Maybe it's because for the last week I've had to purge a story out on paper. Lately I've been selling my soul to get this position as a creative writer, in my new home of Orange County...
*How is my progress on the story? You can always just run away and drink lots of wine and forget about it,
...but I have been thinking about what it means to be an authority. Because an authority-the company hired editors- get to tell me whether my one story is good enough to make the grade. Who,
other then the literary community, wants to read a novel about childhood innocents through the eyes of an adult? This one story has been percolating in my mind for two decades now. The Recess Chronicles. It's my one story to tell. My humble opinion is that, if I stop running away and drinking wine and actually finish the story, it will be universally loved. But some editor, whose opinions and life path are probably totally different from mine, can say they just don't care about the themes.
I'm in life to learn, so in my stories, themes and dissecting characters are paramount.
Jump to what's in my brain on a Saturday at 3:30 in the morning. Now I would love to take a long leisurely walk on the beach at night with a martini in one hand, in my birthday suit. And if my family- my only viewers- were not to read this blog I'd add a lot more on what I would like to do...but can't. And why can't I? The police prohibit me from being spontaneous tonight. Having the time of my life at any given second. They are taking away my god given freedom.
Now, I'm not one of these people who are punk rock and say the police are oppressing us. Many laws are there to protect us. And fuck you who say otherwise. My point is that, I don't have any respect for anyone who takes a piece of my freedom from me when my actions are harmless.
We live in a society that is not civilized. I am one who believes that people are innately selfish. I've seen people go against their impulses and do the opposite: devote their lives to helping others. But we all struggle so much in the world I know, there is no time to open your hearts to others. Oh, and the ego. Even me. But I've done the opposite for the sole purpose of losing myself in love. We need protectors. All my anarchist friends would say that in a perfect world we would govern ourselves. Well it has not happened yet, and the best theories on paper never stand up to the human quest for power. Read some history books, then get back to me with your idealism.
But damn it, why can't we be a more confident human race who will let me run naked on the beach with a martini in my hand? Why can't I go 7 miles over the speed limit without paying a huge traffic ticket? And oh those spiders love to catch a 'speeding' fly! Who are these people who are granted power to constrict us?
What about the time I first moved to Redding, California, at 20 years of age. I was jogging in the park, and came across a rail road track...
SIDE NOTE: The worst people I have ever known are the train hoppers from Redding. But that is neither here nor there (hey if Vonnegut can write like this so can I).
...and I saw some beautiful graffiti along an overpass of a highway. To see this graffiti up close you had to walk over the rail road tracks a few yards or so. All I was 'up to' was looking at some artwork. Viewing artwork. A train station authority stopped me. He said I had broke the law. My crime was that, in California, it is illegal to walk more then 100 feet down a railroad track. I told him I was clueless to this law. "Well it's common sense!" He said. No buddy, it's not common sense to NOT hear a train coming and walk a few feet to observe some art. Especially since you could see miles down these tracks. I'd like to think I was bit brighter then this fascist. And yes, I do think it's a fascist move to try to ticket someone over $200 for walking along the train tracks. It continues. So he asks for my ID. I was jogging, so I did not have my purse on me. "That's also illegal!" I fight these people. I called him an asshole and told him I was not from California and not familiar with their laws. So he asked my name (and sorry Chrissy Boshcert for using yours instead) and said there was now going to be a file in Washington D.C (where, I am basically from) "all about me". A week later this child prodigy made the front page of the paper for actually getting the ticket for doing the exact same thing I did. He fought too. They sentenced him to community service work.
I'd like to leave this world the same way I came in: innocent and without harm to others. We should question these authorities and decide who is in power to give them their power to take away our power.
Same thing with the art world. As much as I worship Brian Eno, it was only him who decided which bands were going to be chosen for the "no wave" movement a while back. When one or two or a group of elite decide what is considered beautiful, they should be challenged. And I've been pepper sprayed at close range fighting for what was right. It hurts, and it felt like rape (seriously) but it's better I stood up to help a friend then to lie down cowardly and allow this person in this situation to be hurt. Fight-come back with a ticket you can rip up and a black eye. Fight for the freedom these authorities have stripped from us. We are being quietly raped every single day otherwise.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Monday, October 5, 2009
Sister of Mercy quote:
Every Monday I go to a group (starting at 8:15am) to relate with a unique group of people from all walks of life. Our group is full of hearty human beings (meaning, most of us have escaped the Grim Reaper too many times already).
