Hello! I am just chiming in to say that I am super busy. I am currently in a stretch of restful days, the likes of which have been spent sleeping, eating, and hopefully recording some music.
I think you are all great and don't have the time to update the blog this very moment. I will soon.
Much love.
p.s. did you guys know today is July 1st?! Summer summer summer!
Showing posts with label Memoirs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Memoirs. Show all posts
Friday, July 1, 2011
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
The Dawn
Hello all. So, it's not Sunday, it's actually past Sunday and there is no post for Sunday. There are three main reasons for this: I am lazy, I went to a rockin' concert on Sunday night (thereby taking up all my lovely Sunday-night blog time), and I GOT A JOB!!! No, I didn't work on Sunday (man Sunday is starting to sound like a fake word...), or the day before or the day after, but my mental preparation was in full effect and it's hard to find the time to blog when concentrating so seriously.
New things in my life:
1. Well, the job. I am now a Barista at Starbucks. No joke. I got a job in coffee...I got a job at a major corporation...and I got a job where I have to sell the crap out of stuff. Had my first shift today and I think it's going to be really fun. Seriously. But even more seriously, the money should start rolling in and maybe mayybe we'll find some independence sticking to me. Oh also, people at coffee shops do weird things and talk to strange people, they overhear tales of the world and can, like, talk about them and stuff. Hopefully some epic masterpieces will come of my 9-5.
2. The second new thing is music related. For those of you that don't know (most of you do, as you are in fact my family and close friends, and therefore know I have lots of awesome, read expensive, gear) I play music. And I have gear, and I like gear, and I go a little bonkers with gear when I get in one of those deeply satisfying obsessive phases of life. Well, I got a pedal board (look it up) and a new $300 effects pedal via craigslist trading (got to love the free market future) and am STOKED. Weird noises count for around 10 points in the game of life. (Cereal? Board-game? Vague wisdom? Who knows...)
Also in this vein, I am playing my first show with my band, Larusso. I haven't played a legit show in about 4 years, so this is pretty darn exciting for me. (Let me know if you want to come...)
3. I have decided to become a hobbyist, but need someone to teach me how to solder. This is new, very very new and I will be curious to see where it goes.
4. Finally, and this is more related to new thing number too, I have not been writing very much. In the literary sense, that is. I did just post clips from a short story, but I wrote that a while ago and needed to appease my eager contingent of young teenage girls in love in my blog. What I have been doing, in terms of creativity, is writing music. Songs, lyrics, chord progressions and funkadelic riffs. But not just writing, I am recording them. Which is a new phase for me-- trying to create something concrete in order to become immortal. (Classic Gilgamesh complex.) As I notice more about myself and the world while life slinks on by, as I watch my mind and body in action over vast periods of time, I realize that I am a very creative individual, but I have trouble burning more than one creative candle. So, right now, it's music. I hope to have some quality beats pretty soon. Ghetto blasta status.
So, I think that is all for now. It is hard to think of cool lessons in writing when I am not really writing. Maybe I'll post some lyrics or something. OH! I am also about to finish the book Empire Falls by Richard Russo. Look for a review...good good good.
p.s. I did not do a p.s last time!! I am sorry, I was very forgetful. I have a reputation to uphold. Trying trying. Sleep tight me hearties.
New things in my life:
1. Well, the job. I am now a Barista at Starbucks. No joke. I got a job in coffee...I got a job at a major corporation...and I got a job where I have to sell the crap out of stuff. Had my first shift today and I think it's going to be really fun. Seriously. But even more seriously, the money should start rolling in and maybe mayybe we'll find some independence sticking to me. Oh also, people at coffee shops do weird things and talk to strange people, they overhear tales of the world and can, like, talk about them and stuff. Hopefully some epic masterpieces will come of my 9-5.
2. The second new thing is music related. For those of you that don't know (most of you do, as you are in fact my family and close friends, and therefore know I have lots of awesome, read expensive, gear) I play music. And I have gear, and I like gear, and I go a little bonkers with gear when I get in one of those deeply satisfying obsessive phases of life. Well, I got a pedal board (look it up) and a new $300 effects pedal via craigslist trading (got to love the free market future) and am STOKED. Weird noises count for around 10 points in the game of life. (Cereal? Board-game? Vague wisdom? Who knows...)
Also in this vein, I am playing my first show with my band, Larusso. I haven't played a legit show in about 4 years, so this is pretty darn exciting for me. (Let me know if you want to come...)
3. I have decided to become a hobbyist, but need someone to teach me how to solder. This is new, very very new and I will be curious to see where it goes.
4. Finally, and this is more related to new thing number too, I have not been writing very much. In the literary sense, that is. I did just post clips from a short story, but I wrote that a while ago and needed to appease my eager contingent of young teenage girls in love in my blog. What I have been doing, in terms of creativity, is writing music. Songs, lyrics, chord progressions and funkadelic riffs. But not just writing, I am recording them. Which is a new phase for me-- trying to create something concrete in order to become immortal. (Classic Gilgamesh complex.) As I notice more about myself and the world while life slinks on by, as I watch my mind and body in action over vast periods of time, I realize that I am a very creative individual, but I have trouble burning more than one creative candle. So, right now, it's music. I hope to have some quality beats pretty soon. Ghetto blasta status.
So, I think that is all for now. It is hard to think of cool lessons in writing when I am not really writing. Maybe I'll post some lyrics or something. OH! I am also about to finish the book Empire Falls by Richard Russo. Look for a review...good good good.
p.s. I did not do a p.s last time!! I am sorry, I was very forgetful. I have a reputation to uphold. Trying trying. Sleep tight me hearties.
Monday, May 30, 2011
Sunday Funday
My dear people, this weekend has been one of serious and intense laziness. But before I go into the highly interesting details of all that: the food I ate today.
Firstly, half of a homemade chocolate-chip cookie. Excellent and cakey. Second, much later in the day and comprising of both my breakfast and lunch, an onion bagel with regular spread cream cheese and half an avocado. Pretty freaking delicious. Thirdly, a dinner of Farfalle pasta, grilled chicken, and pesto. All combined and lathered with healthy amounts of olive oil. Finger licking good. (Which is odd because we didn't eat it with our hands...)
Just trying to live up to my previous post.
So a week has gone by and I've thought of precisely one good topic to blog about, which I'm not actually going to do here. That idea was Oprah--her life, her legacy, her inexplicable ego and buildup of final shows, and the giant hole she is going to bury all her money in. I'll do that soon, after some extensive Wikipedia research.
For now, I think I am going to ease right back into this. I got a pretty radical sunburn on Friday and have since then commenced the lazing about. I am waiting to hear back from a job, and have taken the hopefully pleasant news of no more free time to heart, utilizing the last of my aimless hours watching Lost and strumming my acoustic. Now, don't get me wrong, this is not entirely different from what I have been doing all week, but somehow, in the sight of a possible new life, it seems all the more sacred and important now.
I will say this about Lost. Just finished it. The whole thing. And man am I a sucker. Loved it, hated it, whatever you feel about the legacy of Lost, you have to admit it was ballsy. To cover such universal and contemplative topics so openly, with the intention of subliminally inching the masses of America towards true realization of the meaning of existence, is quite something. Most may have missed these obvious motifs: good versus evil at the core does not work because human beings have free will; we all really need to let go; a fat man stranded on an island can retain his weight if motivated to do so; and we all have a choice.
Now, I realize I'm about a year off from all the hype that this show ended with. Oh well.
This is all for now, I am a little lost myself. Slowly heating up the fog that surrounds.
p.s. I have to wear glasses at night to read the computer screen these days. Old man come and take me away.
Firstly, half of a homemade chocolate-chip cookie. Excellent and cakey. Second, much later in the day and comprising of both my breakfast and lunch, an onion bagel with regular spread cream cheese and half an avocado. Pretty freaking delicious. Thirdly, a dinner of Farfalle pasta, grilled chicken, and pesto. All combined and lathered with healthy amounts of olive oil. Finger licking good. (Which is odd because we didn't eat it with our hands...)
Just trying to live up to my previous post.
So a week has gone by and I've thought of precisely one good topic to blog about, which I'm not actually going to do here. That idea was Oprah--her life, her legacy, her inexplicable ego and buildup of final shows, and the giant hole she is going to bury all her money in. I'll do that soon, after some extensive Wikipedia research.
For now, I think I am going to ease right back into this. I got a pretty radical sunburn on Friday and have since then commenced the lazing about. I am waiting to hear back from a job, and have taken the hopefully pleasant news of no more free time to heart, utilizing the last of my aimless hours watching Lost and strumming my acoustic. Now, don't get me wrong, this is not entirely different from what I have been doing all week, but somehow, in the sight of a possible new life, it seems all the more sacred and important now.
I will say this about Lost. Just finished it. The whole thing. And man am I a sucker. Loved it, hated it, whatever you feel about the legacy of Lost, you have to admit it was ballsy. To cover such universal and contemplative topics so openly, with the intention of subliminally inching the masses of America towards true realization of the meaning of existence, is quite something. Most may have missed these obvious motifs: good versus evil at the core does not work because human beings have free will; we all really need to let go; a fat man stranded on an island can retain his weight if motivated to do so; and we all have a choice.
