showed me how to be me. Yet, when I became me--well . . .

"How much will I find
If I find
If I find my own way
How much will I find
You"

The consequences of that paradox: now I look on my own. I look with no eyes to look into. I gaze with no window into any soul. No, I search--I try--I am me apart from you. Yet, I am only me because of you. This is strange to me. Strange and excruciating.

"But I was caught in between all you wish for and all you need."

And

"I been caught in between all I wish for and all I need."

That's it, isn't it? Its universal, and here, it is particular. This is human. This is existence. This is the paradox of existence. Kitsch existentialism? Maybe. Pubescent questioning? Perhaps. But, in an age of 'posts-', of cynicism, of difference. In a time of technological prosthetics which replace souls and informational identities which replace the body. In a place which now looks like all others. What else do you, or me, or any of us have to say? Only . . .

"May god’s love be with you
Always
May god’s love be with you."

A prayer? No. Liturgy? No. A command to a certain set of beliefs or a particular idea of 'God'? No, again. Instead, a desire to move past. A desire for new. A hope--despite the paradox--that need and want--that myself and myself, that me and you, aren't infinitely separate, but only temporally alienated.

I Want

I want to be polite. I want to smile at the right time and shake hands in a firm, but friendly manner. I want to eat properly. I want to drink enough to be fun, but not enough to be out of sorts. I want to write thank you notes in a timely manner. I want to remember birthdays, holidays and saints days. I want to shave neatly and smell fragrantly masculine. I want to talk about the weather, taxes, children, mortgages and petrol. I want to wear an array of bland jumpers and converse about equally bland subjects. I want to develop a good polite, fake laugh that is convincing, but not overbearing. I want to be interested in sitcoms and reality shows. I want to do my wash regularly. I want to fold the clothes neatly and place them all in their pre-ordained homes. I want to say things at parties that are interesting, but not controversial. I want to go on vacation/holiday for two weeks, and complain about it the rest of the year. I want to complain about waiter's and talk about bad service. I want ironing to consume at least 80 hours of my total time on earth. I want a succession of 5 year plans to be the content of my middle age.

I want life to fit in a square. I want the horizon to appear horizontal and without surprise. I want to live perpendicularly at all times. I want the colors to be pretty, but not confusing. I want my existence to be solvable by Pythagoras's theorem--right angles and square roots. I want to see straight and walk even straighter. I want to move through the universal in the particular, without having to deal with the abstract. I want Religion to be Ethical, but not Existential. I want to fit it all in neat cubby holes and to always have a compartment for each breath I take. I want to look at the sunset and be thinking about what's for dinner, and nothing else. I want to walk in meadows and say things like, 'Lovely day, don't you think?', and 'oooh, look at the flowers, aren't they gorgeous?' I want to breathe without reflecting.

Boardwalk, Beach, Beauty

A few days or weeks or years went by, and the smoke-filled coffee shop took its toll on me. Gagging on smoke and text, I couldn't ingest anymore. My lungs burned from the combination of sea water, smoke and dirty, precocious, esoteric air. My heart beat rapidly at times--inflated by the adrenaline that comes with ideas and the same (different) adrenaline that comes with difficulty in breathing.

I pulled myself up--raised out of the nausea of that coffee shop--the sea of text and smoke. I had no reason. I had no purpose to do so. There was no revelation. No epiphany. It was a pre-conscious, instinctual movement. At some point, something said it was time to go. So I walked.

On the boardwalk--between the sea and the shop--I ran saw a girl I knew once, walking. As always, she had one eye on the water and one on the people all around her. Everyone she saw, contacted, met, or just smiled at had a better day because of it. She was unique in this way--a revelation. She seemed to have an energy unfounded and an enthusiasm for breathing unjustified. But, dont get me wrong, this wasnt an annoying, cheery person who is the equivalent of human cotton candy. No, within the enthusiasm there was charm. Suporting that smile was wisdom. I couldnt take my mind off her. It was uncanny how the water came so close to her, yet the people remained just as close. It all seemed to balance in, on and within her. She seemed so beautiful because she seemed so human--so vulnerable, yet so whole; so enthralled by the water, but never enough to lose her way on the boardwalk; so magnetic, so enthralling--transcendent and immanent all at the same time.

Strange.

Swimming

After that funeral . . .

The Old Man's Brother was so different from the Old Man. One was earnest, determined and persistent. The other clever, playful and just as persistent. Strange. Whatever.

