The Goat

I grew up in the Suburbs. There were two different houses. One was in a Muslim community, the other was near a golf course; both were quite comfortable. I’ve lived in a large city for the better part of three years. At the moment, I am living on a farm though I can’t properly call what I’m doing living. Snowed in, I am stuck here with no remnants of the outer world. For my purposes, existence has folded itself up and tucked itself inside of my head.

My head is getting screwed on straight and daily life is becoming purposeful. I put more high-minded fluff into my novel, The Giant Explosion That Killed Everyone, under the assumption that the right combination of high-minded fluff will become beautiful. This is not disparaging. This is the necessary fluff. The drama of the book takes place inside of a single man’s head. Using thought as catalyst for a story requires a lot of high-minded fluff. For authenticity I modeled the character’s thought process after my own. Exploring one Charlie Hoofing III, I learned a lot about myself, namely I think in high-minded fluff—gaudy concepts attached to eggs, etc. When I am not doing this I am eating beans, doing push-ups, making funny faces in the mirror, and reading about baseball.

Sportswriters use very good sentences. They have to. Sports, in and of themselves, are a metaphor, requiring the observer to instill their own sense of meaning.

Yesterday I realized it had been several days since I laughed. I enjoy laughter so I went looking for a laugh. The search for humor led me to the Morton Building, a large shed filled with tractors and miscellaneous debris. I poked through the possessions left behind by the previous owner and found a box of Hentai which is Asian Cartoon Porn. I laughed quite a bit at this I felt as though I willed it to happen and felt very powerful because of this.

I also care for the animals. This is a farm and there are lots of them.

Max is a giant Pyrenees that behaves like a bear. When the snow first fell, he would run forward and thresh his face into the snow like it were one of his appendages. He is a very good dog.

There are seven Horses but my favorite is called Honey. She is pregnant with a foal and has had three miscarriages. This makes me feel very bad for her. It must be very confusing for a Horse to give birth to a dead thing. When I am bored I will feed her a carrot or give her a hug. Hugging her is difficult, I am still very afraid of horse.

George is a Llama. I thought I would enjoy Llamas but I do not. My Father sings a song that roughly goes “I love the Llama. I love the Llama Llama.” I will never sing to this Llama. He spits at me. When he sees me approach, I can hear him conjuring spittle in his bucktoothed mouth.

There were two Goats. As of this morning, there is only one Goat. I went outside to feed the animals and saw a dead Goat on the ground. The other Goat was standing next to it, occasionally licking its head. It did not seem to understand that the other Goat, his brother, was dead.

As a precaution against disease, Dead Animals must be removed quickly. I was the only one home and had to remove the animal. We keep Dead Animals in a crate behind the woodshed. Our tentative plan is to light a fire and cremate the Goat tonight. I have never held a dead thing before. It took several minutes to work up the nerve. When I got brave enough, I picked it up. It was surprisingly light and shockingly stiff. It’s legs felt hard and cold. They were covered in fur but felt more like logs than part of a Mammal.

When I picked up the Goat, it hung limp. It’s limbs dangled, utterly devoid of life. Seeing this made the other Goat understand what death was and that his brother was afflicted. I felt very bad for this Goat. I nearly cried.

I did not want to remove the Dead Goat but I had to. I set it down and walked away for a moment so the Other could say goodbye. Then I picked it up and carried it to a red bin.

The Other Goat immediately started crying. Its anguish was so great; the strength of his howls buckled his vocal chords. One thing about Goats, they sound a lot like humans. Hearing his cries, I imagined that someday when I am besotted by grief that my cries will sound a lot like his.

Outside, he is still crying. The barn is fifty yards away but I can hear him inside the house. It is the saddest sound I have ever heard.

[Posted by resident runaway Joel "The Foal" Walkowski, via email]

the thing about fiction is...

D
e
construct
i
o
n

Male: My mind is playing tricks on me.
Female: The nights are very long.
Male: No light can save us now.

When the mood strikes, writing is less rewarding than when it is forced. The fiction of inspiration is what makes fiction fictional. Application of meaning does not bestow meaning. Intention of meaning rarely endows meaning. Is there really such thing as fiction then?

Fic or non?
What's the difference?

The story of one man's Gulliverian travels through space and time and light and sound in the endless, desperate, meaningful, cathartic, hopeless, futile, sprawling, epic, heroic, meaningless, ultimately chaotic, relentlessly dark, eventually uplifting, always recurringly Faustian, Freudian, and Jungian, relentlessly Wagnerian, ever-so post-modern, but still quite classical, archetypal, historic (and pre-historic) search for meaning.

Continuity defies de construct ion. Or reinforces it. Use (or non-use) of grammar, syntax, diction, onomatopoeia, meter, metaphor, irony, simile, satire, tragedy, dramatic irony, comedy, rhythm, alliteration, pathetic irony, rhyme, close-rhyme, near-rhyme, punctuation, tense, capitalization, and/or spacing does not impart meaning.

So the question remains: Fiction? Or Not? None of this is true. Or all of this is true. But true or non, this is not fiction nor non. A noun is a person, place, or thing (or idea). This is fiction or non-fiction (or idea). I stand alone. The cheese stands alone. The mouse has been prematurely eaten by the cat, breaking the chain. There's always a bigger fish.

Perspective makes the fish bigger. We are tiny but the world is huge. But the world is tiny, the sun is huge. But the sun is tiny, the solar system is huge. But the solar system is tiny, the galaxy is huge. But the galaxy is tiny, the universe is... finite. Endless turtles standing on the backs of turtles would say that the universe is tiny. So what do we care? Our imaginations are bigger than our surroundings. If we can envision it, then it shall be done. A man will walk on the moon. There is life on other planets. We will learn the laws of space and time, and bend them to our punishing will. Always under control, but demanding control. The only way to get around physics is quantum physics.

Quantum Physics: Where Your Wildest Dreams Can Come True!

The electron cloud. Theory and practice. The act of observation and its effect on the observed space is an under/overestimated force. It's the presence of the eye that's the problem. Even in quantum physics, the question always remains: if a tree falls in a forest with no one around to hear it, does it make a sound? The world may never know.

If time is a dimension, then time travel must be possible.

Avoid pastiche. Just because everyone else is doing it doesn't make it okay. Everyone can tell if you're trying too hard. Look for fortunate accidents rather than intentional mistakes. This is not inspiration. Force the fortunate. Inspiration is not an accident. It is a con structure. Standing around, waiting for a train that will never come. But more often than not, waiting for inspiration (as one would wait for Godot [Ah! Pastiche! Such a force is unavoidable!]) forces the forcing. Inspiration never comes until the last second; then, and only then, when we are physically (or psychologically) forced to act. We define this last second rescue as inspiration, when in fact it comes from within ourselves. There is no divine intervention, no omniscient unification of the creative cosmos, no. There is no God. There is only You.





we are all alone





If one was to expose the 'photograph' of one's life, one would be in sharp focus but surrounded by the blurs of those come and gone. The imagery speaks for itself, if it's clear enough.