Now, I realize I'm about a year off from all the hype that this show ended with. Oh well.
This is all for now, I am a little lost myself. Slowly heating up the fog that surrounds.
p.s. I have to wear glasses at night to read the computer screen these days. Old man come and take me away.
Monday, May 23, 2011
The Times
So, awesome blogees, this is the first post of mine in a little over a month. I dropped out for a bit. Never did that in college...thought I'd give it a try while enrolled in blog-school. No, but really, I just haven't felt the urge to write. Part of this assignment was to train myself to write even when I don't feel the urge, so I guess I failed a bit on that account. More than a bit (Italics will now be code for my witty editing process), I failed hardcore. WRITE DAMNIT!
But, I am here to blog (is it a verb? To blog? To blaave?) that this is not over. My girlfriend said to me today or yesterday (the times, they blur so pearly pink these days), "you know, you are just about over the line." Meaning, unlike Johnny Cash who famously tried to walk the line, and who infamously fell on his ass (actually I don't remember the end of that movie...is he ok?), I am on the verge of no more blog. But before such a large scale (yes the internet will reel with loss) decision can be made, I wanted to test the waters again.
My original goal was about four posts a month, at minimum, once a week, with a real preference of twice a week. I was branching out with book reviews, comments on the times and the like, and just got, well, lazy. It's a serious flaw.
So I wanted to write and say that I am doing the once a week thing. I'll fret and worry and put it off so most likely there will be a new post every Sunday. (Which brings up the interesting point of how one gauges the beginning and end of a week with no work or schedule in sight) Hopefully it will be like school and I'll bust out gnarly epic posts with multiple interlocking thesi (plural words that end in i make my day!) and at least ten academic resources. Worst case scenario: you'll get a play by play of the foods I eat on Sundays. I'm looking forward to it. Are you?
p.s. I have had numerous complaints (which is really good because it means I have numerous readers) that the color scheme on this website will in fact make you legally blind. I am changing it. Peer pressure sucks. I like black on green!
But, I am here to blog (is it a verb? To blog? To blaave?) that this is not over. My girlfriend said to me today or yesterday (the times, they blur so pearly pink these days), "you know, you are just about over the line." Meaning, unlike Johnny Cash who famously tried to walk the line, and who infamously fell on his ass (actually I don't remember the end of that movie...is he ok?), I am on the verge of no more blog. But before such a large scale (yes the internet will reel with loss) decision can be made, I wanted to test the waters again.
My original goal was about four posts a month, at minimum, once a week, with a real preference of twice a week. I was branching out with book reviews, comments on the times and the like, and just got, well, lazy. It's a serious flaw.
So I wanted to write and say that I am doing the once a week thing. I'll fret and worry and put it off so most likely there will be a new post every Sunday. (Which brings up the interesting point of how one gauges the beginning and end of a week with no work or schedule in sight) Hopefully it will be like school and I'll bust out gnarly epic posts with multiple interlocking thesi (plural words that end in i make my day!) and at least ten academic resources. Worst case scenario: you'll get a play by play of the foods I eat on Sundays. I'm looking forward to it. Are you?
p.s. I have had numerous complaints (which is really good because it means I have numerous readers) that the color scheme on this website will in fact make you legally blind. I am changing it. Peer pressure sucks. I like black on green!
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
The American Dream-Part II
So, Part II is here. I left you with the lies we all tell, our half-white-truths that get us a couple grand closer to the richness each one of us deserves. This second post will cover a couple topics: the used car salesman, his comparative glory days during the recession, his death via Arthur Miller, etc; my own covering of the two cars that define America is today (hint, only one is American...); finally, the definition of the American Dream and how and why it currently resides in a small bunker 10 feet under the desert of Arizona.
A brief sidenote. The Toyota Matrix (the black beast of beauty I recently acquired) neither defines the American Dream nor stands out in any specific way, other than to incite this post. It is doing well. It now reps cat paws along the hood and a dust heart in the back window. I can also drive it through the ocean like a navy vehicle. Brief sidenote concludeth...
So, the used car salesman. Boy is he peachy. I'm sure now that some character at some point in something I write (yes, vagueness is the mother of some sort of invention...) will have this job title. My childhood memories of the used car salesman only point in one direction: The Simpsons. Our dear Gil Gunderson, the yellow (not asian) man with graying hair and a perpetually "fucked by fate" look on his face, is the image that comes to my mind. I think many of you know him. Maybe not consciously, maybe not even after this post, but you know him, deep in your core. As all Simpsons characters, he exemplifies his profession with simplicity and pain. Thus all mention of such a man, for me, have included those characteristics. Then I read Death of a Salesman (the previous A. Miller joke was not a one-off) and realized the writers of The Simpsons are geniuses! They got the point with a cartoon man that rubs his three-pencil-line brow as he whines...which is essentially what that play entails. I don't think Gil ever dies, but I could be wrong.
Now I said in the intro paragraph (notice that these are classic thesis based papers) that I would speak of the rise of the used car salesman during the recession. This view is based on absolutely no facts. I just would think, as logic obviously implies, that during a recession people are not buying cars, but, if they are, it would be a used car. So here is the salesman, real-life Gil, broke, per usual. Now even more so because his stock options in Pet Smart and American Airlines just plummeted. He comes to work, gets dirty looks as he walks to his corner office, the one that is missing a chair and doesn't actually have any walls, and he sees a line. These people, they can all only afford used cars. They are young couples trying to grab while the going is good, they are men in expensive suits they can no longer afford. They have come for his expertise. His passion for their hand-me-down needs. Ronald Reagan at its best. Gil's wife loses her job, which is a shame, but he can finally come home and say, honey, I sold some cars today. They hi-five and sit down to American Idol. This is my factless story about the rise of the used car salesman during our nation's biggest economic disaster since the Depression. Hope it holds up to all our concepts of a trying time in America's quest for the conquering of a Dream.
Now, all that was fictional. The distorted thoughts of my mind. My own real encounter with the used-car salesman was pretty much boring. One thoughtfully said as I drove a silver Matrix about 10 blocks, "If you buy the car I'll wash it for you." Thanks, man. The guy I did end up buying the car from was nice, small, and pretty quiet. He knew a lot about cars. Go figure.
-----
And now, for the current car that defines America. I have two. This is, of course, in honor of Hunter S. and his willful way of defining a generation. Car number 1: The Prius. Yeah, I said it. Car numer 2: The Lincoln Navigator. Now I'm going to do a bit of compare and contrast, a little this a little that, and show you why these two define American pretty completely.
The Prius is the hippest shit to his this country since the Beatles, which are, much like the Prius, NOT American. Toyota, Japan, made this car. It is small and futuristic looking, it can hold more than your average four door sedan, and, mostly importantly, it doesn't sound like a car. Oh it also is the gets pretty good gas mileage because of the innovative technology that introduced the "hybrid" as a popular and reasonable model of the new and future car. You all know this. What you don't realize, maybe, is that old people like Priui (plural Priuses), middle-aged people like Priui, college students like Priui, and kids like Priui. Also, celebrities like Priui. Everyone, in fact, digs this car and wants one. Every category I mentioned, most every person there, is a Democrat. This is the first big point. The liberal America likes and wants the Prius because of it's claim to energy efficiency, its apparent beneficial effects on the environment, and its snazzy technology dashboard thing.
But, BUT, this is definitive of an American that wishes for change, and does what someone else tells them to do to inact that change. The hybrid battery that Toyota puts in the Prius causes almost as much emissions as the life of driving a normal car, and it can't be destroyed easily. It is, yes, maybe more effecient than a normal car, but it's still a car. The middle east is still be screwed by us, and therefore pissed at the world, and therefore bombing stuff. The new Prius billboards read, in huge letters that dominate the land we live in, 50 MPG!!!!! Why don't they say, "STOP DRIVING SO MUCH, you are killing your world"? Just a thought. Lastly, the Prius doesn't sound like a car. The engine is quiet and appears dead when stopped. The interface is like an Enterprise Starship. There are no seats, just gravitron suspenders. The liberal mindset of America would seem to imply that we don't even want to be driving a car, we want to be involved in some sort of foux-automobile revolution that is fully supported by Al Gore. But remember, it is a car, it still takes a tank full of gas and implies that you need at least 50 miles of sturdy highway out there for you to enjoy it.
Now the Navigator. This is a cheap shot, Republicans (or non-Republican Navigator owners). Just a heads up. As I mentioned, I drove a silver Matrix that the salesman offered to wash if I bought. To get to this car, we took a Lincoln Navigator about ten blocks. I inquired. It gets 9 MPG, a truly revolutionary low number (low is good, right?) in today's world. It starts at about $42,000. They were selling it for $4000. Leave it to America to build something nobody wants to use anymore(except for Facebook I guess). But who bought it at that price, who shelled out almost 50 grand on a hulking 7 seater that will probably be used as a light military vehicle pretty soon if Obama doesn't figure out a way to ban them from this country? It is you, the American man that WILL NOT OWN a Prius. Damn foreign boxes of death. The Navigator had complimentary beer cozies. It had TV's in the back of seats because it turns out the wasteland beyond our windows (still the land of the free and brave) should really not be looked upon by innocents. It had a step-in platform and transformed into Optimus Prime if you clicked the big red LAUNCH pad on the ceiling. The hulking beast, a new nickname for the Republican party and it's mass of die-hard fans, is who buys this thing. Who shells out years and years of savings. Who gets another car, because they all have 5, in a couple years.