Confused, bitter, tired--I went back to the smoke-filled coffee shop. Existence was relegated to the sea, and its surface, comprised of thoughts, smoke and text:

Swimming in a sea of text and smoke, coming up for air (on occassion) to imbibe laughter and drink; treading water amidst the current of change--no, vertigo; lost in a world of endless and meaningless ideas; surfing the waves of the surface all of us share, and soaking up the sun when, and when it does not, shine. I don't want to exist here anymore--not on the deserted island, lost at sea on a small rock in the ocean--no this is worse. Lost at sea, relegated to existing at the interplay of the endless currents, breezes and climate of that cold, alluring water. No rock. Nothing solid. My limbs are tired from treading. My breath is gone. My chest burns.

Yet, I am drawn here. The Old Man and his brother both--they both knew. They were drawn here too. I want to leave--but where else is there to go? I want to escape, but every time I open my mouth--speak--I'm brought right back and faced with the futile mission of moving past.

. . . Smoke and laughter, those will have to do for now.

The Old Man's Funeral

A few days or weeks or years went by, and that old man died. Part of me was torn. I didn't know him that well. I hadn't spent that much time with him. But, for some reason he was deep inside me--somewhere--creeping, crawling, disturbing. At his death, I felt vulnerable and depressed. Yet, part of me was still stung by his pretentiousness. How could he take himself so seriously? Swallowing the ocean? Everyday? Who does he think he is? How could he consider himself so existentially important? What drove him there everyday? Overall, it plagued me--not a question, but the question--why? why? why?

Upset, confused, disheveled--I went to his funeral. Something strange struck me as soon as I walked in to that dilapidated old social hall: half the people were of a different generation than me. They were his contemporaries. Some were at the end of their lives--mentally and physically weary. Others were still very alert. They were robust. They didn't smile, but they were proud. They had the looks of those that tried--that attempted--that believed. It was easy to see that some did so naively. Some did so because they didn't know any better. But, some had the look of the Old Man. Some of them grimaced while they laughed and thought while they listened. Strange.

The other half of the room look much like me--young, precocious, ratty and disheveled. Most smoked ceaselessly and rambled on and on about cigars and the breath of life. Boring. Others stood in silence, trying to fit in, but not really. Who are they? And how do they know the Old Man?

I walked over to the bar, more confused now than ever. Muttering to myself, I leaned and sipped my Jack and Coke. 'Ocean, shore, bullshit, all of it' I sipped and muttered. And then it happened. An Old Man in wearing the shiniest, cheapest jewelry all over his person, wearing an incredibly gaudy jacket and smoking a cheap cigar, put his hand around my shoulder and told the bartender to get me another. 'So he got you?' he said. 'What?' I replied, intrigued, but wary at the same time. 'He got you with all his business about the ocean, and swallowing it, and trying. And now you are bothered--confused--bottled--and trapped. You are haunted by the desire to try, but frustrated by the hopelessness of it all.' Angry now, I took his hand off mine and tried to walk away. Stopping me, he pulled me close and said, 'Look, my brother didn't get it. He was caught, with all these other fools our age, in a dream with no reality. Let me tell you something--the answer, the key, whatever it is you are looking for--is not in swallowing that ocean everyday. It is not bearing the weight of the cold seawater as it burns your throat and holds you under. No, son. The key isn't subsuming it, it is playing on the surface.

Listen, you go down to that shore tomorrow, and the next day . . . and instead of doing what my naive old dead brother said--instead of killing yourself for it all--you find something to float on, a raft, a surfboard, a piece of wood, anything. You find something to float on and you manuever, manipulate and enjoy the surface of the water. Somedays it will be cold, others glistening in the sun; somedays it will be clear blue so you can see the fish below, others brown with the stuff of life. The point is not in figuring it out, the point is realizing that the movements, the shapes, the waves, the tides--all of them move and shiver endlessly without anywhere to be. The surface is all there is and you can ride it as long as you like. ' And with a kitsch wink, he shuffled off to pull the old biddies who had come to mourn his brother's death.