Constructions and structures:
God
Creativity
Atheism
Art
Pop Art
Non-Art
Intellectualism
The Intellect
Darwinism
Creationism
Classicism
Modernism
Post-Anything
Isms
Grammar
Traffic Jams
Patterns
The World and How It Works
Structuralism

Everyone has an ism. There is a right and wrong (although, really, there is no such thing). I am not anti- much. I believe, both in the Mulder-ian sense and in the theistic sense. It's all a matter of getting out of your comfort zone. Isms are your comfort zone. The decaying of an ism is radioactive. That's why there's a black President.

Stream-of-consciousness does not infer meaning. Being Irish or English or German or South African or Australian or Russian or Atlantean does not convey meaning.

Anything can be everything to somebody. The saying, as it goes: One man's trash... And the rest. You know the rest. A common axiom. Idiom. Turn of phrase. Play on words. None of the above. Fill in the blank. Idiomatic structuralism. Vocabularic inventivism. English is a beautiful thing. Use it wisely and remember its history, lest you be doomed to... You know.

So the thing about fiction is...




This has been a textual experiment by no one you've ever heard of.

Aiiiiiii Fusion: The Future of Food!

Why I love Detroit: Last night, whilst killing time amidst the city's crumbling facades, I felt a great need to urinate. Unexpected and urgent, it would've caused a major fiasco in any other major Downtown. However, this being Detroit I was able to stop my car in the middle of the street without even bothering to pull to the side. I stepped out and let it fly. There was no one in sight but I heard a sarcastic whistle, probably coming from a derelict stashed in one of the many deserted train cars.

Why I hate Detroit: There is a 100 degree difference between the weather here and the weather in Los Angeles. Throw in Tacos and the arrival of the Brock Alter era and it's enough to make a young man homesick, even a man who's recently reacquired his swag.

"My Swag is Phenomenal" - Gilbert Arenas

Something about being home lends a comfortable feeling. It ain't Mom's Chili or sleeping next to my mole-riddled Dog, but the sense of having the shit figured out makes talking to strangers or even dancing at a bar all the more easier. I'm prone to over thought, over analysis, and other overindulgence of the intrinsic variety, but in the throws of home they dissapate.

This feeling is good, but what exactly is home?

I spent the past ten days, busting my ass like never before in fervent pursuit of directing commercials for a Sushi restaraunt. If you've seen the Heinz Tomato Ketchup Commercials or just talked to me about them, I've spouted off against the woes of channeling creative energy into another man's pocket. Well color me a hypocrite but I had a fucking ball of it. Before the days of USC, where everything glitters in the sun and you aren't even allowed to park a bike against George Lucas' railings, there was no organization, no goal, just the joy of the pursuit. From 17 on, the ragtag corps would assemble to make a movie, put on a play, or organize a scavenger hunt. The feeling carried over to USC at least during 290, when Paul and I turned the class into our personal cavalcade. Then, as if being groomed to fit a cog, the USC system took over, grinding down our spirits with limits on creativity, producability, and use of firearms. It's easy to rebel, fun even, but even the most rebellious sort (and trust me, I know some rebels) are stuck with the thought: "is it worth it?"

In this regard, I was lucky enough to chance into directing some commercials as my first job after graduation. Here in all their unfettered glory are descriptions.

Earthquake. A couple gets their sushi and an earthquake commences. Vases fall, tables shake but they are unbothered, opting to focus on their Sushi. Because of the quake it keeps falling out of their chopsticks but upon finally getting to eat it they get wide smiles on their faces. Cut to a wide shot of the restaurant. Outside Godzilla battles helicopters over a cardboard version of Lansing. Tagline: "AI Fusion. Authentically Asian"

Sashimi. A man orders "the freshest sashimi you have." The waiter goes to the kitchen but stops to put on galoshes, a raincoat, and a life jacket. He grabs a decorative harpoon from the wall before heading into the kitchen. From there you see waves splashing against the window and flashes of light. You hear a boat going out, the churning of waves, and the sounds associated with catching a fish. Dolly from the kitchen on a silver platter. The man enjoys the Sashimi. Final reveal: the waiter is sopping wet.

These are unadultered silliness, exactly the sort of thing I'd like to do with my life but though I spout worthless phrases of "it's great for a reel" or even "I can start a business with these", I derived no greater pleasure than gathering friends, acting like a fool on set, and turning aforementioned friends into superstars. Note: this grandiose phrase is not untrue. I called upon John Scaramucci to star in one of the commercials. It will be airing nonstop around his college campus during his college's sporting events. With those big brown eyes gleaming, it's only a matter of time for that boy.

I worked 50 out of 60 hours without noticing, laughed my ass off, and made regrettable decisions with caution into the wind. Paul's rubbed off and I'm cracking jokes in a faux gravelly voice. My best guess? That's what home is.

"A Six-Year-Old In The Body Of A Grown Man"

Today, for the first time in my life I enjoyed the writing of Mitch Albom. I grew up with Mitch as my local sports columnist. Sitting at the breakfast table, my seven-year-old self spilled Kellogg's Corn Flakes over his work in a show of literary criticism. For high school graduation I was given three Albom authored books including the luminary Tuesdays With Morrie. I read the first ten pages of each before deciding saccharine was best left for the furthest coves of my unbrushed teeth. 

But today, well today, Albom decided to write a column on the city of Detroit. BLAH!

There are three ways in which I enjoy reading. 1) Something luminary and earth shattering. 2) I respect and worship the high gloss prose or 3) It tugs at the nostalgic heart strings of familiarity. Yes. I liked Albom's column but I didn't like the column. I liked anecdotal mentions of Joe Dumars and Barry Sanders, citing of sights I'm familiar with, and the general fact that it took place in Detroit--my hometown. 

In his piece he tries to capture the essence of Detroit. Like most serious journalism he misses the mark as he attempts to put a straight face on the toothless grin that is Detroit. It is the same sort of presentation that pervades Clint Eastwood's latest film Gran Torino. I've read Updike, I know the beauty of decaying Rust Belt cities, but the romanticism of gritty people surviving the cold under delusions of God's love is offensively insipid. No person seeks to survive. Big banners are effective, especially in the interest of writing but I'd like to think that truth lies in the small interactions. The individual essence is the most marked and beautiful of all human traits, but it never comes out when forced. Put your shine on, throw that gel in your hair. You'll look great but that ain't you soldier and you know it. Essence comes in the way one attempts to take off a girl's belt, the sheepish way the present some achievement, or their strategic route of asking a favor. 

As the saying goes "if you've got it, flaunt it." Well, if you've got it you don't need to flaunt it. It's already there silly puss. 

Happy 20089 (this entire post is a joke!)

I see we have some new additions to this here family at the ole' Hindenburg! Well, I must extend my welcomes! In addition to welcomes I should give a swift kick in the groin. As it stands now I have no idea how I got roped into this disgusting endeavor with a dystopic group of people. I mean come on! Can you even dare to believe these aSSholes?!? 

Joel Walkowski formerly Charlie Hoofing III: "Hey there ladies and gentlemen, my name's Joel. I pretend to be  a writer. I also pretend to be something of an eccentric so you won't judge me too harshly. When you read my novel, the shitty work I threw together night after drunken night, you'll think "maybe I don't get this". That's true but the reason you don't get it is because I'm a self-infatuated narcissist rather than a writer. I hope the Lions pick Matt Stafford so I can masturbate to the idea of fades to Calvin Johnson!" 

Oh I'm sorry Joel! Did I impede the Lions on your sexuality?!? Sorry! 