The Navigator is the simple American man. He does not want change. He wants to be big and slow. I mean, lets be honest, head on collision of Prius and Navigator? No contest.
And that's just it, America is a contest. One side wants innovation to the umpth degree and moves a little bit while the other doesn't want it and usually moves backward just to make a point. Our Dream is to be on one side of this equation, defined by arguably our greatest invention (internet has not quite proven itself to me yet). We are at odds, people. Our lives and cars and shows and attitudes illustrate it simply and eloquently. A love story with two a-sexual partner's and a serious communication problem.
Hunter S. defined a Dream with pain and a bad-ass car, a could have been almost maybe moment that lived up to at least the fever of passion and emotion. I don't see that here, in all of us. I see Congress stalling. I see an idea that has not been realized, has not connected to our bodily needs. I see our country failing to live up to it's own Dream, but trying, nontheless.
-------
A final part and piece, maybe a good larger topic at some point, but just a bit now. This turned a tad negative. I have some spite in me. I travelled around for a long time and saw that we are not all we claim to be, this big country with its greenbacks and commercials. I have faith in the world, but faith in America is hard to come by these days. I can't find our priests.
p.s. there is no bunker, there is no Arizonian conspiracy. The Dream is out there, walking around. Go find it.
A brief sidenote. The Toyota Matrix (the black beast of beauty I recently acquired) neither defines the American Dream nor stands out in any specific way, other than to incite this post. It is doing well. It now reps cat paws along the hood and a dust heart in the back window. I can also drive it through the ocean like a navy vehicle. Brief sidenote concludeth...
So, the used car salesman. Boy is he peachy. I'm sure now that some character at some point in something I write (yes, vagueness is the mother of some sort of invention...) will have this job title. My childhood memories of the used car salesman only point in one direction: The Simpsons. Our dear Gil Gunderson, the yellow (not asian) man with graying hair and a perpetually "fucked by fate" look on his face, is the image that comes to my mind. I think many of you know him. Maybe not consciously, maybe not even after this post, but you know him, deep in your core. As all Simpsons characters, he exemplifies his profession with simplicity and pain. Thus all mention of such a man, for me, have included those characteristics. Then I read Death of a Salesman (the previous A. Miller joke was not a one-off) and realized the writers of The Simpsons are geniuses! They got the point with a cartoon man that rubs his three-pencil-line brow as he whines...which is essentially what that play entails. I don't think Gil ever dies, but I could be wrong.
Now I said in the intro paragraph (notice that these are classic thesis based papers) that I would speak of the rise of the used car salesman during the recession. This view is based on absolutely no facts. I just would think, as logic obviously implies, that during a recession people are not buying cars, but, if they are, it would be a used car. So here is the salesman, real-life Gil, broke, per usual. Now even more so because his stock options in Pet Smart and American Airlines just plummeted. He comes to work, gets dirty looks as he walks to his corner office, the one that is missing a chair and doesn't actually have any walls, and he sees a line. These people, they can all only afford used cars. They are young couples trying to grab while the going is good, they are men in expensive suits they can no longer afford. They have come for his expertise. His passion for their hand-me-down needs. Ronald Reagan at its best. Gil's wife loses her job, which is a shame, but he can finally come home and say, honey, I sold some cars today. They hi-five and sit down to American Idol. This is my factless story about the rise of the used car salesman during our nation's biggest economic disaster since the Depression. Hope it holds up to all our concepts of a trying time in America's quest for the conquering of a Dream.
Now, all that was fictional. The distorted thoughts of my mind. My own real encounter with the used-car salesman was pretty much boring. One thoughtfully said as I drove a silver Matrix about 10 blocks, "If you buy the car I'll wash it for you." Thanks, man. The guy I did end up buying the car from was nice, small, and pretty quiet. He knew a lot about cars. Go figure.
-----
And now, for the current car that defines America. I have two. This is, of course, in honor of Hunter S. and his willful way of defining a generation. Car number 1: The Prius. Yeah, I said it. Car numer 2: The Lincoln Navigator. Now I'm going to do a bit of compare and contrast, a little this a little that, and show you why these two define American pretty completely.
The Prius is the hippest shit to his this country since the Beatles, which are, much like the Prius, NOT American. Toyota, Japan, made this car. It is small and futuristic looking, it can hold more than your average four door sedan, and, mostly importantly, it doesn't sound like a car. Oh it also is the gets pretty good gas mileage because of the innovative technology that introduced the "hybrid" as a popular and reasonable model of the new and future car. You all know this. What you don't realize, maybe, is that old people like Priui (plural Priuses), middle-aged people like Priui, college students like Priui, and kids like Priui. Also, celebrities like Priui. Everyone, in fact, digs this car and wants one. Every category I mentioned, most every person there, is a Democrat. This is the first big point. The liberal America likes and wants the Prius because of it's claim to energy efficiency, its apparent beneficial effects on the environment, and its snazzy technology dashboard thing.
But, BUT, this is definitive of an American that wishes for change, and does what someone else tells them to do to inact that change. The hybrid battery that Toyota puts in the Prius causes almost as much emissions as the life of driving a normal car, and it can't be destroyed easily. It is, yes, maybe more effecient than a normal car, but it's still a car. The middle east is still be screwed by us, and therefore pissed at the world, and therefore bombing stuff. The new Prius billboards read, in huge letters that dominate the land we live in, 50 MPG!!!!! Why don't they say, "STOP DRIVING SO MUCH, you are killing your world"? Just a thought. Lastly, the Prius doesn't sound like a car. The engine is quiet and appears dead when stopped. The interface is like an Enterprise Starship. There are no seats, just gravitron suspenders. The liberal mindset of America would seem to imply that we don't even want to be driving a car, we want to be involved in some sort of foux-automobile revolution that is fully supported by Al Gore. But remember, it is a car, it still takes a tank full of gas and implies that you need at least 50 miles of sturdy highway out there for you to enjoy it.
Now the Navigator. This is a cheap shot, Republicans (or non-Republican Navigator owners). Just a heads up. As I mentioned, I drove a silver Matrix that the salesman offered to wash if I bought. To get to this car, we took a Lincoln Navigator about ten blocks. I inquired. It gets 9 MPG, a truly revolutionary low number (low is good, right?) in today's world. It starts at about $42,000. They were selling it for $4000. Leave it to America to build something nobody wants to use anymore(except for Facebook I guess). But who bought it at that price, who shelled out almost 50 grand on a hulking 7 seater that will probably be used as a light military vehicle pretty soon if Obama doesn't figure out a way to ban them from this country? It is you, the American man that WILL NOT OWN a Prius. Damn foreign boxes of death. The Navigator had complimentary beer cozies. It had TV's in the back of seats because it turns out the wasteland beyond our windows (still the land of the free and brave) should really not be looked upon by innocents. It had a step-in platform and transformed into Optimus Prime if you clicked the big red LAUNCH pad on the ceiling. The hulking beast, a new nickname for the Republican party and it's mass of die-hard fans, is who buys this thing. Who shells out years and years of savings. Who gets another car, because they all have 5, in a couple years.
The Navigator is the simple American man. He does not want change. He wants to be big and slow. I mean, lets be honest, head on collision of Prius and Navigator? No contest.
And that's just it, America is a contest. One side wants innovation to the umpth degree and moves a little bit while the other doesn't want it and usually moves backward just to make a point. Our Dream is to be on one side of this equation, defined by arguably our greatest invention (internet has not quite proven itself to me yet). We are at odds, people. Our lives and cars and shows and attitudes illustrate it simply and eloquently. A love story with two a-sexual partner's and a serious communication problem.
Hunter S. defined a Dream with pain and a bad-ass car, a could have been almost maybe moment that lived up to at least the fever of passion and emotion. I don't see that here, in all of us. I see Congress stalling. I see an idea that has not been realized, has not connected to our bodily needs. I see our country failing to live up to it's own Dream, but trying, nontheless.
-------
A final part and piece, maybe a good larger topic at some point, but just a bit now. This turned a tad negative. I have some spite in me. I travelled around for a long time and saw that we are not all we claim to be, this big country with its greenbacks and commercials. I have faith in the world, but faith in America is hard to come by these days. I can't find our priests.
p.s. there is no bunker, there is no Arizonian conspiracy. The Dream is out there, walking around. Go find it.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
The American Dream- Part I
It was said by someone very dear to my heart and mind that you can't cover the American Dream in an un-American car. The American Dream is a noholdsbar grab on life, hands on the throat and groin, a steady sure climb to the top. This can't be said with a Nissan. It has to be a Cadillac. It has to be bold, it has to be manufactured right here, and it has to break down frequently. This person (Hunter S. Thompson) said something like this in his infamous book Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (I can't find the exact quote on the great black void of the internet right now). No, this is not a book review, just some parallell lines to get my point rolling.
