When embarking on a grand endeavor one must go forth with gusto, throwing caution into the wind and harboring far-strung expectations about one's ability, work ethic, and their joie de vivre. These hopes might not be met on a consistent basis and curses if they are. Jumping into immediate success and the all-encompassing implications will only hold us back. To wit: if we leap in the water with an innate knowledge of the backstroke, we will only swim the backstroke. Even if we become the world's preeminent backstroker, we will only to be able to aid the metaphorical swim team to which we belong in one event (two if the metaphoric swim meet has medley relays).
This big project at hand. My feeble attempt at fostering whatever lies within myself is not exploding into superstardom in one bold brilliant burst. It comes slowly and painstakingly. We fight for the words, doubt their efficacy upon putting them to paper, and long for that passionate explosion of near genius or at least publishable prose. Work comes long and hard, but I wouldn't have it any other way.
The process of watching one's abilities grow and flourish is much more fulfilling than expounding greatness at the very first opportunity. Things are uneven and at time's painstaking, but other instances when we grasp what we're trying to do, how such a task will be accomplished, and a various assortment of factors, it is so joyous, one cannot help but dance.
I spent a good portion of last night dancing to Raffi in my underwear. I imagined Magic Johnson was in my room boogying down with me. It wasn't the old and bloated Magic that mars TNT's NBA broadcasts with stammering and pronunciation of basketball as "basset-bow" but the young, vivacious lad that hung over my bed in my youth. At this moment I remember that the first poster I ever put up on my own was that poster of Magic. It was a replica of an oil painting and my Mom brought it home from her work.
When you grow up in Michigan, Magic Johnson means a lot. One of my Mother's friends told me that she attended Michigan State University at the same time as Magic (Earvin to his family). Though this woman, Darlene, was constantly around, blighting my seven year old life with her kisses and obese embrace, that did nothing to deter me from asking for her autograph.
Writing is an obtuse and fickle art form. It is not uncommon for one to toil their entire life without something to show for it. Unlike the visual and musical forms there is nothing ingrained in our instinct to recognize and realize how to put it into use. Reading is a relatively new form. Even if film is a modern invention, humans have been using the sense to survive since the beginning of time. Paint a picture, shoot a shot, and it is somehow innate. Over the course of our specie's existence recognition of sounds and images have been used to help us attain our needs and survive. Medicine was founded in it, it has probably helped shape sexuality as well.
On the converse: Reading comprehension and writing a good sentence have never helped one survive. I could be misinformed. It is quite possible that Crocodile attacks occur when a Croc takes a man in his jaws and asks him to produce a beautiful limerick and will be eaten if it falls short.
I'm not trying to say that writing is a more difficult art to conquer or understand. I merely argue that the state (and mindset) required to produce quality written words is slightly scarcer within us (at least within me).
The work is coming. Coming quite well, but it requires a tedious waiting game that often proves boring or frustrating. When doing something I feel is "good" a certain feeling is close at hand. I will kill time until taken by this feeling. I can give you a rundown of what transpires before and after the feeling but in the grips I remember nothing. I am at my happiest when looking up from the keyboard and realizing that three hours have passed.
It's getting easier and easier to get there. Learning so much. Happy with every decision so far. For all the trials and tribulations I've put myself through I couldn't see myself doing anything else. To echo sentiments from previous posts I am "following my joy".
This is my warm up session. 6- 8 hours of writing or thinking about writing wait ahead. I woke up at 3 in the morning (wow what a sleep!) from 9 until 3 with a three hour interruption for a game of ultimate frisbee.
If you'd indulge me... I'd like to describe my friends to you. I feel the feeling, but only want to do this right now. That's another thing about the feeling. You might conjure it, but you can't control it. You can only go where it lets you.
On the phone to my mother I described him as "sort of a hippy". This was misspoken. What I meant to indicate was that he possesses a deep calm and happy atmosphere that allows one to feel at home in his presence. I suppose I lumped him into the "drum circle" archetype because of interests, Native American attire, and eating habits. This veneer paints a solid picture of a person but fails to do him justice. A child's zeal and a mathematician's analytical mind are there waiting for you. He also introduced me the "everything bagel", an attribute which cannot be underestimated. Perhaps he escapes in-capsulation. To get the point across: On a lark I called on him for assistance with a large endeavor. This sort of call has been many times, but no one has ever responded like Ball's Deep as he has.
People are often defined by their facial hair, especially women. He is no woman. He is a man among men. When the follicles on his face rebelled against the norm to form a full fledged beard, his personality coalesced at least as I understand it. There is a rigid masculinity to him, not only in his behaviors (awesome ones) but his beliefs. A code of honor courses through every capillary. Upon entering a constant onslaught of conversation, hints and allusions were made. Putting these pieces together I see a manifesto at work. It's easy to imagine him valiant in Medieval battle or writing a guide to modern man hood. I'll never be a soldier but I'd go to war with him.