Joel: "I fall in love with every girl I kiss because such events are so momentous and monumental for such a monumentally momentous pussy such as myself. I'm gonna go write a love poem, revise my novel, and play Tenori-On while pretending to be happy. Than I'll fashion a wedding dress to Nick Olah's exact measurements b/c I'm that fucking self assured! :)" 

On a side note 20098 is the musical year of John POPPER. I own 3000 LPS. Paramount among these is Blues Traveler's 1994 release. I'm making it my personal "Shapinsky's KarmA" to build Blues Traveler into the modern day Beatle's for the sake of hilarity alone. 

Thank God I'm sooooooooooo distant from that world. Otherwise I'd have fathered infinite amounts of children by now. My eight-year-old clique are all men by now. I am the only man remaining. I take this as my purpose to drive to the beach and wave my member "hello" to the porpoises. 

Mr. Andrew McNally Aka "McWriter". I can't think of a more contrived name for a writer. What is it? Are you inspired by McMuffins? I get the Irish alliteration but this childish imitation of fast food restaurants is something best reserved for John Cusack movies. Oh wait! I'm sorry! I forgot your predilection towards understandin' the fairer sex. Never mind, as a product of Illinois and a wannabe writer I get your obsession with John Cusack. Yeah, maybe you'll be there some day! Until then, continue on the archetype path fascinating nubile (ie warm pussied ladies) bitches with analyses of Planisphere and Fukudome's batting average! Yeah, what evs! 

Jeff LaPenna aka Jeff the Pen!: Wow buddy! You are so infinitely different than the rest of humanity. Do you think that, maybe, when the time is right, we can hold each other and watch the world burn?!? I promise to nibble your eaR lobes! I just want to live on an island with you forever! The isle of Man! Have fun getting tattoos pookie brains! 

Bryan: Oh I'm sorry Johnny come lately, your wonderful Vietnamese girlfriend and library job entail you a moral superiority! Forgive me form questioning. Your conversational acumen intimidates me. No one will ever understand Sean Rooks' feeble marriage with Chili's like you do! You are a champion! A scholar! An employee of VKC Library! 

In a nutshell... Let's break barriers! 

My New Year's Resolution!

This is a hammer. 

I've been trying to write a blog post beginning with this sentence for over a week now. Conditions of the world, good and bad--arguing, obligations, and friends--have bound together to prevent m from doing any writing, any revising or anything good what so ever. This is no surprise. Life is a tilt-a-whirl and I'll be spun wherever the good spinning is. 

Returning home to Detroit, Michigan came just in time. A part of me, a vital one at that, had wandered off waiting to baited back with the right moment. The proper mix of festivities. I boarded the plane as a 22-year-old man. A 22-year-old-man eating a candy apple but a man nonetheless. 

Since stepping off the plane and eating one of mother's omelets, I've entered on a souped-up alcohol laden tour of the life I've lived so far. Unlike so many disappointments (I'm looking at you Snuggies) this stretch has swept me off my feet. Each day is cathartic, via a milestone or looking glass. My mind is fit, trained for analysis, but observing a moment objectively, it becomes quite easy to decipher what period the stance stems from. Yesterday, I was 19 in the morning as I wrote silly commercials. 8 as I discovered the sensory sensation of high definition goggles. 16 as a wonderful girl put butterflies in my stomach (literally and figuratively!). 

I have several mantras I repeat to keep me grounded. 

1) Peace above me, peace below me, peace within me. 

2) Snakes! Snakes! Snakes! Snakes! Snakes! Snakes! 

3) Life is about the journey. 

The last is my favorite. Overwhelmingly the idea of product outweighs the joy of the process. Running about in the desert, limbs a' flailin' and pumpin' perspiration from every pore, makes humanity feel damn good. It isn't about exercise. It isn't even about where you're going. The task at hand is more than enough. Do the same thing with the aim of getting in shape, gaining a few inches on your vertical leap so may dunk, etc. There will be no good visions, just insidious visions of success. 

This same problem turned writing a novel from a jolly jaunt into an intrinsic battle of the gaudiest proportions even though writing is very very very very very easy. Words are but a moment's effort, a traipsing of tendrils across the keyboard. DISCLAIMER: If you agree with certain anthropologists and regard language as purely instinctual skip this paragraph. The book is out on a paper, far from a finished product with no discernible end in sight. It could have been easily finished by now, perhaps even two or three times over but in the early going I committed to only writing when consumed by the process. If my imagination went into full tilt, prompting visions of hardcover books embossed with my name, I did not write that night. That'd be the same as masturbation. As a writer I attract attention to the writing. This is an effective tool for conjuring a voice but utterly useless when ego gets involved. 

The lesson of going home, returning as some pseudo-conquering hero: everything adds up. 

I'm taking a ballet class to fuck everything up. 

What (I Think) I've Learned...

I've been mulling this blog post for about a week and a half but never got around to it for a variety of reasons; the main one being that I've recently lost all confidence in my ability to put together cohesive thoughts on paper (or computer screen, in this case). I'm not sure why this feeling is suddenly affecting me, as I've never been all that worried about the clarity of my writing. I've always just written, trusting that someone would be able to extrapolate what I was trying to get at.

But now that Andrew and Jeff have added their musings to the blog, I guess it's time for me to do the same. I'm usually late to the party anyway.

Anyway, here goes, what I've learned (in no particular order):

I once lived in an avocado. It smelled, was always dirty, the plumbing rarely worked, and a homeless man lived beneath my window; but all and all it was a wonderful experience. A time of hope and love.

I cherish my alone time, but have come to enjoy the company of certain others much more.

John was right.

A coworker of mine constantly complains about how unfair the world is. No shit, dude. We don't have to dwell on this though.

My friends are my family.

This doesn't mean I don't like my actual family. In fact, they are quite cool. It just took me awhile to figure that out.

I like tacos. Much more than I realize, according to everyone else.

My brain is packed with loads of unnecessary information. Seriously, I can have a conversation about practically anything. The drawback is that I know little of what I should actually know.

I write in an attempt to capture the speed of thought.

The mundane is fascinating in the right light.

Don't drink out of Eiffel Tower shaped brandy bottles you find in dumpsters. It's not a good idea. Also, don't hang out in dumpsters.

I am the fasted man alive when I've had too much to drink.

Driving on the freeway alone at night can be wonderful.

I am very comfortable with who I am.

Two of the best things I've ever read are comic books.

I get way too much enjoyment out of reading message boards. It's that whole staring at a car wreck thing, I know someones going to say something awful/retarded

My syntax can be absolutely atrocious, for no other reason than I often growed bored of a sentence before I've finished writing it out.

And don't get me started on my grammar.

If I talk to you it means I like you.

Museums are the best place to go on the first date, especially if neither of you realize it's a date.

I want to grow up to be a decent person who continues to experience love and has days filled with good conversations. If I do that I'll be happy.

***

Notes unrelated to the rest of this post:

Nico doesn't like it when Joel writes about basketball, but I must take this opportunity to note that the Lakers beat the Celtics tonight. Weeeeeeeeeeeeee!

The winter of my senior year it was so cold in my apartment that I pulled a muscle while shivering in bed one night. It was totally not awesome.