Bloggers, bloggees, people that don't want to be associated with the word blog, I bought a car! It's a cadillac. One of those new models with jet fuel and a paintball gun attached to the front bumper. I kid, I kid. It's a Toyota Matrix, hatchback, good gas mileage, black, nice and shapely. American Dream status? Dunno. I guess I wanted to do two things with this post, talk about cars and my experiences in searching for the right one, and also about the American Dream as a whole, from a writer's standpoint. Specifically from a "what would Hunter S. have to say about the nature of our nature" sort of thing.
So, first, the cars. It is tiring looking for a used car. There is a mindless numbing that accompanies the search, sort of like you are looking for lesser known lost treasure: the sacred rites of Roman Emperor Elagabalus or pottery sherd #1,229. Now I happen to think I found a pretty solid gold piece (being my car) but man, that search had me weary.
Some stories: I test drove a 2010 Honda Fit at the urging of my grandmother, Honda is known for safety after all, and found possibly the newest new (and used, mind you) car salesman the world may have ever known. My test drive was his first. He left turned me into rush hour at a large intersection in Oxnard (those that know this pain, please pray on my behalf) and I found out how it would feel to drive this car in bumper to bumper traffic. He proceeded to explain the features of the car by reciting the booklet they give to customers on all their knew cars. "It has windshield wipers. The seats fold down. The CR-Z is a lot cooler, probably." William, you dear, dear man. He was pretty great, actually. My first test drive did not involve the bone-chilling stareslashplea that most of these men give you as they ask you to sit in their office. Where else do guests get the comfier chair, with wheels and swivel option? You are sitting on a wooden stool, my man. Who has control here? As we sat down he simply said, "Now, because I have to, are you interested in buying this car?"
Twenty minutes later, same day, we pull into the lavish Toyota complex and are awarded the commendable help of Pontz, the maybe German maybe Swedish maybe Belgiumish(??) sales aficionado. Unlike our Honda helper, this man knew cars. On the scenic wind-driven 55mph drive up a back road he proceeded to wipe Honda's small industry like a bug against Toyota's arsenal of automobiles. The space of the Matrix (yes, the car I wanted but a year newer, test-driving for surety) is that of a giant crushing a bug. This man did not like bugs. Or, at least, was very serious about the Honda Fit being like a bug that needed killing. He had me pull an illegal u-turn to take the easy way back. "Feel the control," he said, "The radius of the wheel spinning the axels is most excellent." He smelled richly of cologne. "The car has interstellar options, it can dodge bullets, exactly like that man in the Matrix, and it gets a solid 32mpg on the highway." Half-truths. He asked near the end of the ride, in his vague-European accent, if I was interested in buying the car, if we could "make a deal," and when I said I wasn't actually going to buy a car today he said, "I will respect you, I do respect this." Before we left we had to sit in the comfy chairs and he had to check with his boss about three times without me ever issuing a price. He gave me a piece of paper with $23,000 as a possibility based on credit, and then asked me to choose a payment plan. His eyes gleamed. Pontz was a nice man, but a very serious car salesman.
What I have loved about all the car shopping is how the lies come dangling out, one little step at a time. We are creatures shadowed in our mistruths (feel the American Dream coming on, slowly, surely?) and it turns out that cars have secrets their owners want to hide. I almost bought a Volvo--super clean, leather interior, medium miles, work done at the dealer, upgraded Iphone thingamabobs, good good good. Took it into a mechanic who estimated about two grand of repairs, new fluids new this new that. I got a phone call from that guy who trailed on about a couple oil changes at the jiffy lube; bits of guilty truth leaking from sideways glances and lilting voice patterns. Some parts possibly replaced at Pepboys. Minor work. No, really, I just, listen, it's very clean. Or the ad that says "No accidents!" means no new doors, no engine rebuilding. But those are some pretty serious curb swipes, lady. Anyway, it was like that show Lie To Me, who could last the longest selling the least they wanted to about their hurt little vehicles. A game of wills.
----This post is getting too long, I will end it here, and post the second-half soon. It's the American Dream, after all, can't be covered in one go. Hope you guys enjoyed...stay tuned.----
p.s. some of that was fiction.
p.p.s thank you for reading! I hope the infrequency does not bother you. I will try and remedy that soon, my receptionist has been out with whooping cough all week.
Bloggers, bloggees, people that don't want to be associated with the word blog, I bought a car! It's a cadillac. One of those new models with jet fuel and a paintball gun attached to the front bumper. I kid, I kid. It's a Toyota Matrix, hatchback, good gas mileage, black, nice and shapely. American Dream status? Dunno. I guess I wanted to do two things with this post, talk about cars and my experiences in searching for the right one, and also about the American Dream as a whole, from a writer's standpoint. Specifically from a "what would Hunter S. have to say about the nature of our nature" sort of thing.
So, first, the cars. It is tiring looking for a used car. There is a mindless numbing that accompanies the search, sort of like you are looking for lesser known lost treasure: the sacred rites of Roman Emperor Elagabalus or pottery sherd #1,229. Now I happen to think I found a pretty solid gold piece (being my car) but man, that search had me weary.
Some stories: I test drove a 2010 Honda Fit at the urging of my grandmother, Honda is known for safety after all, and found possibly the newest new (and used, mind you) car salesman the world may have ever known. My test drive was his first. He left turned me into rush hour at a large intersection in Oxnard (those that know this pain, please pray on my behalf) and I found out how it would feel to drive this car in bumper to bumper traffic. He proceeded to explain the features of the car by reciting the booklet they give to customers on all their knew cars. "It has windshield wipers. The seats fold down. The CR-Z is a lot cooler, probably." William, you dear, dear man. He was pretty great, actually. My first test drive did not involve the bone-chilling stareslashplea that most of these men give you as they ask you to sit in their office. Where else do guests get the comfier chair, with wheels and swivel option? You are sitting on a wooden stool, my man. Who has control here? As we sat down he simply said, "Now, because I have to, are you interested in buying this car?"
Twenty minutes later, same day, we pull into the lavish Toyota complex and are awarded the commendable help of Pontz, the maybe German maybe Swedish maybe Belgiumish(??) sales aficionado. Unlike our Honda helper, this man knew cars. On the scenic wind-driven 55mph drive up a back road he proceeded to wipe Honda's small industry like a bug against Toyota's arsenal of automobiles. The space of the Matrix (yes, the car I wanted but a year newer, test-driving for surety) is that of a giant crushing a bug. This man did not like bugs. Or, at least, was very serious about the Honda Fit being like a bug that needed killing. He had me pull an illegal u-turn to take the easy way back. "Feel the control," he said, "The radius of the wheel spinning the axels is most excellent." He smelled richly of cologne. "The car has interstellar options, it can dodge bullets, exactly like that man in the Matrix, and it gets a solid 32mpg on the highway." Half-truths. He asked near the end of the ride, in his vague-European accent, if I was interested in buying the car, if we could "make a deal," and when I said I wasn't actually going to buy a car today he said, "I will respect you, I do respect this." Before we left we had to sit in the comfy chairs and he had to check with his boss about three times without me ever issuing a price. He gave me a piece of paper with $23,000 as a possibility based on credit, and then asked me to choose a payment plan. His eyes gleamed. Pontz was a nice man, but a very serious car salesman.
What I have loved about all the car shopping is how the lies come dangling out, one little step at a time. We are creatures shadowed in our mistruths (feel the American Dream coming on, slowly, surely?) and it turns out that cars have secrets their owners want to hide. I almost bought a Volvo--super clean, leather interior, medium miles, work done at the dealer, upgraded Iphone thingamabobs, good good good. Took it into a mechanic who estimated about two grand of repairs, new fluids new this new that. I got a phone call from that guy who trailed on about a couple oil changes at the jiffy lube; bits of guilty truth leaking from sideways glances and lilting voice patterns. Some parts possibly replaced at Pepboys. Minor work. No, really, I just, listen, it's very clean. Or the ad that says "No accidents!" means no new doors, no engine rebuilding. But those are some pretty serious curb swipes, lady. Anyway, it was like that show Lie To Me, who could last the longest selling the least they wanted to about their hurt little vehicles. A game of wills.
----This post is getting too long, I will end it here, and post the second-half soon. It's the American Dream, after all, can't be covered in one go. Hope you guys enjoyed...stay tuned.----
p.s. some of that was fiction.
p.p.s thank you for reading! I hope the infrequency does not bother you. I will try and remedy that soon, my receptionist has been out with whooping cough all week.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Oh the places you'll go...
Bloggers! Hola. Sawadee-kap. Oy. Sup. I am greeting you more than once because I have been away too long, and also because languages are interesting when transliterated. So, my internet is finally up. Huzzah! I can, again, waste hours a day looking up random facts and, well, blogging. I took too long of a break. I should have gone to a coffee house and ordered a tea with little bits of milk and honey, sipped and typed and let you all in. But I didn't. I've actually been a little bit out of the writing habit, which is a shame because I was doing a pretty good job for me. So this is the first step (again) of getting into a habit. Hit me with your literary nicotine patches, cover me like that pretty man from that smoking movie, give my blood something to scream about.
Because I have been absent for longer than I'd like this particular post is a little post-dated. I had the idea about a week ago and couldn't get out of my sweatpants long enough to type (in jeans now!), so here we go.