The Cheerleader. The Mother Owl. The purveyor of understanding and weaver of mythologies. He hooks you from the start. Upon first catching his vibe I thought "I hope we become friends". He coaxes one in with humor and a constant desire to understand, learn, and encounter. His approach to friendship is one of family. Good meals, adventures in slew, spend time with him and the world only gets bigger. People are brought in, truths are formed, family is made. Though he will miss the reference, he is Steve Nash on the fraternity level. Everyone around him is made bigger, better, stronger by his presence. You realize this and hope to do the same for him. We share the same flaws and strengths, because of this we owe it to each other to always be there.
Six Year Old Muse, jumping off rocks as a Cantonese Shoplifter landing as a Puerto Rican Girl before going to the car as an Old Gypsy. The ultimate chameleon, he shifts day to day, projecting the world and weather on his persona like archaic green screen technology. Six year old boy with rocks in his pockets. Plato on a coke binge. It's hard to make sense of all these persona rattled off with the expertise and confidence of one's true self. Don't try to make sense of it. Just try and keep up.
It is the rare and important relationship that could benefit from a fist fight. When you reach this juncture of hatred, love, and far reaching history, you know it's special. Like two squabbling chickens astray in Los Angeles, you go about your ways, leading your separate lives and scavenging for your own sustenance. The chickens encounter many terrifying and trying tribulations, but upon getting to the coop and going to roost, they see each other like they see themselves. Things maybe strained but deep down it's always the same: <3>
I saw a television show that really struck me once. People were dying everywhere in a myriad of forms, some beautiful, others ridiculous. As their mortal coil expired, their loved ones came about and waved them over to the next world. Regardless of whatever great people I encounter and uh... fuck... I know he'll be there waving me in next to an elderly Filipino Woman. There's a lot to this one, but that's the thing that matters. My brother, my wife.
When dark times come and we look over our lives feeling like peonic shit, he is a redemptive factor. I know that if I have a friend so good & honest & pure that I'm doing just fine. He is the rare beacon of calm in this turbulent world, content to sit and smile like a glacier. Each interaction is a blessing. It doesn't matter what, where, who, or how. What matters is the prevalent feeling of peace. Also: homecooked meals, alley-oop passes, and that cherubic smile.
The Monk sees all. As much as I know/love him, he remains a bit of mystery. From what I can tell he bounces through life with an unmatched gift of gab and insight into any and all things (true or false is none of his concern. His mind revolves around a universe of that one time anyone did anything, baseball statistics, and the literary equivalent of soft core pornography.) He's like a drunk uncle, but sober. He shows up at the family home, giving advice that no one wants to hear because they know it is true. So much strife has been prematurely dammed by his insights. There are many times that I leave him scratching his head but I have an inkling that he knows me better than I know myself. I'm pretty in love with writing these days, but only started when he pushed me.
The limping vision of young America. If his life could be put in a time capsule and sent to the 22nd Century, our viking warlords would know what life was like as a 21st century youth. They'd ask "why does he walk funny?" and he'd give a remark of trademark caution bearing bite and good humor. He is equilibrium. Cynicism while searching for the silver lining. Affirmation and responsibility. We seem to be going parallel at this point in terms of reinvention, inspiration, and things we enjoy drinking. If unleashed on the future or downtown Las Vegas the world will see him the way I do: a legend in waiting.
"Like a Gorilla seeing his reflection for the first time". Watching him do anything leaves one in a fog of befuddlement. Listening does the same but you begin to get the picture. K.I.S.S. Loves what he loves, does what he loves. A throwback to the time where men were men and drank whiskey on trains before setting out into some new town to get in bar room scrums and speculate for oil. His company feels like a distinct something but I can't for the life of me figure out what it is, either it's playing professional football in the 1920's or the best day of preschool. After an all night drunk he told me "I have a lot of fun around you." Such a sentiment is innocent and bare bones but hits hard as hell.
The friendship cloud, the unexalted unicorn. Life is a grand adventure when he's around. Everyday is not just a day, but a joyous occasion fit for dancing. (and it usually involve dancing!) He gives thought where no one else does, bettering aspects and tangents that would otherwise go unnoticed . These displays of camaraderie, these Picassos hung in the dentist's office so to speak, come in such a constant onslaught that it can be tempting to take it for granted. Don't. Mired in a working relationship, it took me too long to think of him as a friend. Now that we're firmly ensconced in the whirling dervish of kinship, furious artistic fights, and facial decorations, I can go back and see us as friends from the beginning, just not ready to fully form yet. C'est la vie. Five Feet.
Wow. What a warm up. I might be a bit behind in the Fatherly Advice/Kind of Like Giving Birth/211 Lessons (having a hard time picking a title) but who cares? To feel so loved this early in the morning feels better than anything.
I hope you enjoy. I hope you're able to pick yourself out. It shouldn't be that hard even if I changed Caitlin's gender.
Joel