Actually I can't talk about it in public; and that does not come from 'Fight Club'. We are a group of people compelled to fuck up so we are under close scrutiny, being monitored on a weekly basis. I always joke that my doctor's name, the head of the group, "Dr. Ohnemus" sounds a lot like "Omnipresent"; like some Big Brother outfit.
But actually this is a group of bleeding hearts who act like angels in a storm. My personal life having been the storm, and they stepped in to calm and nurture us. Like a blanket, crutch, mercy group of the best people I know.
Dr. Ohnemus recently got back from a vacation in Tibet. She said you could juxtapose a face a of a Tibetan next to a Chinese face, and you could see how run down the money-centered Chinese relates to stress. According to Dr. Ohnemus, the Tibet invested 'inwardly' while the Chinese can never end their search for money.
She gave me a little mantra today, that she brought back from her travels in Tibet. I hear it's "One of the most popular mantras", so get ready; my gift of perpetual, transcendental, ecstasy, mantra of the Buddhists to practise chillin all day long.
om mani padme hum
(translation: 'May MY ORIGINAL BODY/MIND/SPIRIT GAIN WISDOM, COMPASSION, AND ENERGY TO BECOME ENLIGHTENED.
-No I am not a Buddhist, but I love inner peace, and always a fan of soul quiet.
Actually I can't talk about it in public; and that does not come from 'Fight Club'. We are a group of people compelled to fuck up so we are under close scrutiny, being monitored on a weekly basis. I always joke that my doctor's name, the head of the group, "Dr. Ohnemus" sounds a lot like "Omnipresent"; like some Big Brother outfit.
But actually this is a group of bleeding hearts who act like angels in a storm. My personal life having been the storm, and they stepped in to calm and nurture us. Like a blanket, crutch, mercy group of the best people I know.
Dr. Ohnemus recently got back from a vacation in Tibet. She said you could juxtapose a face a of a Tibetan next to a Chinese face, and you could see how run down the money-centered Chinese relates to stress. According to Dr. Ohnemus, the Tibet invested 'inwardly' while the Chinese can never end their search for money.
She gave me a little mantra today, that she brought back from her travels in Tibet. I hear it's "One of the most popular mantras", so get ready; my gift of perpetual, transcendental, ecstasy, mantra of the Buddhists to practise chillin all day long.
om mani padme hum
(translation: 'May MY ORIGINAL BODY/MIND/SPIRIT GAIN WISDOM, COMPASSION, AND ENERGY TO BECOME ENLIGHTENED.
-No I am not a Buddhist, but I love inner peace, and always a fan of soul quiet.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
The Void
My cousin sold our childhood home to a woman whose job involves doing research for children to get vaccinated against all kinds of diseases. Noble cause. Glad she's alive to fight the good fight through her work. When I finish my teaching credential program I will be sculpting the minds of little people; one of the hardest and most rewarding jobs I am capable of doing daily. I can't wait. But until this degree/training process is complete and I'm firmly planted in a kindergarten classroom, here is my take on the medial labor I will soon be doing to fill the time until I can work with meaning.
Okay, so you have your pop music to listen to as a abstract background to numb your atrophied brain. You can learn about the lives of these pop stars. Fill your brain with more worthless crap! You have your lovely commute to your menial job (mine being waitress work). Or maybe you can listen to Morrissey, you know, revolt against the working world. You have your brain numbing fast food, your car to worry about, you coworkers to chat topically with. You're entire routine amounts to little more then the perfunctory phrase, "Have a good day!"
When I quit my job as a waitress, it was a beautiful morning. I turned the question around in my mind all night, then took a walk down our nice neighborhood and watched the houses slowly light up with the morning sun rising. You could imagine the coffee steeping, the outfit picked out to replace comfortable pjs. It was as poetic an image as industry can get.