Jobs. Employment, position, co-worker, proletariat, hands over cash, the river of green and the lost treasures of paradise. I STILL need a job. But this isn't me complaining, this is me posting about all the various lives I could be living right at this very moment. Here we go (yes, again, keys in ignition, rev rev):
Ventura Theater Company- There's me, black AmerAper hoodie, checking the date on your ticket as you try and hide the little joint that sticks out of your shirt pocket. It's cool, dude, Snoop here encourages the puff puff. I set up the mics backstage and maybe wipe the floors clean after a show, sticky from beer and dropped thiz pills. I work weekends and have started a band, I'm stoked but obviously don't get paid enough (minimum plus pity tips) or get enough hours. My fun free time is eaten away by nights laid awake wondering if I should have given Pepper my demo or how that new chorus is starting to sound an awful lot like honkey tonk blues. But I'm good, see. I've got a job.
Nature's Grill- Do you want fries with that? Not really, I mean, they serve blue tortilla chips with salsa and are super hip low-fi class, but I am taking your order and wiping the tables after you leave. I've met the relatively few number of true hippies in Ventura; don't get me wrong they have punk tendencies like everyone else but they do enjoy the Grateful Dead a bit. I know where Lassens is and what is in that fake hamburger crap. No, I still won't eat it. But I'm pretty happy. No pity tips, but rather real change due to good friendly service and my awesome hair that did not manage to get into your food. I've met people my age and can bike to work, and slowly, yes slowly, I'm writing that quintessential novella that defines what it means to be an honest hard-working college graduated hippy bum spirit-life-seeker. I'm good, see. I've got a job.
Paradise Pantry- No, no I don't work at a sex shop. I work at a wine and cheese shop. The people come here right before the sex shop down the street, get drunk and lactaided up, have a good night overall. I wear a nice black apron and my converse, but other than that I'm still lookin' like me. Maybe my not-yet-happenin' beard is a little long because in the dark small space that I make money, all those long bottles and mildewing cheese, I feel that the extra hair gives me an edge. I'm getting to know all the different varietals, how that particular brand of cow crap gives that particular year a little zest, a little nudge in the acidity. I begin to speak as if I've been to Italy three times (oh, wait, I have, culturelaugh) and as if I go to France bi-monthly to check on my small but reasonably well off vineyard estate. My parents home in Petaluma is actually now in Sonoma County, it kisses up against a long, stalwart Pinot traditional to the area. Cheese has taken on a whole new meaning. "Cheddar"? What do you mean by "cheddar," sir? ....Man, even I can't bullshit knowing about chesses, sorry guys. Look at me in the wine and cheese shop, I'm a little snooty and I know A LOT about cheese. Brie. Goat. String. I make a decent wage and feel that these skills will get me far in life. I'm good, see. I've got a job.
Patagonia- AHHHH this mountain is so gnarly bro! DUDE that wave almost ate your life. OH MY GOD that piece of paper was so recycled. Do you like this really cool shirt? Do you want it? Its twenty-five bucks. No we don't take cash, we don't use paper here. Credit card? Sorry, plastic hurts the environment pretty seriously. Have you seen the news about climate control? You can wear it in the store, I guess. We are organizing a Reiner hike to clean up the water-bottle trash near the summit. Want to come?? Um, will you be in sub-zero temperature zones? Go shop at REI then. -----So I'm using my pretty powerful tools of humor to humiliate a company I really want to work for. If, somehow someone from G.P reads this, I'm just jokin' around man. If I were there I'd be getting decent benefits, going hiking often, and wearing snazzy expensive American made clothes. I would also be part of the future young space explorers mission to Patagonia's semi-near planet called RUGGED. Sounds like fun, right? I'm healthy and fit and know how to not get killed by ice and poison oak. I have beefed up a tad. I'm good, see. I've got a job.
These are the potential lives I could be living people. Don't you want to know all of those dudes? Currently the front runner is a coffee shop that just opened, has no employees, and will hopefully need at least one in the next coming weeks. Working there I would just be, well, me.
Love peace and happy times, fellow bloggers. Till we meet again!
p.s. the only part of this that has to do with writing is that this post was pretty creative. Also, there was a job as a music journalist that I literally just remembered but don't want to doctor the post majorly to include, so....hargenshnargen as music journalist: super freaking happy.
Because I have been absent for longer than I'd like this particular post is a little post-dated. I had the idea about a week ago and couldn't get out of my sweatpants long enough to type (in jeans now!), so here we go.
Jobs. Employment, position, co-worker, proletariat, hands over cash, the river of green and the lost treasures of paradise. I STILL need a job. But this isn't me complaining, this is me posting about all the various lives I could be living right at this very moment. Here we go (yes, again, keys in ignition, rev rev):
Ventura Theater Company- There's me, black AmerAper hoodie, checking the date on your ticket as you try and hide the little joint that sticks out of your shirt pocket. It's cool, dude, Snoop here encourages the puff puff. I set up the mics backstage and maybe wipe the floors clean after a show, sticky from beer and dropped thiz pills. I work weekends and have started a band, I'm stoked but obviously don't get paid enough (minimum plus pity tips) or get enough hours. My fun free time is eaten away by nights laid awake wondering if I should have given Pepper my demo or how that new chorus is starting to sound an awful lot like honkey tonk blues. But I'm good, see. I've got a job.
Nature's Grill- Do you want fries with that? Not really, I mean, they serve blue tortilla chips with salsa and are super hip low-fi class, but I am taking your order and wiping the tables after you leave. I've met the relatively few number of true hippies in Ventura; don't get me wrong they have punk tendencies like everyone else but they do enjoy the Grateful Dead a bit. I know where Lassens is and what is in that fake hamburger crap. No, I still won't eat it. But I'm pretty happy. No pity tips, but rather real change due to good friendly service and my awesome hair that did not manage to get into your food. I've met people my age and can bike to work, and slowly, yes slowly, I'm writing that quintessential novella that defines what it means to be an honest hard-working college graduated hippy bum spirit-life-seeker. I'm good, see. I've got a job.
Paradise Pantry- No, no I don't work at a sex shop. I work at a wine and cheese shop. The people come here right before the sex shop down the street, get drunk and lactaided up, have a good night overall. I wear a nice black apron and my converse, but other than that I'm still lookin' like me. Maybe my not-yet-happenin' beard is a little long because in the dark small space that I make money, all those long bottles and mildewing cheese, I feel that the extra hair gives me an edge. I'm getting to know all the different varietals, how that particular brand of cow crap gives that particular year a little zest, a little nudge in the acidity. I begin to speak as if I've been to Italy three times (oh, wait, I have, culturelaugh) and as if I go to France bi-monthly to check on my small but reasonably well off vineyard estate. My parents home in Petaluma is actually now in Sonoma County, it kisses up against a long, stalwart Pinot traditional to the area. Cheese has taken on a whole new meaning. "Cheddar"? What do you mean by "cheddar," sir? ....Man, even I can't bullshit knowing about chesses, sorry guys. Look at me in the wine and cheese shop, I'm a little snooty and I know A LOT about cheese. Brie. Goat. String. I make a decent wage and feel that these skills will get me far in life. I'm good, see. I've got a job.
Patagonia- AHHHH this mountain is so gnarly bro! DUDE that wave almost ate your life. OH MY GOD that piece of paper was so recycled. Do you like this really cool shirt? Do you want it? Its twenty-five bucks. No we don't take cash, we don't use paper here. Credit card? Sorry, plastic hurts the environment pretty seriously. Have you seen the news about climate control? You can wear it in the store, I guess. We are organizing a Reiner hike to clean up the water-bottle trash near the summit. Want to come?? Um, will you be in sub-zero temperature zones? Go shop at REI then. -----So I'm using my pretty powerful tools of humor to humiliate a company I really want to work for. If, somehow someone from G.P reads this, I'm just jokin' around man. If I were there I'd be getting decent benefits, going hiking often, and wearing snazzy expensive American made clothes. I would also be part of the future young space explorers mission to Patagonia's semi-near planet called RUGGED. Sounds like fun, right? I'm healthy and fit and know how to not get killed by ice and poison oak. I have beefed up a tad. I'm good, see. I've got a job.
These are the potential lives I could be living people. Don't you want to know all of those dudes? Currently the front runner is a coffee shop that just opened, has no employees, and will hopefully need at least one in the next coming weeks. Working there I would just be, well, me.
Love peace and happy times, fellow bloggers. Till we meet again!
p.s. the only part of this that has to do with writing is that this post was pretty creative. Also, there was a job as a music journalist that I literally just remembered but don't want to doctor the post majorly to include, so....hargenshnargen as music journalist: super freaking happy.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Home Sweet Home
Blog viewers! I am back, sorry for the painstaking delay. No, I was not delayed on account of weather or terrorism; I moved. And so I am currently piggy-backing on a local corporation's unprotected wireless internet. Oh the things I do for you.
Yes, I moved, and I am stoked. My posts will be slightly sparse in the coming days because of all the commotion, but I will try and throw some new stuff on here. It turns out when you rent a house they don't also give you a job, so I am still looking for gainful employment and therefore still have serious time in which to blog, once the internet is a little more stable.
It is so nice to set up your own house. Holy bajeesus. I love the sponges I bought and how the burners burst to flame. Our shower is warm and soft, our fridge is way too big for us, and we don't have any furniture. It's a delight. I am currently on a rolling ottoman (spelled like the Empire!) in front of a kitchen table that has no chairs. But it's not ghetto, the walls are well-painted and there is ample space for all the stuff we don't have yet. Coolest item yet: rad (yes rad) psychedelic reflected shower curtain. It's a trip.