I am back, after a year long vacation. Look forward to future posts written in the voice of a valley girl. We're pretty much the same after all.

P.S. This is Bryan (theoretically)

What I've (kind of) Learned...

Well... I guess I'm now TWENTY-TWO years-old. When I was a kid I remember thinking to myself: "You'll be an adult when you hit 21. That's the age that you can drink alcohol legally, and so the world must trust you when you've got that many years. With age comes wisdom and responsibility." My fucking god, was I wrong. The civilized world, though thousands of years old, is as immature and confused as I've always been.

The following ramblings represent a few of the lessons life has (kind of) taught me thus far. I was assigned the task of outlining such points, and though my response has deviated from the template of my assignment, I believe it compliments the fundamental goal of the project nonetheless.

Some malformed pieces of my life --

Humans know they are important. This is a fair assumption. Under the right frame of mind anything is important, though, for humans, our existence compels us. It is our nature to dwell on... the nature of things... and so we are different than animals; the word "different" is appropriately ambiguous in this case, as our separation from animals and the natural world is debatable, yet undeniably certain. No other creature on our planet dictates the fate of its neighbors, let alone are they aware of their global existence. No - only humans watch each other on TV. Only humans have invented buttons, whose sole purpose is to submit to the pressure of a finger. There is no Tom Cruise of the animal kingdom.

Humans believe the make-believe. As a result of dwelling on EVERYTHING, humans have convinced themselves of many fantasies. Such distortions of reality now occupy our "everyday" and no longer appear as fiction, but reality. One powerful example (though not worth exploring as the argument is too familiar) is Religion. To quickly comment: we believe in a creature called "God" who shares many mystical qualities with another creature fabricated also in the depths of human imagination - The Unicorn. Neither have been seen or heard from outside of fantastical literature, or the stories of crazed (albeit intoxicated in some fashion) human beings.

Instead, let's talk about the internet, which is something we can all agree on. The internet occupies no space. Normally, when a noun cannot be weighed by its mass it is called an "idea." For example, the effects of globalization can be weighed, and are tangible, but "globalization" itself is but a term describing a human effect which occupies no real space. So is the internet something humans have simultaneously spoken into "virtual" reality, whose only appearance occurs through screens that glimpse into the 2nd dimension - a dimension where human life is impossible. And the internet is only one example of how humans insist on bizarre retardations of reality without acknowledging the absurdity of it all.

What about, "THE ECONOMY." Somewhere exists a giant pool of numbers, swirling and menacing, that determines the fate of billions - even before sperm hits the egg. I didn't sign up for this money game, and I don't think it fair that I should be forced to participate.

Reason is our most triumphing evolution, yet we love to contradict it. We live to contradict it. As a result, not much of human life, at all, makes sense.

In short: I am confused. You should be too.
See "Paris Hilton"

Humans obsess.

Human relationships are complicated, and rarely genuine. To my knowledge, no other being searches for a companion with whom to spend 20, 30, 40, up to 85 years(!). I do believe that love (as opposed to only lust) exists among animals, though the humanly definition of the word has evolved along side us. Humans have adopted the idea of "true love" - a cosmically fated connection, unique and eternal. We spend most of our lives obsessing over the potential of this connection, searching, failing, and searching again. This quest, and our interaction with the conscious body of society, create a number of lies that confuse a person's identity. We cover ourselves with masks, and hope they attract a special someone. We don't realize, however, that even our inner consciousness, the personality inside our head who we recognize as our "self", is also masked. Humans lie to themselves, consciously and subconsciously convincing themselves for comfort and hope. We do this without realizing, everyone does, as a result of existing within a self-conscious society. More often than not these masks make genuine human connection difficult, and perhaps impossible. Still, it's beautiful (albeit frustrating) that we keep trying. If only we could relax the mind.
See Sigmund Freud, Luigi Pirandello and Brett Easton Ellis

Human communication does not communicate, this blog post as evidence. How could I possibly tell you what I feel?
See Reuben Abel

Art is human transcension. "Look what came out of my brain!" Art asks no forgiveness, only reflection. Art explains more than science. Art keeps me alive.

These lessons should have been more mundane. Perhaps I could have told you stories about relationships or other poignant moments of my life. If these lessons were more specific and less cerebral I'm sure you all could relate better. Life didn't raise me that way. Life raised me this way.

Humans are strange. Life is unexpected.

learning is for chumps

i too was approached to coalesce my 2008 experiences into a tell-all "list" of "what i learned." i've put it off for a while because, honestly, i was a bit frightened of putting this year in review. it was simultaneously fantastic and fucking terrible (though nowhere near as terrible as 2007. fuck 2007). i traveled the world then got a knee-buckling slap in the face by the utter failure that was the past 4 months of my life. 2008 was a pendulum, and if there was one thing i learned, it was anything we learn we can unlearn in an instant. all it takes is a catalyst.

but after reading jeff ze pen's treatise on what makes us human i finally felt ready to spill my own beans, if only in vague response to some of his generalizations that i don't necessarily agree with. mostly about love, because that's what i spend most of my waking (and unwaking, now that i think about it) time concerned with.

i feel that brevity will heighten the impact of most of these "facts" i've collected, so i'll keep them short unless elaboration is necessary for clarity's sake.

- learning to write with your non-dominant hand is one of the most difficult brain puzzles one can engage in.

- cats are just as good as people when you're alone.

- (this one's important) love is not sex and sex is not love.

i need to pause here. it seems obvious, or cliche, or perhaps just stupid and sappily romantic, but i cannot stress how true this is. and in relation to jeffrey's hypothesis on the so-called "genuineness" of human relationships, this can either prove him right or prove him wrong. we are hardly the only monogamous creatures in the animal kingdom, and our dance of destiny looking for "true love" is our evolved version of the mating dance, no longer externalized and silly (or is it?), but now metaphysical, emotional, subtle to the oxymoronic point of aggrandizement. love is now so ethereal that it's the Platonic ideal, non-existant except in literature and our own brainwaves. "no one can tell you you're in love, you just know it. through and through. balls to bones."

but back to the point, the mating rituals of animals (arguably) only fulfill that titular purpose, i.e. mating. what i'm arguing is that we may not be the only monogamous creatures in the animal kingdom, but we are one of the few (bonobos and select porpoises aside) that mate not for the literal sense of mating but for the sake of mating, the pleasure of it. and hence my point. sex is not love. love is not sex. the two are not inextricable, but we often seem to think they have to be. all kidding and philosophizing aside though, when they are inextricable (and they can be), it's pretty heavenly. which leads me to the next point on the list:

- love is real.

and to quote The Verve, love is noise, love is pain, love is these [sic] blues that i'm singing again. end quote. but love is good too, most of the time. this one is sort of up for debate, but this is what i learned this year.

-art: i've learned a lot about creativity and i still have nothing to show for it.

that's the title of my memoirs.

- learning is for chumps.

i suppose i should address my title. after spending a good 5 months abroad, i discovered something (and i coin a phrase from that movie that nearly ruined us all): learning's the problem. experiencing, now that's the solution. if you set out to learn something, odds are you'll be disappointed. sure, it's a matter of semantics, a minor adjustment of one's mind-set, but it makes all the difference in the world. i think we all knew this already, or i at least get that sense sometimes that we put too much emphasis on one thing, when we really should be focusing on this other, similar, but completely separate thing. it's kind of stupid, but i had to travel half-way around the world for it to be true to me.