And I decided to say, "I don't want this. I don't know anything but this and I want a different existence." I did the unthinkable at a late age (25) and quit making money. Quit saying, "Have a nice day." Quit drinking the cooking wine when no one was around just to force a smile on my face when the sun set and I was a slave to asking the rich what they wanted for dinner. I wanted something different. I will not say 'I wanted MORE'. I wanted something different.
So I jumped into the void. Spent a few years developing what I call, "The Unemployed Personality". My journey was sad and unique and strange. Dabbled in drugs. Tried a few part time jobs. Drank vodka. Picked fresh flowers from colorful fields. Made love. Cried to virtual strangers on the phone at 4 in the morning, up with questions and fears. There is never any safety in the VOID. There is only creation or emptiness. Isolation. Bliss. An entire universe formed from organic experience separate from pop culture and synthetic fashions. You are living for nothing but you know every day that you are alive.
Jumping out of the void is as terrifying and enthralling as the morning I walked down my home town street and and watched lights turn on and garage doors open. I know that world. To attach yourself to any commitment is losing your freedom, even if it's just slightly.
Of course I worked with flair in my little robot revolt during those working days. I went through a phase of refusing to say, "Have a nice day!" or "Cold outside." I bought a vesper and rode that to work. Packed the seat with roses I sent to a woman I loved as a friend along with long letters. Lived in a boat a times, with a man who wrote awful poetry about the sky. The boat was like a cradle. I'd find some Vicodin and sit on the pier and look at the stars reflected in the black water of the South River in an Annapolis harbor.
Ran my worries away every morning for miles before work. Ended my jog by running up a hill and listening to my beating heart say, "I am". I ran to escape my body. Did what I could to be free.
We all want to be free. You have a choice: give up some freedom for stability. Or jump into the void. When you enter the void you only have your mind and your appearance and time. That's all. But you are free. Take your own interpretation from that statement. Living for nothing. You are not in society. I heard my heart beat so many times and ran with no compass, in search of something.
Okay, so you have your pop music to listen to as a abstract background to numb your atrophied brain. You can learn about the lives of these pop stars. Fill your brain with more worthless crap! You have your lovely commute to your menial job (mine being waitress work). Or maybe you can listen to Morrissey, you know, revolt against the working world. You have your brain numbing fast food, your car to worry about, you coworkers to chat topically with. You're entire routine amounts to little more then the perfunctory phrase, "Have a good day!"
When I quit my job as a waitress, it was a beautiful morning. I turned the question around in my mind all night, then took a walk down our nice neighborhood and watched the houses slowly light up with the morning sun rising. You could imagine the coffee steeping, the outfit picked out to replace comfortable pjs. It was as poetic an image as industry can get.
And I decided to say, "I don't want this. I don't know anything but this and I want a different existence." I did the unthinkable at a late age (25) and quit making money. Quit saying, "Have a nice day." Quit drinking the cooking wine when no one was around just to force a smile on my face when the sun set and I was a slave to asking the rich what they wanted for dinner. I wanted something different. I will not say 'I wanted MORE'. I wanted something different.
So I jumped into the void. Spent a few years developing what I call, "The Unemployed Personality". My journey was sad and unique and strange. Dabbled in drugs. Tried a few part time jobs. Drank vodka. Picked fresh flowers from colorful fields. Made love. Cried to virtual strangers on the phone at 4 in the morning, up with questions and fears. There is never any safety in the VOID. There is only creation or emptiness. Isolation. Bliss. An entire universe formed from organic experience separate from pop culture and synthetic fashions. You are living for nothing but you know every day that you are alive.
Jumping out of the void is as terrifying and enthralling as the morning I walked down my home town street and and watched lights turn on and garage doors open. I know that world. To attach yourself to any commitment is losing your freedom, even if it's just slightly.
Of course I worked with flair in my little robot revolt during those working days. I went through a phase of refusing to say, "Have a nice day!" or "Cold outside." I bought a vesper and rode that to work. Packed the seat with roses I sent to a woman I loved as a friend along with long letters. Lived in a boat a times, with a man who wrote awful poetry about the sky. The boat was like a cradle. I'd find some Vicodin and sit on the pier and look at the stars reflected in the black water of the South River in an Annapolis harbor.
Ran my worries away every morning for miles before work. Ended my jog by running up a hill and listening to my beating heart say, "I am". I ran to escape my body. Did what I could to be free.