I think that finally having a house of your own (as opposed to sharing it with four other people), especially with a significant other, does an incredible amount for your daily routine. And lets be honest, the daily routine of a writer is what makes or breaks his output; did you write a novel or a page? All depends on your schedule. So, in setting up my place, in putting paintings just so or the wine rack in that corner, I think I am finally moving closer to scheduling some writing into my life. I also put up a bunch of words on the fridge, they call that magnetic poetry, but I will attempt to make it prose.
With that said, this blog as been excellent practice. I feel as if I am writing more, and eventually it will transfer over to fiction as well. Question for writers/people with thoughts: How do you schedule writing into your life? Do you at all? Do you give yourself a page quota for the week? For the day? I am curious what works for you, because I have never found a consistent pattern. I usually just write when inspired and then sleep for hours. Answers are appreciated, but you can also just think about it...
I think that is all for now, more soon.
p.s. I wonder which room I'll write in most...
Yes, I moved, and I am stoked. My posts will be slightly sparse in the coming days because of all the commotion, but I will try and throw some new stuff on here. It turns out when you rent a house they don't also give you a job, so I am still looking for gainful employment and therefore still have serious time in which to blog, once the internet is a little more stable.
It is so nice to set up your own house. Holy bajeesus. I love the sponges I bought and how the burners burst to flame. Our shower is warm and soft, our fridge is way too big for us, and we don't have any furniture. It's a delight. I am currently on a rolling ottoman (spelled like the Empire!) in front of a kitchen table that has no chairs. But it's not ghetto, the walls are well-painted and there is ample space for all the stuff we don't have yet. Coolest item yet: rad (yes rad) psychedelic reflected shower curtain. It's a trip.
I think that finally having a house of your own (as opposed to sharing it with four other people), especially with a significant other, does an incredible amount for your daily routine. And lets be honest, the daily routine of a writer is what makes or breaks his output; did you write a novel or a page? All depends on your schedule. So, in setting up my place, in putting paintings just so or the wine rack in that corner, I think I am finally moving closer to scheduling some writing into my life. I also put up a bunch of words on the fridge, they call that magnetic poetry, but I will attempt to make it prose.
With that said, this blog as been excellent practice. I feel as if I am writing more, and eventually it will transfer over to fiction as well. Question for writers/people with thoughts: How do you schedule writing into your life? Do you at all? Do you give yourself a page quota for the week? For the day? I am curious what works for you, because I have never found a consistent pattern. I usually just write when inspired and then sleep for hours. Answers are appreciated, but you can also just think about it...
I think that is all for now, more soon.
p.s. I wonder which room I'll write in most...
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Left for Dead
So this break in the posting of blogs was uncalled for. I really am not doing much with myself, so the very least I could do is to inform the world of that very little. I like the way the title sounds and I think, just maybe, this post will be about stolen, retrieved, and forgotten parts of myself. This relates to writing, I promise.
It starts with a road trip to my stomping grounds, those Petalumian fields of green. The purpose of the trip was to collect and move my things, all those objects that I have collected over the years and after two quick looks in a box have determined still worth my time and energy. My parents had them stored, for the most part, in our garage. It is odd to see one's material life in a 8x4 space, duct-taped and stacked. Makes me wonder why exactly I need it again, as I came here from somewhere, am currently alive, and have survived without all of it for some time. But it is nice to be home, to have clothes for the cold California winter.
The main aspect of this life of boxes that touches on writing is, obviously enough, all of my books. I graduated college some 6 months ago, and as an avid (AAAA-lliteration) book collecter I still have almost every single book I bought during that four year process. I tossed out "Earthquakes and Volcanoes: A Shocking Discovery" though. That one needed to biz-ounce. So I have boxes and boxes of these books- Frankenstein, Frances of Assisi, three copies of the Bible, Hesiod, Illiad, etc etc etc. I was a widespread humanities nut so I have most of classic literature in my parents garage, but the other thing I had, through only one creative writing class, was about ten books on the "Craft of Writing." Now I'm not one for self-help books, but I wonder why I never read any of these. Did you, other writers? Do you read books on how to write a screenplay or the perfect short story or historical fiction? I have one written by George Orwell. That sounds like it could be good.
My point is that I have read a lot, but I have read very little on the craft of writing itself. Part of the reason for that is the mentality that I don't need help, man. I just need focus and determination, but I can write, thank you very much. Now I know that is stupid and immature, really I do, but you still won't catch me flipping through "Writing Down the Bones." I refused to read it even when I was assigned it. I wonder if famous authors ever read those books; they were asked to write them (some of them anyway), so they must think it is important.
Anyway I think I left much of this part of literature for dead a long time ago. I don't know if I ever will bring it into my circulation, it just seems to me that I should either be reading what I want to write, or writing it, and neither of those is instructional help.
This was the retrieval. I went through the charred remains of a past self, collected what I still wanted to take with me into this brave new world, and then rolled on out. Part of my experience was not simply retrieval, but an immense amount of nostalgia. The longer I am out of college the more I seem to dwell on what it was like, how open, how each moment was about the next minute or hour or weekend. I saw old college friends and we all talked about how this new life, this new existence, is really quite hard. I guess I knew it was all fleeting anyway, but that is so easy to accept when you are sitting in a field under stars or playing Beer Pong in your backyard room called the "murder shack." I just nodded and said, for sure man, it'll all be gone soon. Smile, throw, owned. But now, now it IS all gone. So I feel as if that part of me was stolen, as if it escaped from my clutches and is now simply a memory.
But these hard feelings are what good writing is made of right? I have a mentality (I have lots of mentalities, so get used to me saying it) that everything hard in this life will connect the me with what is hard in all people's lives. And I will channel that, and I will write that, and it will be good. My theories don't include the out to sea feeling involved in experiencing hardship though.
Lastly, plowing through the coast of Cali, seeing old friends, and going through my objectified life, I saw the forgotten parts of myself. I really do love collecting books. I really do still own, use, and love my lava lamp. I really ate pasta like every night from that pot, or cut a bajillion TJ's pizza's with that shiny circular knifey thing. I used both crates of records and hung the tibetan prayer flags, lit candles and watched all those seasons of TV through BIT torrent. I'm pretty dope. That is what I forgot. What what.
I will try and post more! What are topics you want to me to address? I am great with assignments. Tell me what to do. Please.
p.s. Other things I left for dead: 20 pairs of old socks, a box of all my college notebooks, two moleskins I had not seem for some time, birthday cards from the past four years, a leather jacket from Italy that I had hoped was totally dope, TLC's crazysexycool, post-it love notes, my cap (of cap and gown), Magic the Gathering cards, the Redwall series, naivetee, and about six Mars Volta posters.
It starts with a road trip to my stomping grounds, those Petalumian fields of green. The purpose of the trip was to collect and move my things, all those objects that I have collected over the years and after two quick looks in a box have determined still worth my time and energy. My parents had them stored, for the most part, in our garage. It is odd to see one's material life in a 8x4 space, duct-taped and stacked. Makes me wonder why exactly I need it again, as I came here from somewhere, am currently alive, and have survived without all of it for some time. But it is nice to be home, to have clothes for the cold California winter.
The main aspect of this life of boxes that touches on writing is, obviously enough, all of my books. I graduated college some 6 months ago, and as an avid (AAAA-lliteration) book collecter I still have almost every single book I bought during that four year process. I tossed out "Earthquakes and Volcanoes: A Shocking Discovery" though. That one needed to biz-ounce. So I have boxes and boxes of these books- Frankenstein, Frances of Assisi, three copies of the Bible, Hesiod, Illiad, etc etc etc. I was a widespread humanities nut so I have most of classic literature in my parents garage, but the other thing I had, through only one creative writing class, was about ten books on the "Craft of Writing." Now I'm not one for self-help books, but I wonder why I never read any of these. Did you, other writers? Do you read books on how to write a screenplay or the perfect short story or historical fiction? I have one written by George Orwell. That sounds like it could be good.
My point is that I have read a lot, but I have read very little on the craft of writing itself. Part of the reason for that is the mentality that I don't need help, man. I just need focus and determination, but I can write, thank you very much. Now I know that is stupid and immature, really I do, but you still won't catch me flipping through "Writing Down the Bones." I refused to read it even when I was assigned it. I wonder if famous authors ever read those books; they were asked to write them (some of them anyway), so they must think it is important.
Anyway I think I left much of this part of literature for dead a long time ago. I don't know if I ever will bring it into my circulation, it just seems to me that I should either be reading what I want to write, or writing it, and neither of those is instructional help.
This was the retrieval. I went through the charred remains of a past self, collected what I still wanted to take with me into this brave new world, and then rolled on out. Part of my experience was not simply retrieval, but an immense amount of nostalgia. The longer I am out of college the more I seem to dwell on what it was like, how open, how each moment was about the next minute or hour or weekend. I saw old college friends and we all talked about how this new life, this new existence, is really quite hard. I guess I knew it was all fleeting anyway, but that is so easy to accept when you are sitting in a field under stars or playing Beer Pong in your backyard room called the "murder shack." I just nodded and said, for sure man, it'll all be gone soon. Smile, throw, owned. But now, now it IS all gone. So I feel as if that part of me was stolen, as if it escaped from my clutches and is now simply a memory.