Come Close

Come close. Come here. Let me tell you why you are amazing. Let me make your day. Come here, come close. Let me tell you all the good things you forgot about you, all the small things that go unnoticed, all the unique things no one ever takes the time to alert you to. Let me inform you why this world needs you and why it would be worse without you. Come, let me tell you why there is no one else in the world like you and why you'll never be repeated. Come, even if you don't want to hear it. That's okay. Come anyway--I can joke, or be silly, or embarrass myself. I do tricks. I tell stories. As long as you smile. As long as you laugh. As long as you leave the room feeling ten times better than when you arrived. As long as you walk away wanting to breath more than anything. As long as . . . you don't get too close. That could be problematic; that could make things difficult. Yes, please come. Please come, but don't get too close and whatever you do, don't _______. That would really be a mess. See you soon.

The Old Man, the Coffee Shop, the Shore

I met an old man once; one at the end of his life. He told me a secret. Come here he said, come close and listen: "Here's the secret. Wake up each day--don't worry how you feel, how tired, how exhausted, how happy--wake. That is the first step. Then, walk to the shore and watch the sunrise. Don't go with anyone. Don't speak. Just watch. But, don't watch as if you are watching a screen. No, watch as if you are in the screen. And then, when the sun is just over the horizon, the signs of a new day fully bloomed and the people beginning to scurry about, then go down to the water. Let shock of the immersion set in for just a second. Then, bend down and swallow it--the ocean; all of it. And, this is the key--don't drown. Feel the heaviness, allow yourself to be overwhelmed, get to the point until you almost can't stand the absence of breathe--and don't drown. Drowning is bad. After, walk home silently and be. This the key son, swallowing the ocean every day without drowning." I told him he was crazy and deserved to die alone.

Walking now, perturbed, angry, disillusioned. And, thinking. 'The ocean. Stupid man. Spent his days, his worries, his breaths, caring enough to swallow that ocean every day. Cared enough to walk down there every day and take it all in. Cared enough to take it in and then to live the day. Stupid old man.' I resolved that he could take the cares and the ocean with them to his grave. I would have no part. I would waste no more time.

That night, I went to the smoke-filled coffee shop.

And, then, it happened . . .

The next day, bewildered, tired, empty, I rose. I staggered to the shore and stared. No thinking. No thoughts. Just silence, peppered with the crashing of waves on that goddamned shore. They kept coming; I kept staring.

Memory

The nice thing about memory, is that it is always infused with elements of fantasy, idealism or wishful thinking . . . Some are concrete. Some are inescapable. But, it seems like the good ones are flexible and while they remain past, are able to, at times, to open spaces, worlds, openings for living in the present/future. Windows? No. More like retroactive pile drivers, able to breakthrough hard material when and if called upon.

That said . . .

'Do you remember? Do you? The boy with the books, coming down the stairs, one eye, as always, on the books, the other, as always, on the girl; the magnetic, adorable girl. Simple, wan't it? A boy chasing and a girl chasing back. Do you remember? The boy with the smile, and the girl with the eyes. The nerves, the hand holding, the walks. The stars, the prayers, the tears. The trying, wishing, hoping. Then, the world was made of looks, hands, smiles, and steps, both small and big. At the time, it seemed like a whirlwind--a chaotic swirl. But, now, it seems so simple. I remember. I remember the ice cream. I remember the parking lots, the playgrounds, and the ball games. I remember being safe. I remember feeling home. I remember the stairs--taking steps--climbing up and down--following you. I remember, the stairs--taking steps--climbing up and down--being followed. I remember green eyes and first kisses. I remember bad films and a crick in my neck. I remember the sunrise, the sunset, and everything in between. '

I remember . . . As long as you do too, then the present/future is still somewhere in those simple memories; fantastic, idealistic, wishful or not.

Sitting in the corner of a smoke-filled coffee shop, watching in silence as life slips by once again, my heart beating with the vapors of meaning evaporating into the endless play of images, people, and memory. Watching grown-ups pretend they aren't children, as we careen through the rubble of what was never simple, or sensical. Writing thoughts that reflect the cynical and semi-hopeful feelings of a pretender trying to make sense of the mystical, the commodified, and the inhumane. Drinking caffeine laced thoughts to get through the night of logos, slogans, and ads. Dancing to the beat as our existence floats--no, crystallizes--into photos, videos, and tattoos that will define the illusion that is to become our memory and existence.