We all want to be free. You have a choice: give up some freedom for stability. Or jump into the void. When you enter the void you only have your mind and your appearance and time. That's all. But you are free. Take your own interpretation from that statement. Living for nothing. You are not in society. I heard my heart beat so many times and ran with no compass, in search of something.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
My Problems with Requiem for a Dream
So many ideas, but today I chose this blog because I want to get it on paper. A storm is coming, and for some time soon I will not be able to type.
I was in my very early 20's when I saw the NC-17 version of Requiem for a Dream in Washington D.C. I've loved the director, Darren Aronofsky, since I saw his first movie, the symbol Pi. This film was highly anticipated by me.
First, the film is true to Hubert Selby, Jr's book of the same name. Aronofsky is a highly talented artist who uses original ideas (the "Hip Hop Splice for drug intact, for example). But in many ways this movie has little to do with the real World of a heroin addict. Also, I remember being banned from recommending anymore movies as my friends (one a film student) were leaving the theater. So yes, the movie did highly impact all of us. But accurate? No...
If you are going to make a movie so many authorities dub "The greatest drug movie of all time" you need it to be a realistic movie on drugs. As stated Aronofsky tried to cast actors who physically resembled the description of Selby's book. One of the most beautiful actress, Jennifer Connelly, plays a wealthy addict with a therapist who only needs sex to give her thousands when her parents do not return her calls. That is a clique. Her partner is Jared Leto, who actually looks like a friend of mine in jail now for heroin use. Both of these actors are very attractive people. I've seen junkies with such bad staff infections on their face, you only see sores and malnutrition marks. Not purple make-up under their vibrantly colored eyes.
Addiction is a disease, not a moral failing (I sound like a broken record). But to go that deep into such strong addiction, I believe the person is burying something. Bravo for the subtle line from Leto's character on Marion's father (Connelly's character) being, "big into women's panties". Who knows the motivations for Leto, other then selfishness.
Another major flaw is that the movie takes place in New York City. I'm sorry but it's not so hard to find heroin there that anyone has to flee to Florida to, "sniff out dope." No way. Heroin makes their users extremely constipated. If you want to take the wind out of a glamorous idea of drugs being 'cool' just say these words: How often do you have to do an anal probe? I missed that scene in the movie. The beautiful Connelly, on the toilet, straining and yelling with her neck veins bulging out. Lesser movies have had the courage to tell that side effect. She goes 'ass to ass' at the end and some people on YouTube find that sexy, yet no one added a toilet straining scene.
Also, when Connelly's character goes to Big Tim (one of my favorite actor's from The Thing, although he was so infected at the movie's end!), she is going to a New York City Penthouse, drinking (I assume) nice liquor, and she has to give a blow job for her fix. Yes, although I have never sunk to that level, there are exploitative people like him in reality. But in Penthouses? Get a better shrink and get over it.
Finally the score. Drugs are so ugly. Anal probes, nose dripping, losing fake friends as well as real friend who can not stomach your pain. Don't set this ugly struggle to such a beautifully orchestrated soundtrack. I have terrible insomnia, and when I listen to that music and see these actor's faces on YouTube lit up in neon colors as I sit in pain watching the morning light fill the room, it makes me furious. Gorgeous actors with purple make-up under the eyes, sublime visions of colorful frames and tears dabbed away on professional make-up jobs. Addicts who feen that much do not shower! That can't shower because their joints hurt so badly and air feels Arctic to them. They should be drenched in ugly sweat. Sweat that makes them look like they stink. They should look like leapers. Not the end scene where she looks like a supermodel heading for a photo shoot.
I will not dispute the ass to ass scene, although it is not in the book, because Aronofsky himself has been to such an event. I would not try to dispute that scene anyway. He did a good job showing how a person will sell their soul for pain to go away. At this point, for Marion, it's not about a 'high'. She is 'getting well'. That's heroin speak for feeling normal.
Briefly, I'll say that I believed Ellen Burstyn's story the most. Loneliness like that is an epidemic which parallels the woe's of a heroin addict. But I'm confused as to how she never got better after extensive treatment. What happened to her to make her psychosis permanent? As a side note to the film maker, I know that he did not use red (Marion never has red lipstick) in the film except for Burstyn's red dress, because he wanted to emphasis the importance of the dress.