- the world is in a constant state of flux, from the macro-sense to the micro-sense to the meta-sense.

one last pause for explanation. stasis is impossible. never strive for stasis, for status quo, for sterility. there is no end point, no center of the maze. we all fear this but in truth, the fear is what makes us accept it. without fear there is no change. keep searching, fellow maze-wanderers. we'll all find Nowhere together.

i suppose this could be considered Part One. i don't think i've even really touched on what i actually wanted to say when i finally did sit down and cope with what i experienced in the past 12 months. it's possible that i'll come back for Part Two. then again, i may just move on. hello 2009.

Parcheesi Fever!!!

Man's soul may well be a worthless cesspool of envy and hate (especially during the Holidays) but I am not here tonight to dally in the heavy in some vain attempt to make meaning out of the meaningless. I'll leave that to the pro's or Henry Miller, whichever you prefer. Rather, like a scared turtle I suck my heads, feet, and tongue-like turtle penis into my shell's cozy confines, laying prostrate at the alter of trivialities. 

What is friendship? When a man loves a woman? When a man seeks someone to eat Nachos with? The natural occurrence when one becomes sick to death of heaving a football into the air, watching it die in the horizon, before having to run after it them-self. 

I have a lot of friends. I like them. I hope they like me. Our company is mutually enjoyed in a drunken whirl of reveling laugh tracks. I watch Nico try to eat an Apple or predict Nick's actions a week before they come and rejoice in my good fortune of finding these people. So they are good people? Is that it? No. It must be more. It all out has to be. 

Well. If friendship has a definition I'd liktatink I stumbled upon it tonight in the form of Parcheesi--the once royal game of India played by kings with servants as pawns, and now a cash cow for the good people at Parker Brothers. 

I settled in a margarita, Nick, and his A-OK lady for a game. I am not the strategic sort but managed a blockade early in the game. As I moved my two red pawns together I checked the faces of my counterparts and denoted a certain wariness in his eyes. In this moment, this flicker of shared understanding, we both knew how the game would unfold. Our friendly fireplace game would become...THE WORST GAME OF PARCHEESI EVER PLAYED! 

I kept my blockade up for fifteen minutes. The game screeched to a halt and between my Belichekian ruthlessness and Nick's commandeering of Jillian's pieces we managed to stalemate the game for fifteen minutes. When we rolled the die, regardless of outcome, we'd have to say "pass". 

It was a beautiful thing. One Nick will forever be upset about. 

What I've Learned...

Like the rest of the world, I am slowly being weened off the influence of Print Media, though it's been a great friend so far. It's offered legitimacy and made every Thursday (Wednesday since moving to California) as "Sports Illustrated Day". Even still, it is twittered to shreds, day by day by nonstop onslaughts of information, rumors, and speculation that cloud the mind with data, rendering ink stained hands nearly a relic.  A sterling exception to this rule is Esquire Magazine, specifically Esquire Magazine's "What I've Learned" issue. In this issue--published every December,   people from various fields tell their lessons in unadultered, bullet point format. Over the past three years, these issues have given me more than any book, idea, or poet. Reading the abbreviated wisdom of Muhammad Ali does wonders to a man. There isn't a day that passes where I don't think about Muhammad Ali's lesson of "what you are thinking about, you are becoming". I read this passage the day, sat down and finished the first draft of my novel. It rung through my head as I finished the second draft. I will hear it numerous times as I inch nearer and nearer to completion of my ultimate, be all, end all goal of writing a good novel that represents my soul, before moving on to the next ultimate be all end all goal. 

Joel Walkowski, 22, is a recent college graduate, comedian, and writer from Detroit, Michigan. 

Never pursue a woman unless you can talk to her like you talk to your best friend. Short of that, you'll try too hard and embarrass all parties. If this happens, you can turn it into an essay and friendship but little else. If you find, at a later date, that you're able to talk to her like a great friend: embrace the friendship. 

If you want to write, some nights will easy, some nights will be hard. If you go at each night with this singular purpose, you'll notice that the nights you don't care are when you do your best work. In this regards, everything in life can be traced back to Sports. If you go all out, balls deep with effort, you'll over play and undermine your abilities with extra effort. Let the game come to you and you'll control it all. 

This doesn't apply if you play Linebacker, Defensive Line, or want to direct a feature film.

Also, it's quite hard to admit when you don't have your "A" Game. 

If life gets hard, pretend you're someone else for a little while. The power of pretending to be a Long Island Housewife or Mother of Cactuses has pushed the restart button for me many times. 

Four or Maybe Six Hours a week you will be possessed by a singular purpose, a feeling you'll cling to as your reason for being. There are two ways to take this. You can either feel bad because it doesn't take a stronger hold or work to make it a bigger part of your life. There is only one approach that makes life worth living...

Eat good meals daily, even if they have to be fried multiple times. The smile  is worth the smile. 

Exercise and inspiration make life feel equally good but you can only force one of them. A game of tackle football feels much better than several scotches. 

If someone grants you the gift of their conversation, you owe it to them to give everything in return. 

Armed with a proper frame of reference, all life's lessons can be gleaned from a single NBA Playoff game. 

As far as I know the best feelings in the world are: 1) Being surrounded by a universe formed in friendship 2) Completing a large scale project 3) Seeing your team win a championship 4) Being in love. These are in no particular order, no should they be. 

Money doesn't matter. Spend it. Even if you don't have it. If you're worrying about it they've got you. 

If I can't have a decent conversation with someone they earn my immediate distrust and scorn. I believe the same beliefs are hoisted upon me. That's how it goes. Sometimes you meet, often times you judge, but don't forget that you're getting the same treatment from them. 

If a group of people give the gift of their attention, you better do something damned good with it. Think of the time spent awash in your presence. You'd be hurting the world if you didn't go all out to inform, enlighten, or entertain. I think of this every time I have a group conversation. Some hate me for my aggrandizing ways but those who understand, those who love me, appreciate these efforts. Because of this I know we'll be friends forever. 

Find a good friend. Find another good friend. Keep finding. Try your best to build everyone up and they'll return the favor. Keep it up and before you know it: voila! You're surrounded by a framework of caring, like-minded people. That's what it's all about isn't it. 

Sometimes you need to act crazy to feel sane. If I've ever picked you up at a party, sprinted 100 yards with ya'll over my shoulder before collapsing in an asthmatic heap, this is the reason. 

Back when I was 17, I took on a large goal I had no business achieving. By some cosmic fluke I achieved it. Since then, I haven't felt at home unless I was combatting every element on the way to some place greater. In short, certain moments define you. Don't ignore these moments. They pave the way. 

Good friends hate you sometimes. Great friends love you even though they hate you. If you're a good friend, you'll listen and shape the fuck up. If you're a great friend, you'll let them set your hair on fire because you need the ass kicking. 

Never let a woman ruin a friendship. You can't control a woman but you can control acting like a stubborn douche. 

Several works will strike you as pure genius as young man or woman. You'll grow up, holding these close to your heart, but don't forget to revisit. Going back allows you to understand why you thought they were genius to begin with. 

If you can't get a song out of your head, listen to it over and over again until it becomes part of your soul. 