But these hard feelings are what good writing is made of right? I have a mentality (I have lots of mentalities, so get used to me saying it) that everything hard in this life will connect the me with what is hard in all people's lives. And I will channel that, and I will write that, and it will be good. My theories don't include the out to sea feeling involved in experiencing hardship though.
Lastly, plowing through the coast of Cali, seeing old friends, and going through my objectified life, I saw the forgotten parts of myself. I really do love collecting books. I really do still own, use, and love my lava lamp. I really ate pasta like every night from that pot, or cut a bajillion TJ's pizza's with that shiny circular knifey thing. I used both crates of records and hung the tibetan prayer flags, lit candles and watched all those seasons of TV through BIT torrent. I'm pretty dope. That is what I forgot. What what.
I will try and post more! What are topics you want to me to address? I am great with assignments. Tell me what to do. Please.
p.s. Other things I left for dead: 20 pairs of old socks, a box of all my college notebooks, two moleskins I had not seem for some time, birthday cards from the past four years, a leather jacket from Italy that I had hoped was totally dope, TLC's crazysexycool, post-it love notes, my cap (of cap and gown), Magic the Gathering cards, the Redwall series, naivetee, and about six Mars Volta posters.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
The Good the Bad and the Ugly
So, been a little while. Oops on my part. I think blogging is quite hard. But I am attempting to establish rhythm and order to my life, and this should be part of it. I am attempting to have titles, believe it or not, that mirror or prelude my body posts.
So, lets start with the Good. I'll be honest as we start the Good, the Good is on the shorter side this week. I've got more chalked up in the other categories, but I guess the main Good is that I have found a residence. A decent place with tiles and carpet, a commode that does not bring the body's waste too close to its most cleansing of rituals, and quite the bedroom. It has been some time since I've had a house. A place, a space, a sacred area of love and devotion. Four walls and a ceiling, just a little bit of what modern humanity can provide for you. The college house was great but gross, got old a little too quickly for my tastes, and I left feeling like I tore myself from a great tree and plunged into dense jungle brush below. I think I was some sort of green camouflaged lizard that had tongue issues, and so I was feeling a little skittish under all those jaguar paws and what not.
But I did do the university slum, a couple of them actually, and learned what it meant to create a place with many people. It can be frustrating sometimes, but for the most part I just laid back and tried not to care. Usability was key. Now, when it came to my own room, I cared a great deal. Certain posters have remained above my head while I slept since I was about 15 (can you say naked Led Zeppelin angel reaching towards heaven with no penis!?). Certain furniture has crept into my life slowly but surely; now all of it sits in my parent's garage, wanting release from exile. The space I cultivated for myself was the most artistic expression I got (besides words and music). I like low beds and large walls. I need more bookcases. My Orange amp needs to bask in awesomeness while my pedals glow in the dark under the moon. Ambience. Ah.
I say all of this because the space you live in is the space you write in. At least for me. I find the coffee shop experience theoretically contemplative and bourgeois, sitting with your cold soul and a warm cup watching the daily folk go about their scrawny lives, but when it comes down to it I would blast Pandora and add people on Facebook. A storefront distracts me, and so my home, in exchange, has always been the place that I write. And I usually need silence. Space and silence and some sort of peace so that my train of thought can flow. Makes sense, right?
And now I will be, in a short couple days, creating a new space with a special person, and I am excited to view my surroundings once they are furnished. Will I write on the couch? Will there be a couch? Will I write from a yoga pad staring at a tapestry or in my bed propped on a pillow (which is currently where I am writing btw)? I am beside myself with interest (very bored you see..) to examine my new writing quarters. I wonder if Picard dug his captain's office for his captain's log. Got to look into that.
The Bad. So that was the Good, and it was pretty good overall and is something to look forward to. The Bad is that this blog was supposed to be about how I wish I could write, but instead I spend all my hours wilting away serving coffee or roast pork or selling some pre-ripped jeans to teenagers. Turns out it takes some time to be allowed to do any of those activities for money, and so I am unemployed. You would think this would be in the Good because it means I have finished a novel or submitted something to Random House or finally have time for that book-tour, but I have just watched an incredible amount of T.V. Read a bit too.
I don't know why I am so lazy about writing. Sometimes the juice is there, and I pound out great stuff, and then other times I'm all dried up, spent, needing warm blankets and closed eyes. These are all sad excuses and thus in the Bad category; I really got to get my shiz together. The purpose of the blog was to train these dexterous fingers to write even when the heart and mind are lagging, and so I must must persevere! But I have been writing more, overall, and that is good.
One thing I've done with my free time is to build a garden with my girlfriend. I always thought this was a romantic rustic sort of thing to do, and it was. We dug earth and planted seeds and got on our hands and knees. The earth is cool to the touch in the shade and does, indeed, make you feel at home. I realized that people do this every day and the odd thing about wanting to be a writer, for me anyway, is realizing that anything I might write about (unless it's really quite odd) is something someone does every day. They don't consider it a big deal. They don't necessarily feel as if they are prophetic. But when I considered tilling the land under the sun it always seemed so epic. So much something that teaches the main character about the follies of life and how to continue towards happiness regardless. Anyway, it made me want to read Steinbeck and figure out the different names for dirt.
I was wrong. The Good was bigger than the Bad. And now the Ugly. I've got some sort of rash. Big looking insect bites on my legs. After weeks of scrutiny, my girlfriend's brother claimed they were more like poison oak, and then wham bam four days ago I've got tiny pointed spots on my arms hands chest back belly ugh ugh ugh. They say it should itch like the dickens and it does sometimes, but overall I just feel like I'm turning into a lizard. Which is not the best feeling. I don't want to be cold-blooded, that can't be good for my chi. I'm getting it checked out by a medical professional, but all of this makes me think that Kafka had some crazy skin problems right around the time he wrote The Metamorphosis.
I've got to run actually. Kovorkian in fifteen. I do like sharing parts of my life on the interweb. Makes me feel as if I'm contributing to a society that aliens will dig up millions of years in the future. Hello! This is English! I am a humanoid! Did I ever write a book? Why did we die?!?!
Peace.
p.s. I've never seen the Good the Bad and the Ugly, maybe I should watch things before I pirate their names. Happy hunting.
So, lets start with the Good. I'll be honest as we start the Good, the Good is on the shorter side this week. I've got more chalked up in the other categories, but I guess the main Good is that I have found a residence. A decent place with tiles and carpet, a commode that does not bring the body's waste too close to its most cleansing of rituals, and quite the bedroom. It has been some time since I've had a house. A place, a space, a sacred area of love and devotion. Four walls and a ceiling, just a little bit of what modern humanity can provide for you. The college house was great but gross, got old a little too quickly for my tastes, and I left feeling like I tore myself from a great tree and plunged into dense jungle brush below. I think I was some sort of green camouflaged lizard that had tongue issues, and so I was feeling a little skittish under all those jaguar paws and what not.
But I did do the university slum, a couple of them actually, and learned what it meant to create a place with many people. It can be frustrating sometimes, but for the most part I just laid back and tried not to care. Usability was key. Now, when it came to my own room, I cared a great deal. Certain posters have remained above my head while I slept since I was about 15 (can you say naked Led Zeppelin angel reaching towards heaven with no penis!?). Certain furniture has crept into my life slowly but surely; now all of it sits in my parent's garage, wanting release from exile. The space I cultivated for myself was the most artistic expression I got (besides words and music). I like low beds and large walls. I need more bookcases. My Orange amp needs to bask in awesomeness while my pedals glow in the dark under the moon. Ambience. Ah.
I say all of this because the space you live in is the space you write in. At least for me. I find the coffee shop experience theoretically contemplative and bourgeois, sitting with your cold soul and a warm cup watching the daily folk go about their scrawny lives, but when it comes down to it I would blast Pandora and add people on Facebook. A storefront distracts me, and so my home, in exchange, has always been the place that I write. And I usually need silence. Space and silence and some sort of peace so that my train of thought can flow. Makes sense, right?
And now I will be, in a short couple days, creating a new space with a special person, and I am excited to view my surroundings once they are furnished. Will I write on the couch? Will there be a couch? Will I write from a yoga pad staring at a tapestry or in my bed propped on a pillow (which is currently where I am writing btw)? I am beside myself with interest (very bored you see..) to examine my new writing quarters. I wonder if Picard dug his captain's office for his captain's log. Got to look into that.
The Bad. So that was the Good, and it was pretty good overall and is something to look forward to. The Bad is that this blog was supposed to be about how I wish I could write, but instead I spend all my hours wilting away serving coffee or roast pork or selling some pre-ripped jeans to teenagers. Turns out it takes some time to be allowed to do any of those activities for money, and so I am unemployed. You would think this would be in the Good because it means I have finished a novel or submitted something to Random House or finally have time for that book-tour, but I have just watched an incredible amount of T.V. Read a bit too.