Aronofsky is following the book, but he is too good of a film maker for this subject matter. Addiction is not epic in any way. People end up dying. I've always said that Gollum is a junkie. The reality is that you wake up alone in pain and terrified. You won't lose your arm because you only know how to shoot into one vein. It's not a subtle decline, but it is a bottoming out. Not many people have the option to look so good while withdrawing from the strongest drug and selling their soul. Film a white room with a person dialing every number they have manically in sweat pants and a dirty blanket around them. I just captured the life of a heroin addict going through withdraws. Addiction is a tragic struggle. I've seen movies like this, where people do self destructive acts to feel good, but I've never seen pain captured even close to what withdraw feels like to a person.
My favorite (and 'favorite' is not the right word) movie for this subject is A Scanner Darkly (a Bible reference), where he simply says: Let them play, and let them be happy. This is followed by a list of Philip K. Dick's friend's who have died literally or figuratively from drug use. When I see that list, I'm brought to my knees in grief.
I was in my very early 20's when I saw the NC-17 version of Requiem for a Dream in Washington D.C. I've loved the director, Darren Aronofsky, since I saw his first movie, the symbol Pi. This film was highly anticipated by me.
First, the film is true to Hubert Selby, Jr's book of the same name. Aronofsky is a highly talented artist who uses original ideas (the "Hip Hop Splice for drug intact, for example). But in many ways this movie has little to do with the real World of a heroin addict. Also, I remember being banned from recommending anymore movies as my friends (one a film student) were leaving the theater. So yes, the movie did highly impact all of us. But accurate? No...
If you are going to make a movie so many authorities dub "The greatest drug movie of all time" you need it to be a realistic movie on drugs. As stated Aronofsky tried to cast actors who physically resembled the description of Selby's book. One of the most beautiful actress, Jennifer Connelly, plays a wealthy addict with a therapist who only needs sex to give her thousands when her parents do not return her calls. That is a clique. Her partner is Jared Leto, who actually looks like a friend of mine in jail now for heroin use. Both of these actors are very attractive people. I've seen junkies with such bad staff infections on their face, you only see sores and malnutrition marks. Not purple make-up under their vibrantly colored eyes.
Addiction is a disease, not a moral failing (I sound like a broken record). But to go that deep into such strong addiction, I believe the person is burying something. Bravo for the subtle line from Leto's character on Marion's father (Connelly's character) being, "big into women's panties". Who knows the motivations for Leto, other then selfishness.
Another major flaw is that the movie takes place in New York City. I'm sorry but it's not so hard to find heroin there that anyone has to flee to Florida to, "sniff out dope." No way. Heroin makes their users extremely constipated. If you want to take the wind out of a glamorous idea of drugs being 'cool' just say these words: How often do you have to do an anal probe? I missed that scene in the movie. The beautiful Connelly, on the toilet, straining and yelling with her neck veins bulging out. Lesser movies have had the courage to tell that side effect. She goes 'ass to ass' at the end and some people on YouTube find that sexy, yet no one added a toilet straining scene.
Also, when Connelly's character goes to Big Tim (one of my favorite actor's from The Thing, although he was so infected at the movie's end!), she is going to a New York City Penthouse, drinking (I assume) nice liquor, and she has to give a blow job for her fix. Yes, although I have never sunk to that level, there are exploitative people like him in reality. But in Penthouses? Get a better shrink and get over it.
Finally the score. Drugs are so ugly. Anal probes, nose dripping, losing fake friends as well as real friend who can not stomach your pain. Don't set this ugly struggle to such a beautifully orchestrated soundtrack. I have terrible insomnia, and when I listen to that music and see these actor's faces on YouTube lit up in neon colors as I sit in pain watching the morning light fill the room, it makes me furious. Gorgeous actors with purple make-up under the eyes, sublime visions of colorful frames and tears dabbed away on professional make-up jobs. Addicts who feen that much do not shower! That can't shower because their joints hurt so badly and air feels Arctic to them. They should be drenched in ugly sweat. Sweat that makes them look like they stink. They should look like leapers. Not the end scene where she looks like a supermodel heading for a photo shoot.