Chinese History and Hydrologic Cycles are important as you make them. 

Any meal made by Mom is the best one I've ever had. 

You never have enough socks. 

Late night suits me. it ruins my days, casting me as a zombie, but these lonesome hours provide access to a part of me that would otherwise lay dormant and aloof. No wonder I turn to these hours to do what I do. Days are reserved for vice, sports, and hobbies. Nighttime is when serious soul searching comes. 

On a final lesson, perhaps this formal outlet isn't the best way for me to illustrate What I've Learned. Maybe a convo will suffice. 

An excerpt from tonight: 

 me:  what's going? Thanks for watching Goals btw. Do people think I won't be returning?

Bryan:  who said you wont be?

me:  thats just the feeling I'm picking up. everyone's been saying "goodbye"

 Bryan:  everyones saying goodbye to everyone plus youve made it clear you wont be back for like 2 months

 me:  yeah

 Bryan:  a month and a half

 me:  I hope so. it's just been kinda cryptic and surreal

 Bryan:  and early in the semester you were all about letting the wind taking you where it may be and acting like you never wanted to step on los angeles soil again. i mean you told me repeatedly you had no intention of returning. im sure you told other people the same. so while i feel you will be back and dont really doubt that i think that might be fueling most peoples fatalistic goodbyes

 me:  yeah, it's fueled by my own uncertainty

 Bryan:  id think that the people who know you best believe you will be returning probably although you gotta get over the uncertainty its part of the bargain you know the people who know exactly what they want to do to the t are boring so uncertainty is something we deal with

 me:  yeah

 Bryan:  and shouldnt be feared

 me:  I've just caught the bug for fiction writing and figure I'd be selling myself short if I didn't do it until I get good but that's a lame reason for anything

 Bryan:  also one that means youll be writing forever (which i fully endorse)

 me:  I sort of need to. nothing settles me like this shit

 Bryan:  as the day you feel you're good at something you should  stop i mean we can produce good but when we think were good were satisfied and fuck that

 me:  and while this novel ain't great it sure is telling of some future good

 Bryan:  one must hope certainty is sort of a mythical concept

 me:  and future good is the only reason to keep running

 Bryan:  (id say youre on the right path though)

 me:  thanks. I'm trying. More than anyone but intimates realize.

 Bryan:  i think people get fooled by your flippancy

 me:  yeah. for sure

 Bryan:  you make so many things seem inconsequential. stop that shit. you obviously care.

 me:  everyone thinks I'm some dumb ass Crispin Glover weirdo. I know I do. but that's my natural reaction

 Bryan:  i do not think of you as crispin glover

 me:  I've been a self promoter and never want to be one of those film school grandstanders again

 Bryan:  you're more mickey rourke

 me:  that's good I guess

 Bryan:  yeah (p.s. letting people know you care is not self promotion)

 me:  but I'm not gonna waste my efforts to do such a thing. It sort of comes out that I act like an ass sometimes. Though I really enjoyed spinning fancy talk last night

 Bryan:  well. thats not exactly what i mean, what i mean is this: nick, me, your mom we know this means a lot to you because you tell us. you dont just make pronouncements of want to be a great writer. you tell us that you like to write. that its important to you and that sometimes its hard but to others

 me:  I'm really proud that I come off that way. Really proud.

 Bryan:  youre like "that shit.  that don't mean much.  i do it when i'm not sleeping.  and usually drunk!  but i'm good at it and im going to keep doing it because im good at it" now while i dont think you need to open yourself up to everyone, it probably wouldnt hurt to act like this is the most effortless thing ever

 me:  yeah. for sure

 Bryan:  you would not be as good as you are if you didnt care

 me:  I care so much, so fucking much, and you know that. It's on my mind every second of every day and if I opened myself past the point of aloofness, people would figure me out as just another over ambitious hack and while that's good, I'd like to have a sort of playful carefree fireball standing with those that don't know me  well...though I can't disregard how many times I've had the same conversation you're starting with myself. You're a really great friend, Bryan

 Bryan:  i think you get too caught up in the fireball part. thank you. i consider you a good one myself... i guess what im saying, which i promise is not a criticism, but an attempt to explain the perception that people feel they'll never see you again

 me:  yeah. I know what I want to do, which is write, but don't really know how to go about it...but that's what the rest of this shit life is for

 Bryan:  yeah. so stop being afraid of not knowing exactly what you want to do. its par for the course. i dont know what i want to do but i do know i want to write so im heading off on the journalism course. i like this shit but i dont think its who i am. itll be part of who i am but it will not be the only thing ill ever do

 me:  Like Baron Davis' Grandma said "Take that ball away and who are you?"

 Bryan:  yeah my concern is that i get to write and you know what a lot of my favorite writers did reportage or criticism. they wrote. because thats what bonds us. we love to write. we need to write. the final outlet will vary. apparently im into verbosity tonight. simply put: i want to write. don't know what yet. but i have some ideas so im starting to check them off the list until i find the one i want

 me:  Do it I have so many more novel ideas now I think I'll put off getting a real job til this one is as good as it can be. though it'll never be perfect, it's me.

 Bryan:  thats important. alright playa. i gots work int he morning and a 1500 word essay on myself to write so im going to catch some sleep, wake up early and try to write a draft. catch you soon. on a final note, i expect to see you come february but i wont lie id be bummed if you dont come back im not intending on that happening though. night killa...what i know will be up as soon as i finish this essay

 me:  AWESOME. I'm doing mine now

 Bryan:  awesome

 me:  I'll be back for you, Nick, Jeff, Brock,  Nico, Mc, & the rest of 'em. the cousins and brothers I never had

 Bryan:  were a pretty special lot. lets take advantage of that and show we are to the world. come back for the club meetings

 me:  such is the "New" Newhindenburg

Your Biological Clock

Sundays are a big stupid mountain covered in hair. They are a room temperature Big Mac you eat when too drunk to do anything else. Sundays are that bit hair you forget to shave but friends always notice, the smell of burnt hair at a baby shower, the screech of flatulence during religious ceremonies. You took Sunday to see Booker T and the MG's and Sunday heckled, not Booker T lead singer, but Booker T Civil Rights Activist.  They come over, already buzzed, and drink your last beer. They're the abscesses forming on your rear. They give noogies, punt the ball during games of catch, and know far too much about sabermetrics and not enough about team chemistry. Sunday's forget to DVR your favorite television shows and get all pissed off when you get all pissed off. "WELL YOU WATCH TOO MUCH TV ANYWAY" Sunday says before kicking you off to watch reruns of M*A*S*H, you'll peek in the window as you fly your kite and Sunday won't be laughing. That serious sabbath doesn't enjoy anything. 

I have two fingers, at all times, located on my emotional pulse. 1/7 of the week, my pulse turns cold and aloof--I wonder if my heart could be having a stroke or worse yet--if it could have packed it's bags and jumped from my chest--exploring the world for a more qualified/more blue-eyed/man/manboy/Buck Angel. 

On Sunday's the sun shines but its always raining. Today my hair caught on fire, singing my scalp, making it all but impossible to wear festive winter hats. It came as no surprise, It was Sunday. Feelin' kind of Sunday? I should've known from the axe in your hand. 