And, then, it happens. While the smoke still in the air--floating in waves of creativity never before seen, never after repeated; while aimless conversations go on, perpetuating the endless flow of endless information; while lurkers sit as open-air voyeurs, watching others to make sense of themselves; while cosmopolitans desperate for attention sit legs crossed, face shiny, physique seductive; while workers work; while consumers consume--the lights are turned off and it is time to go home. The neon doesn't even dim--no, it just disappears. The buzz of the flourescence doesn't simmer, it simply ceases.

And, then, it happens. The identities created in this lit interior--this 'dimly lit place'--go dark. The endless play is revealed to be nothing more than . . . ending play. The 'people', now unabel to see one another, have no means to make sense of what was always non-sensical. The 'people' recognize in one moment that they have no memory of what existence was like in the light, and in the same moment, forget what they were thinking of. Yes, the surface disappears and there it is not time to go home, not time to move on, not time to try something new. No, the surface disappears and there is nothing more. The dancing is not even a vapor. The smoke not even a memory. The images not saved on a hard drive. The tattoos obliterated along with the body.

Where to now? Not home. Not here.

There you are, running. Moving. Rushing. Somewhere to be, and it is urgent. Your face bears the desperation and your movements signal how important it is. You are so vulnerable; so open.

I watch. I watch wishing I could help. Wishing you didn't have to rush anywhere; that you were alright, or calm, or happy, or . . . I watch, feeling sad that you are so vulnerable and that I can do nothing. I watch thinking that you are beautiful and deserving and that the last thing you should be is hurt, dissapointed, or betrayed. In this way, I watch wishing I could be your hero.

But, I have tried that before. I have tried and it doesn't work. I can't save. I can't even really help. No, it seems I am frozen watching, but no more. My efforts are mixed, weak and poisonous.

Why do I feel so helpless? Why am I so selfish, so deluded, so self-centred to think that I could help? To save?

Walking in a meadow, I grimace, smile, and worry all at the same time. Taking in the Sun and the horizon of existence it floats upon--I wander through the weeds, the shit, the flowers, the butterflys, the chirping birds. The sounds, the smells, the sense! All overwhelming! Something has changed, however. Something is different. When I used to walk like this, I was dreaming. And, in those dreams the meadow was beautiful, the flowers transcendent, the birds harmonious; but there was no weeds, no shit and no screams to match the chirping. No, something has changed. Now, they all reside together. And, now, I am not dreaming. What now? In this world beyond dreams, are the flowers less aromatic? Has the Sun rescinded a portion of its life? Do the sounds, the colors, the Present of this life carry any less beauty? Less wonder? Less hope? No, smelling the shit, seeing the weeds, being stung by the needles--they haven't lost their luster. I hear the birds less often, the flowers bloom only in Spring (if then), the Sun shines and the skies bear blue occassionally, but, now, when they do, they seem all the more luminous. Walking in a meadow, I grimace, smile, and worry all at the same time.

Much of life consists of 'talking story.' The only way to make sense of anything is to frame it within a story.

Life is good when we know our particular, individual story. When we have in mind where we have been, where we want to be and why we are doing what we are doing in order to get there. Life is good when the narrative makes sense--when the unexpected events have been appropriated, the characters fallen into place and the plot, and the infinite of subplots, coalesce into a fragile whole which makes sense, if only to us.

When 'you lose the plot', things can get strange. When the story is rearranged, sliced, forgotten or erased--reflection comes in. Who? What? Why? All these questions--these fundamental questions--come to the front.

The key is finding a story which still makes hope possible. Which sees this little plot we have all been thrown into--sees the characters, the hurt, the chaos, the excruciating depths of breathing, the suffering, the accidents, the uncanny cruelness, the bodies--vulnerable, present, open--and keeps hope at the forefront.

The stories which continue to be stories, but are void of hope--these are the stories which sear our history with cruelty and tragedy.

Your shit smells. It does.


My shit smells too. I know.


If both of us remembered this, life would be better.

This is Nishkegaard's picture. He takes amazing photos, look him up on myspace and he might send you some.

And this is what I think:

Nishkegaard, you are a restless wanderer, sad in a way--seeking, grappling, fighting, hurting, wanting for the answers that dwell in your spirit without respite and with the strength of all your being. Yet, you are a hero--stopping at nothing for those answers, even amidst the banal, the mundane, the everyday, and the trash.

No parking. No stopping. No breathing. No thinking. You ignore the seductions of inauthenticity in favor of reflection and stop.