I will not dispute the ass to ass scene, although it is not in the book, because Aronofsky himself has been to such an event. I would not try to dispute that scene anyway. He did a good job showing how a person will sell their soul for pain to go away. At this point, for Marion, it's not about a 'high'. She is 'getting well'. That's heroin speak for feeling normal.
Briefly, I'll say that I believed Ellen Burstyn's story the most. Loneliness like that is an epidemic which parallels the woe's of a heroin addict. But I'm confused as to how she never got better after extensive treatment. What happened to her to make her psychosis permanent? As a side note to the film maker, I know that he did not use red (Marion never has red lipstick) in the film except for Burstyn's red dress, because he wanted to emphasis the importance of the dress.
Aronofsky is following the book, but he is too good of a film maker for this subject matter. Addiction is not epic in any way. People end up dying. I've always said that Gollum is a junkie. The reality is that you wake up alone in pain and terrified. You won't lose your arm because you only know how to shoot into one vein. It's not a subtle decline, but it is a bottoming out. Not many people have the option to look so good while withdrawing from the strongest drug and selling their soul. Film a white room with a person dialing every number they have manically in sweat pants and a dirty blanket around them. I just captured the life of a heroin addict going through withdraws. Addiction is a tragic struggle. I've seen movies like this, where people do self destructive acts to feel good, but I've never seen pain captured even close to what withdraw feels like to a person.
My favorite (and 'favorite' is not the right word) movie for this subject is A Scanner Darkly (a Bible reference), where he simply says: Let them play, and let them be happy. This is followed by a list of Philip K. Dick's friend's who have died literally or figuratively from drug use. When I see that list, I'm brought to my knees in grief.
People are a Drug
This morning I went to my 'group'. In reality it's a conscious raising group to deal with anxiety and be able to be a single, strong, superhero in a random and cruel world. Our group therapist calls it a "stress management group". Call it what you will, does not matter. What matters is that I need it!
Besides me, everyone in the group is on the heroin withdraw program (the methadone clinic patients). All are unique and sensitive (highly so) good people who are bonding to support each other as if we were family. We talk about everything, even the things that make us vulnerable, to each other; and we are strangers.
Today we had a talk about the 'need' to have people in our lives. Sometimes when you speak so long openly things come out that are not on the four front of our thinking. I blurted out that people are like drugs. We don't need them for our happiness. They are an addiction.
A woman objected, saying that without relationships it would be like the novel "On Waldon Pond". I suppressed blurting out that his mother did his laundry while he wrote that entire novel.
Do we need people to be happy? And what if their happiness or anger makes us act accordingly. I don't like being a slave to anyone, any drug, or any negative or positive emotion. But I am addicted to the idea of people being some cure. I admit this even though I don't want people's lives to be my own.
I told the group that I enrolled to be strong myself so that I don't need anyone but myself. There is no underlying blueprint that will make life certain and fair. It's a throw of the dice.
I lied when I said I did not need anyone, or hope to work up to the point of never needing anyone. The heart was meant to love (thank you Professor Zimmerman for that lecture.) I live for people. I watch them from afar. I listen. I react to them. I don't understand them. But they have their moments of cutting out the bullshit and actually expressing good stuff.
My good, if not best friend (at one point) talked to me for a while on the phone yesterday and she make a comment that sickened me. She said that she hired a black man and, of course (because he was black) he quickly quit the job. Never mind that almost ten employees (including me) quickly left. Why did she have to say that? But I can not eliminate her from my life. She can make a fairy house out of bark. She has loved me more then myself. She once cried when she saw a chicken on the highway because she knew it would get crushed by a passing car. But yet she said that. My point is that people- everyone- are too complex to sum up and cut out or worship. They keep me going. The good ones mostly.
Besides me, everyone in the group is on the heroin withdraw program (the methadone clinic patients). All are unique and sensitive (highly so) good people who are bonding to support each other as if we were family. We talk about everything, even the things that make us vulnerable, to each other; and we are strangers.
Today we had a talk about the 'need' to have people in our lives. Sometimes when you speak so long openly things come out that are not on the four front of our thinking. I blurted out that people are like drugs. We don't need them for our happiness. They are an addiction.