Days I Would Rather Have Instead of A Day Of Rest 

1. Caveman Day- You go about your day in normal fashion but grunt instead of talk and throw rocks at shiny things. They confuse you. 
2. Screaming Day- Everyone goes onto their sidewalk and yells at each other for two hours straight. After that, with stress dissipated, we'll have pancake breakfast and get to know each other...finally. 
3. Sit in A Refrigerator Box Filled With Icy Hot Day- This one's sort of self-explanatory. 
4. Finger Painting Day- Ditto. 
5. Refluxive Compository Intestinal Malignance Awareness  Day- Ditto Again. This shit's explaining itself. 
6. Put A Finger Somewhere You've Never Put A Finger Before- A day where we all try our best not to make obvious jokes. 

Anything would be better than this line of Sunday's, devoid of jaunty piano music and riddled with the incumbent's weeks pressures. 

"It's December 14th! I HAVE TO GET ON A PLANE IN 3 DAYS!" 

Maybe this day is cursed for a Non-Christian. Then again, maybe it'd be different if your football team could win a fucking game. Nah... This day plain blows. 

needles

as i drink a scotch and eat a bowl of cheerios i figure i should introduce myself. but i already have, i suppose, as i've already contributed to this space without acknowledging that it just might confuse the hell out of everybody. so i skipped a step. sue me.

i don't necessarily know what i'm going to be when i grow up (if i haven't grown up already), but i have some options. those options include longshoreman, "writer," unemployed, and most recently, dj. the needles i refer to aren't the bad kind, the kind that give everybody either the willies or the DTs, but the kind that bring sweet sweet music to your ears.

i had a revelation yesterday: vinyl ain't that great. sure it's a portal to another time, where music wasn't as easy to get as a quick keystroke and a few minutes of patience as your newest obsession downloads, where you can get an album a full six weeks before the artist (or more likely, the label) intended you to. back when hours were spend flipping through bins in a musty record (record. vinyl's the reason that word has meaning) store, praying you get lucky and finally find that 12" that's been eluding you for a good month, but just has to show up sometime. that was a great time, one that i wasn't even alive for, but i can still appreciate. but the real question: does it sound better?

everyone's answer is yes. i always said yes. until i was asked if anyone i knew had a cassette deck. we all have cassettes collecting dust from the early 90s, when we bought MC Hammer, the Space Jam soundtrack, and every edition of Jock Jams we could get our hands on, and played those cassettes until they wore right through and we had to get another one. but where are they now? not being played, that's for sure. but if the history of vinyl says anything about music, it's that the medium is influenced both in the artistic sense and the physical sense. there's a certain impersonality to clicking a wheel on an ipod and playing that b-side it took you 12 seconds to find on a blog somewhere, compared to the relative "warmness" of slipping a record out of its sleeve, blowing off the dust and setting the needle just so, the familiar crackle of the blank space before the album kicks in reassuring you that you've at least done something right. there's just no challenge. and maybe that's what we're clinging to. there's still, even now, perhaps even intensified in the instant gratification age, a sense of the hipster one-upmanship of finding that track, bootleg, remix that nobody else has (yet). but imagine a time when search engines didn't exist, where album leaks were actually a big deal, not just expected collateral damage.

so what is it i'm trying to say? vinyl gets a wrap it doesn't necessarily deserve. it sounds good, sure, with the right speakers, but so does anything else. the vinyl effect can even be recreated in a studio these days. basically, who's to say that in 30 years the future-hipsters won't be collecting cassettes, making literal "mix-tapes" in an effort to be retro, cool, hip, ironically "cutting-edge." "man, music just doesn't sound like it used to," the kids'll say, "cassettes just sound better than having it beamed into your head" (which is what my limited imagination tells me is how music will be received in the future). but then everything changed for me.

james murphy, of lcd soundsystem extraordinaire, still spins the vinyl every now and then, and i had the privilege of standing 30 inches away from him as he did tonight. watching the man work, the pure physicality involved, sans computers, sequencers, or anything that might make it slightly less "real," made me appreciate the format of vinyl in a way i hadn't before. it wasn't the sound (which was pounding, in a good way), it was the performance. but as mr. murphy himself has said, purposefully oxymoronic, "i hear you're buying a synthesizer, and an arpeggiator, and throwing your computer out the window, because you want to make something 'real'. you wanna make a Yaz record." the quotes around 'real' are mine, but i imagine that's what he intended. sure, spinning is still technology, but it ain't the easy kind of technology. and that somehow makes it all better.

vinyl's not bad. it's really great actually. but the hype it gets just might come from that hipster ethos, the thought that if i like something that everybody else sorta hates, or at least writes off or has forgotten about, and i stick to my guns, i just might appear ironically avant-garde. and avant-garde is cool, especially when it's ironic. all i know is i danced till my legs wanted to die tonight. it probably wasn't the vinyl that made me do it, more like the disco grooves that are currently making my ears ring as i finish up my scotch and get ready to pass out. but i had a great fucking time nonetheless.

so that's me. nice to meet ya. (again)

--mc-danced-out.

Insomnia and the Woman Lying Next to Me

Once again, I am gripped by an irrational fear. A dread of falling asleep for fear that tomorrow will be just like today. A bad day. Lying awake in the dark, I look at her sleeping, docile, vulnerable. Her own irrational fears have a much different effect on her. This morning, she told me of the conversations in her head, imaginary exchanges where she plays both sides of the board, as a chess game. Endlessly she goes back and forth between two personae, extrapolating all possible event chains in a hypothetical to the point where she's telling the imaginary person about the conversations she has in her head with an imaginary person, and in the end she's only talking to herself. But at least she can sleep.

These unwaking hours are the darkest part of the woods of the mind--the easiest place to get lost in thought, paralyzed by the fear of going any further, but similarly crippled by the fear of staying in one place for too long. And thus we go in circles. I think I'm thinking to myself, but someone must be listening, right? I take comfort in the possibility that my thoughts translate into her dreams, giving her the peace of mind in sleep that I myself seek in consciousness. She breathes softly, short little breaths that can be described as either feminine or feline. Even the curve of her body, the way her hands are balled up in front of her gentle face, suggest a cat-like influence. I wonder if that means men are like dogs, splayed out with little regard for the space they occupy, begging for a touch, a glance, a thought. A soft purr from deep within her only confirms my suspicions. Petting her doesn't seem like such a bad idea, but I refrain. A social faux-pas perhaps, petting those who don't know they're an object that begs to petted.

From dogs and cats I wander to the next tree in the forest and I worry: Are we really that different? Dogs and cats? Men and women as two different species, a concept that frightens me to the point of shivers, that the deepest desire can never be truly fulfilled. If we are so inherently different, is it possible to share a soul? The ceiling's glaring indifference seems the appropriate response, the blue glow of the the alarm clock digits casting tiny shadows that reveal the texture of the space, defining the little bumps so sharply I can only conclude that separation is inevitable. No two things can become one. But a soft brush of her hand as she stirs in her sleep reassures me that I'm mistaken. I sigh.

It's useless to fight it, insomnia. One can only hope for the end. Eventually the circles of thought will become so wide (or so tight?) that one cannot help but abandon all hope, and in that resignation to one's prison, one is set free. The last test of the boastful man. Insomnia takes you down a peg. You are nothing without me, says the body to the mind, and the mind responds in kind.