The world goes on behind you, in its rush and its confusion. The alley extends forever into the nothingness. Yet, you sit, still and calm, focused and intense, not a care in the world for the world you have left, the world that has left you here--in the alley, with the trash, with your fear, with your hope.

You are beautiful my brother--an existential hero and a poster child for the postmodern dilemma. You have made Leroy proud.

Alright children, it is that time.

The school year is wearing on. We have been through the first two and a half stages and now the dawn of the third is on the horizon. We have traversed our way through the Autumn--the fashion show that is the first couple of months of the year coupled with the Darwinian struggle for position on the social ladder. We have conquered the melanchology Winter--occupying the cold by solidifying places in the social scheme of things while simultaneously identifying potential mates. Twitterpation is now upon us--Valentines has come and gone, and the once potential mates have either blossomed into hand-holding friends with benefits or dissipated into the bitter cool air. Either way, the excitement of the New, the Shuffle and the Meeting are now staggering into Spring. What then? This is where it all goes down.

First, we are all tired. Whether you are in primary school, secondary school, etc. it doesn't matter--the routine is taking its toll, the mushy lump of neural connections in your head is weary and worst of all--we have to stare at the same people all day everyday. The little quirky things that used to be cute are now unbearable. The charming boy next door or in one of your classes has been revealed as a player who doesn't call people back. The cute girl you had your eye on is really a headcase which you have had to block on every online community to which you belong and has required the changing of e-mail addresses twice. The people you don't get on with are waring on your patience. Yes folks, it is time.

After Easter, it all goes down hill. This is when the beautiful couples of the Twitterpation stage fracture after a storm of cheating, lack of commitment or just plain annoyance. Yes, children, it is time to wake from the collective romanitc beer goggles, get over the 'what was I thinking?' and move on. After Easter, the fisticuffs will take place over issues that aren't worth stitches. Scuffles will take place over nothing, only because it is that time. You will grow weary and you will want to go home.

And then?

Summer. The freedom and promise of summer. Away. Away. Yes.

But, you know the story, 6 weeks in--bored, broke and missing all those wonderful people you used to get to see everyday.

Next Autumn, we'll do it all again.

I can't wait.

I love living,

Keep it real.

I met an old man once; one at the end of his life. He told me a secret. Come here he said, come close and listen: "Here's the secret. Wake up each day--don't worry how you feel, how tired, how exhausted, how happy--wake. That is the first step. Then, walk to the shore and watch the sunrise. Don't go with anyone. Don't speak. Just watch. But, don't watch as if you are watching a screen. No, watch as if you are in the screen. And then, when the sun is just over the horizon, the signs of a new day fully bloomed and the people beginning to scurry about, then go down to the water. Let shock of the immersion set in for just a second. Then, bend down and swallow it--the ocean; all of it. And, this is the key--don't drown. Feel the heaviness, allow yourself to be overwhelmed, get to the point until you almost can't stand the absence of breathe--and don't drown. Drowning is bad. After, walk home silently and be. This the key son, swallowing the ocean every day without drowning." I told him he was crazy and deserved to die alone.

Animals?

Us Westerners do alot of things each day to convince ourselves that we aren't like the rest of the creatures on this planet. No, we aren't animals--we are more than that. We are separate. We are human beings--we have rational capacities and souls and whatever else we can think of to make us distinct from the animal kingdom. As Bacon said, because we walk on our hind legs--we are 'the gods of the earth.'

How do we do this? Well, you know, the usual--lotions, deodorants, sprays and other fragrant things. A complex semiotic system of clothes consisting of shoes, socks, shirts, jackets, pants, trousers, hats, etc. And then there is the etiquette. manners. How to eat. How to gesture. Spitting? No--barbaric. Drawing attention to bodily fluids (e.g. snot)? Out of the question. We are humans. We are civilized. Think about everything you do every day to think about the fact that you are not a chimpanzee, you are a person.

But, there is one thing all of us do. Most daily. Some less than that. But, all of us do it and so do all the animals. There is something each of us does that is a chance to remind ourselves--to reflect on the fact--that we are basically and essentially animals, barbaric, biological, natural animals that depend upon the natural order for our well-being. Yes, you came from the Big Bang just like the rocks and the snakes and the one-celled entities of this universe. And, when you are sitting and wiping your ass you can't avoid that. It is a second to remember where you came from and not to forget it.

Crass? Maybe. Gross? Possibly. But, next time you are have your hand down there remember you read it here first.

i love living,

keep it real.