A woman objected, saying that without relationships it would be like the novel "On Waldon Pond". I suppressed blurting out that his mother did his laundry while he wrote that entire novel.
Do we need people to be happy? And what if their happiness or anger makes us act accordingly. I don't like being a slave to anyone, any drug, or any negative or positive emotion. But I am addicted to the idea of people being some cure. I admit this even though I don't want people's lives to be my own.
I told the group that I enrolled to be strong myself so that I don't need anyone but myself. There is no underlying blueprint that will make life certain and fair. It's a throw of the dice.
I lied when I said I did not need anyone, or hope to work up to the point of never needing anyone. The heart was meant to love (thank you Professor Zimmerman for that lecture.) I live for people. I watch them from afar. I listen. I react to them. I don't understand them. But they have their moments of cutting out the bullshit and actually expressing good stuff.
My good, if not best friend (at one point) talked to me for a while on the phone yesterday and she make a comment that sickened me. She said that she hired a black man and, of course (because he was black) he quickly quit the job. Never mind that almost ten employees (including me) quickly left. Why did she have to say that? But I can not eliminate her from my life. She can make a fairy house out of bark. She has loved me more then myself. She once cried when she saw a chicken on the highway because she knew it would get crushed by a passing car. But yet she said that. My point is that people- everyone- are too complex to sum up and cut out or worship. They keep me going. The good ones mostly.
The Reading List Of Dan McCloud
I met Dan MacCloud while at work as a waitress: serving the wealthy rabbit pate and veil at a French restaurant near Baltimore. Dan was a soft spoken, well mannered individual that we called the "Flank Steak Man" because that's all he ordered. Dan was unique among our elite customers because, unlike the suit and tie men who drove up in Jaguars because their wives never cooked, Dan had a large windowless brown construction van (I'm convinced just so he could say, "Hey I'm Dan The Man in the Tan Van"). He also had a grizzly beard like an Alaskan prospector, and a long, string thin rat tail.
Luck would have it that I had no ride lined up to get home (nearly an hour away from work) so Dan volunteered to drive me home. On the way home he asked what books I was reading. I judged him too soon (I admit) because I spouted out some authors I was quite sure he had no clue existed. Wrong! It turned out that Dan came from a rare background, having a father that worked as a NASA scientist and a mother who was the dean of the literature department at the University of Maryland. Dan was gifted with a first rate education, even attending the private school that Chelsy Clinton would later graduate from.
As a side note most of the east coast private schools are based on the Quaker religion (who knew?) and Dan later converted to the religion himself, minus the belief in Jesus. One of Dan's sayings was that he, "Saw light in everyone". He was one of those hippie types that did Owsley acid, found a different path then working a convention job (he worked under the table to avoid having his taxes go to fund war) and he lived on a Yacht that he built himself. He was probably a little crazy too.
Because I could learn a lot from this fellow, I asked him to recommend his favorite books to me. The following came from a manically scribbled list that was torn out of a notebook (I have put asterisks next to the ones I have read):
-The Polish Lieutenant
-Mosquito Coast
-Catch 22
-My Side of the Mountain
-Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance
-A Suitable Boy
-Sarah Canary
-In the Skin of a Lion
-Life of Pi*
-The Dog That Wouldn't Be
-Master and Commander
-Even Cowgirls get the Blues
-Huckleberry Fin
-One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest
-Wild Swans
-July People
-The Shipping News
-A Walk in the Woods
-Madam Bovary
-Canary Row
-East of Edan
-All The Pretty Horses
-The Brothers Karamazov
-The Idiot
-The Red and the Black
-War and Peace
-Dead Souls
-Ship of Fools
The Iliad
-The Odyssey
-The Bible By Everyone
Also:
Anything by:
Ursala Leguin
John Steinbeck
F.Scott Fitzgerald
Amy Chan
Micheal Ondajel
&
Emil Zola
Luck would have it that I had no ride lined up to get home (nearly an hour away from work) so Dan volunteered to drive me home. On the way home he asked what books I was reading. I judged him too soon (I admit) because I spouted out some authors I was quite sure he had no clue existed. Wrong! It turned out that Dan came from a rare background, having a father that worked as a NASA scientist and a mother who was the dean of the literature department at the University of Maryland. Dan was gifted with a first rate education, even attending the private school that Chelsy Clinton would later graduate from.