I don't know why I am so lazy about writing. Sometimes the juice is there, and I pound out great stuff, and then other times I'm all dried up, spent, needing warm blankets and closed eyes. These are all sad excuses and thus in the Bad category; I really got to get my shiz together. The purpose of the blog was to train these dexterous fingers to write even when the heart and mind are lagging, and so I must must persevere! But I have been writing more, overall, and that is good.
One thing I've done with my free time is to build a garden with my girlfriend. I always thought this was a romantic rustic sort of thing to do, and it was. We dug earth and planted seeds and got on our hands and knees. The earth is cool to the touch in the shade and does, indeed, make you feel at home. I realized that people do this every day and the odd thing about wanting to be a writer, for me anyway, is realizing that anything I might write about (unless it's really quite odd) is something someone does every day. They don't consider it a big deal. They don't necessarily feel as if they are prophetic. But when I considered tilling the land under the sun it always seemed so epic. So much something that teaches the main character about the follies of life and how to continue towards happiness regardless. Anyway, it made me want to read Steinbeck and figure out the different names for dirt.
I was wrong. The Good was bigger than the Bad. And now the Ugly. I've got some sort of rash. Big looking insect bites on my legs. After weeks of scrutiny, my girlfriend's brother claimed they were more like poison oak, and then wham bam four days ago I've got tiny pointed spots on my arms hands chest back belly ugh ugh ugh. They say it should itch like the dickens and it does sometimes, but overall I just feel like I'm turning into a lizard. Which is not the best feeling. I don't want to be cold-blooded, that can't be good for my chi. I'm getting it checked out by a medical professional, but all of this makes me think that Kafka had some crazy skin problems right around the time he wrote The Metamorphosis.
I've got to run actually. Kovorkian in fifteen. I do like sharing parts of my life on the interweb. Makes me feel as if I'm contributing to a society that aliens will dig up millions of years in the future. Hello! This is English! I am a humanoid! Did I ever write a book? Why did we die?!?!
Peace.
p.s. I've never seen the Good the Bad and the Ugly, maybe I should watch things before I pirate their names. Happy hunting.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
On Reading
Hoorah for continuity! Day two and, 12:21 in the AM, as my girlfriend sleeps beside me, I have the time to blog. Go figure. This is a hard one, the second post, what does one say, what lofty topics does one address? For such a large audience, it is really hard to please everyone. The humor is forced, sorry, still getting used to this. Ahem.
I want my second post not to be about a struggling writer (me), but a flourishing reader (still me)! They always say the best writers read, and when it comes this very generic rule, I pass. Flying colors. The gold star. I love, love love love, to read. "It is my favorite past-time." There are quotes because I said that earlier today, about reading, to my girlfriend, who then raised her eyebrows and said "are you suure it's your favorite past-time?" I revised my answer to "solo past-time" and then continued to read. So, seriously, I love to read. It brings me out of the mundane world, it takes me into a craft that I want to explore, and it stirs all of my creative juices so that the punch night party in my head is awesome.
BUT, most importantly, more importantly than all of those logical reasons, reading is comfy. It can be done sprawled on a couch, flip-flops thrown to the ground and a pillow under your head. It can be done late at night in the comfort of comforters and a reading light. Pillow still under-head. On a plane or train or, if you are really lucky (I am not) in a car. Pick it up put it down, burn through it like your last cigarette--it's all good. Books don't weigh all that much and are fairly easy to obtain. It is, quite simply, the perfect leisure sport. And the best part: people respect you for it. I can lay down-- middle of the day, hour after I woke up, sweatpants, no plans-- and crack open a book and everyone leaves me alone. These are the reasons reading is great.
For a little more in-depthness, the three examples I listed before my last one, much like a paper in university learnin', contain some main points! So, to elaborate:
1. Out of the mundane world. This is key to the craft of writing. A good book, novel short story memoir whatever, brings the reader out of his head space and into someone else's. This provides perspective. While you are in that author's headpsace, or really the character of the author, you get to see the world as they see it. This allows you, when you come back, to have a least two ways of looking at something. I am a firm believer that the more you know, the wider your lens, the more interesting your words will be. Sometimes we can get caught up in our present, and reading is an excellent way to step out of that for a moment (or an all-night book finishing session) and step back into your world, ready to create.
2. A craft that I want to explore. This is pretty simple. The more we read, the more styles, nuances, characters, worlds, words, etc etc we see. The more we see, the more we can emulate. By reading one can almost inherently (and by osmosis I'm told) become a more well-rounded author. If I had never read anything that broke the fourth wall, aka address YOU, the reader, maybe I would never think to do it. By exploring a book, we take our writing to a whole new level.
3. Stirs all of my creative juices. This is the best part of reading (besides all that leisurely stuff I mean...). When I am engrossed in this awesome, epicly written text I get all goosebumpy, my blood gets warm and I want to go. A really good book makes me want to write a really good book. And a really really good books make me wish I had written that book, and so I steal a couple of ideas or concepts or images and do my own thing; the helium balloon reaching the sun with the baboon turns into a spacetime voyage in which Jesus is actually the future savior of humanity and then we realize we are in New York and my character cries. Fin. See?? Seriously though, finding type of book that gets you inspired to write is a wonderful feeling. It also helps you figure out what it is that you want to write. Love to read romance? Write romance. Sci-fi creatures crawling through moons? Write sci-fi. Lesbian vampire post-apocolypse? Get yourself checked out. Please.
Soo anyway that is the majority of what I have to say on reading. Another thought just popped into my head--sometimes a book is so good I would rather read than write. Bum-city. But hey, at least you find yourself between two excellent pieces of pie and get to choose. I must be hungry or something food keeps slipping in here. Happy writing! (and reading.)
p.s. I just finished reading The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle by Haruki Murukami (highly recommended) and have started "In the Garden of the North American Martyrs" by Tobias Wolf.
p.p.s try and name the stories I ripped off in point number three! good luck.
I want my second post not to be about a struggling writer (me), but a flourishing reader (still me)! They always say the best writers read, and when it comes this very generic rule, I pass. Flying colors. The gold star. I love, love love love, to read. "It is my favorite past-time." There are quotes because I said that earlier today, about reading, to my girlfriend, who then raised her eyebrows and said "are you suure it's your favorite past-time?" I revised my answer to "solo past-time" and then continued to read. So, seriously, I love to read. It brings me out of the mundane world, it takes me into a craft that I want to explore, and it stirs all of my creative juices so that the punch night party in my head is awesome.
BUT, most importantly, more importantly than all of those logical reasons, reading is comfy. It can be done sprawled on a couch, flip-flops thrown to the ground and a pillow under your head. It can be done late at night in the comfort of comforters and a reading light. Pillow still under-head. On a plane or train or, if you are really lucky (I am not) in a car. Pick it up put it down, burn through it like your last cigarette--it's all good. Books don't weigh all that much and are fairly easy to obtain. It is, quite simply, the perfect leisure sport. And the best part: people respect you for it. I can lay down-- middle of the day, hour after I woke up, sweatpants, no plans-- and crack open a book and everyone leaves me alone. These are the reasons reading is great.
For a little more in-depthness, the three examples I listed before my last one, much like a paper in university learnin', contain some main points! So, to elaborate:
1. Out of the mundane world. This is key to the craft of writing. A good book, novel short story memoir whatever, brings the reader out of his head space and into someone else's. This provides perspective. While you are in that author's headpsace, or really the character of the author, you get to see the world as they see it. This allows you, when you come back, to have a least two ways of looking at something. I am a firm believer that the more you know, the wider your lens, the more interesting your words will be. Sometimes we can get caught up in our present, and reading is an excellent way to step out of that for a moment (or an all-night book finishing session) and step back into your world, ready to create.
2. A craft that I want to explore. This is pretty simple. The more we read, the more styles, nuances, characters, worlds, words, etc etc we see. The more we see, the more we can emulate. By reading one can almost inherently (and by osmosis I'm told) become a more well-rounded author. If I had never read anything that broke the fourth wall, aka address YOU, the reader, maybe I would never think to do it. By exploring a book, we take our writing to a whole new level.
3. Stirs all of my creative juices. This is the best part of reading (besides all that leisurely stuff I mean...). When I am engrossed in this awesome, epicly written text I get all goosebumpy, my blood gets warm and I want to go. A really good book makes me want to write a really good book. And a really really good books make me wish I had written that book, and so I steal a couple of ideas or concepts or images and do my own thing; the helium balloon reaching the sun with the baboon turns into a spacetime voyage in which Jesus is actually the future savior of humanity and then we realize we are in New York and my character cries. Fin. See?? Seriously though, finding type of book that gets you inspired to write is a wonderful feeling. It also helps you figure out what it is that you want to write. Love to read romance? Write romance. Sci-fi creatures crawling through moons? Write sci-fi. Lesbian vampire post-apocolypse? Get yourself checked out. Please.
Soo anyway that is the majority of what I have to say on reading. Another thought just popped into my head--sometimes a book is so good I would rather read than write. Bum-city. But hey, at least you find yourself between two excellent pieces of pie and get to choose. I must be hungry or something food keeps slipping in here. Happy writing! (and reading.)
p.s. I just finished reading The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle by Haruki Murukami (highly recommended) and have started "In the Garden of the North American Martyrs" by Tobias Wolf.
p.p.s try and name the stories I ripped off in point number three! good luck.
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