The irrational fear is rooted in a broader tendency to overthink. The big picture is a scary thing to stare at, and I take this fact to heart as the wind howls and makes the room rattle. It's a good night to sleep. But the big picture only enables my avoidance. Am I a big picture person or am I just refusing to acknowledge the pit in my stomach, the lump in my throat, the sense of dread I feel every morning when she gently wakes me for a cup of coffee before my morning commute? Again, cyclically, I return to her. If only I could sleep as she does--mouth agape but breathing through the nose, eyelids flickering with the projections of dreams, withdrawn into a curtained room separated from the light by only a thin but resilient sheath. I consider the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand but I know how much she hates it when I smoke in bed. She's never said anything but, instinctively, I can feel her tension when the blankets bear that stale sour smell, and this small, involuntary bit of fact curbs my enthusiasm for tobacco. I do it for her. Isn't it funny how much of our own happiness revolves around other people's?

I forget sometimes. Nights like these are necessary. When she lies next to me in the darkness, whether facing away from me--the little spoon--or towards me--her small fists close to her chin, waiting for me to place my face close to hers so she can reposition her hands in the usual nooks of my torso like so many bony puzzle pieces--and I close my eyes, I no longer see the dim outline of her profile. As soon as my lids touch the room is set afire, and she is the sole source of light--in the same position as when my eyes are open but radiant and beautiful, resplendent in a way that sunlight could never recreate. I feel her move and the flaming angel in my third eye moves with her. It happens only on nights like these; these windy, cold, sleepless nights; this permeation past my only line of defense from things I see or don't see. She shines like the moon in my imagination, ever present, even in the supine, naked moment between wakefulness and sleep, if sleep ever comes. This tiniest moment in the day is when she is brightest, whether facing away from me, legs bent slightly at the knees, creating a space for me--the big spoon--to fit, or towards me, eyes closed but anticipating my head on the pillow next to hers, face to face, in case in the course of the night one of us should stir and wake the other, that we might share a brief meeting of the lips. It is no wonder then that I never sleep facing away from her. The shining light in my third eye could never keep me from sleeping.

I kiss her forehead, and she stirs. She turns as I lie next to her. A moment passes and I feel a reciprocatory kiss, and I smile.

98774 Words or "Mama I'm A Man Now"

At the summit of my education I return to kindergarten, wistfully recounting suspensions past, and grabbing the simplest of lessons: It's good to share. 

Over the course of young Hindenburg's run this blog has undergone many facelifts. Starting under the thesis of examining the amazing it has slowly turned into my personal journal for psychoanalysis. This isn't a bad thing. However, times change and ol' Hindy's got to get with them. The sharing has begun with Jeff (who's putting me to shame) and hopefully continue. Who knows? We might even find Archibald! Last I heard, he's been weaseling Isla Fisher away from Sascha Baron-Cohen. You minx you! No offense Minx. 

Let's Evolve.

***** 

If I get manage my shit together, but two finals remain in my illustrious University Career. As I look back, there are no regrets, all in all I think I've achieved the entire gamut of collegiate life. Henry Ford Community College helped me in this a great deal. Driving into an overpacked parking lot, running to class as slush filled my sockless shoes to attend lecture taught by a bald transsexual man does great things to a boy. 

My first class was an an Intro to Sociology taught by a man with the email "socioking@_____.com". He stammered through lecture, struggling to keep his bi-focals fixed on his face, while ignoring the dwindling numbers in his class. We started as a group of 26 and ended as 6, me and 5 Islamic Women. They were always the best students. My first assignment was a project on how changing times were reflecting in logos. I toiled for days to perfect my perfect analysis of the NBC Peacock. Armed with a 20 page Kinko's fresh document, I proudly flipped through my efforts. Then a classmate nudged me. "Hey man, I gotta go. Will you turn in my assignment for me?" 

"Sure." 

He handed me his assignment--a half page of loose leaf paper describing the Detroit Pistons 2004 championship victory that spelled "Chauncey Billups" as "Billips". It's shameful to think of me on a high horse at such a pitiful juncture, but I was. I vowed never to be the sort of student he was. 

Four years later, I routinely skip class to nap in the park or lay eggs for Nick's movies. I think of this boy often, wondering where he is, pouring out sips of 40 in tribute to his lackadaisical nature. Doing a poor job is fine if the job warrants it. How foolish was I to toil on nothingness. Take care of yourself, give in to the world, but be careful where you plant those seeds. Tempted by other gardens and their seemingly fruitful soils, unfitting actions boast a great temptation. 

"Ooooh being a biologist would be fun! There are ANIMALS INVOLVED" 

If anything, I've managed not to be an idiot about where I laid my loyalties like so many of Fenkel's eggs. A few months ago, living with Matt & Ross under newly wed bliss, I sat on Nico's roof for hours wondering a life dedicated to love would be? 

I don't know what that is but I know it's possible. Working on a singular task for an extended period of time, certain patterns become palpable. What makes you happy? What hours and habits are most conducive to success? What allows the freedom of mind and flitty fervor of spirit enabling long smiling walks in the California sun? I DON'T KNOW THESE ANSWERS, but realizing that such questions exist is a very important step. 

 Aside from girls, life is too serious to fret over. Life is its own babysitter. 

These are the thoughts of a man who rarely leaves the house except to eat Mexican food. 

Recently, I rattled myself in an imbroglio over some holes in some walls. I use the plurals because this was the night I pretended to be Troy Polamalu, the tasmanian devil and father of Paisos himself. All was my tackling dummy, all was joyful. 

This mindset wasn't shared by others. Realizing I was wrong in the aloof approach to fixing my problem, I begged forgiveness, promising to fix the holes in the walls. This was a high priority for me, even garnering a number 1 spot on my "to-do" list from November 15th. Everyday it weighed on me. I'd walk to the hardware store, pick up the dry wall, and hear a quiet voice whispering "Not yet. The world likes you. It could help you." 

The world, again, came through. George, a handyman I fostered a great relationship with in previous rentals, saw the holes on a routine inspection and offered to fix them. He did. On the way home from my beloved's home, toting a mattress on my back like some deranged production of the stations of the cross, I crossed George. 

Though my neck stiffened I couldn't put down the mattress because I promised myself I wouldn't. 

I said hello to George and thanked him for fixing the holes. He smiled and said "Makes sense it was you. Made me laugh." 

I don't know where I'm going with this. I'm procrastinating as I write this and I'm sure Brock will scoff. Offering my irresponsibility as a life lesson is faulty logic, especially from a grad. 

Life's always looming, towering above, making us feel like scared scattered mice. Alone and cheese chasing. I guess I'm at the ultimate juncture for that. The world beckons, I'm conditioned to answer the question of "What's Next?", but more than anything it's important not to worry. To let go and let the world take care of me. 

Smile. Chase your dreams. Do your best to love. Try your damnedest to understand. 

If I do these I'll be just fine. Homeless, but dandy underneath it all. 

****

Finishing up early Wednesday morning, I expected a cathartic explosion and champagne baths to follow. This didn't happen. In the wake of something I'd always thought impossible, I didn't feel like an achiever, I felt like a human. I did what I felt like and nothing more. Feeling quiet and quite calm, I laid my eyes to the ceiling and explored the feeling of complete understanding. 

**** 

No more jock jams!