As a side note most of the east coast private schools are based on the Quaker religion (who knew?) and Dan later converted to the religion himself, minus the belief in Jesus. One of Dan's sayings was that he, "Saw light in everyone". He was one of those hippie types that did Owsley acid, found a different path then working a convention job (he worked under the table to avoid having his taxes go to fund war) and he lived on a Yacht that he built himself. He was probably a little crazy too.
Because I could learn a lot from this fellow, I asked him to recommend his favorite books to me. The following came from a manically scribbled list that was torn out of a notebook (I have put asterisks next to the ones I have read):
-The Polish Lieutenant
-Mosquito Coast
-Catch 22
-My Side of the Mountain
-Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance
-A Suitable Boy
-Sarah Canary
-In the Skin of a Lion
-Life of Pi*
-The Dog That Wouldn't Be
-Master and Commander
-Even Cowgirls get the Blues
-Huckleberry Fin
-One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest
-Wild Swans
-July People
-The Shipping News
-A Walk in the Woods
-Madam Bovary
-Canary Row
-East of Edan
-All The Pretty Horses
-The Brothers Karamazov
-The Idiot
-The Red and the Black
-War and Peace
-Dead Souls
-Ship of Fools
The Iliad
-The Odyssey
-The Bible By Everyone
Also:
Anything by:
Ursala Leguin
John Steinbeck
F.Scott Fitzgerald
Amy Chan
Micheal Ondajel
&
Emil Zola
The Weight of Happiness & Appetite for Sunshine in the Heart
About two years ago I sat down with a Guinness and one of my favorite professors. He had a logic test on his syllabus which had not been solved in his 15 years of teaching. The prize was a beer. My brother solved it, I took the credit, I won a free beer.
This professor was such a beautiful soul; lusty and clever and honest. Directly wired in life I thought. We talked about jazz. How Frank Sinatra gave an olive from his martini to one lucky fellow he really liked every night. Then the subject turned to personal drama. Turmoil for him. His daughter was dying of cancer. I was fighting bad vices that anyone who knows me knows about. We could only talk about intellectual barriers because what we were going through was unspeakable.
He mentioned that out of all the things that can happen in life, being happy is not important. He referenced Cathrine Deneuve, the gorgeous French actress (so French!) who was asked in an interview at the height of her career if she was happy. She sat with a cigarette and her long blond hair (which that professor said reminded him of a cocker spaniel's mane), sultry accent and replied, "Happiness, what is that?!". Ah the French.
In my own life I have to ask myself that a lot, because I'm not happy very often. I get angry, jealous, resentful- just frustrated with people in general. But I love them so much- hold such high standards- that if they let me down it stings. They usually do though. But I still love them- just from a great distance apart.
Happiness is only one emotion of the broad spectrum of feeling that passes through me every day. And I don't want to group emotions into black and white categories anyway. Happiness is a hard one. I take it when it comes.
This professor was such a beautiful soul; lusty and clever and honest. Directly wired in life I thought. We talked about jazz. How Frank Sinatra gave an olive from his martini to one lucky fellow he really liked every night. Then the subject turned to personal drama. Turmoil for him. His daughter was dying of cancer. I was fighting bad vices that anyone who knows me knows about. We could only talk about intellectual barriers because what we were going through was unspeakable.
He mentioned that out of all the things that can happen in life, being happy is not important. He referenced Cathrine Deneuve, the gorgeous French actress (so French!) who was asked in an interview at the height of her career if she was happy. She sat with a cigarette and her long blond hair (which that professor said reminded him of a cocker spaniel's mane), sultry accent and replied, "Happiness, what is that?!". Ah the French.
In my own life I have to ask myself that a lot, because I'm not happy very often. I get angry, jealous, resentful- just frustrated with people in general. But I love them so much- hold such high standards- that if they let me down it stings. They usually do though. But I still love them- just from a great distance apart.
Happiness is only one emotion of the broad spectrum of feeling that passes through me every day. And I don't want to group emotions into black and white categories anyway. Happiness is a hard one. I take it when it comes.
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