Hornby

"friends tellin me, maybe I need some psychiatric help.... they're always tellin me, just how to get on with it - but I look into the mirror, and all i see is age and fear - and agony" - eels

I read a book awhile back (awhile being about three or four years) by Nick Hornby. The book was "High Fidelity" and i was in my first year of college - thinking myself to be the greatest thing ever, and my recurring sadness to be oh-so-motherfucking-original. Of course, on both fronts, I proved to be very wrong. But, a quote from that book always stuck with me - and I'm most likely misquoting here (I let someone borrow the book, and never got it back) - "Which came first - the sadness, or the sad music?"

It seemed so profound at the time - perhaps because I was suffering from the 'My Chemical Romance' kind of sadness - that is, the sort of sadness that is done for the sole sake of getting attention (though, honestly, I think I was more depressed than any of those fakers could ever claim to me... I mean - really. Wtf.).

But now - well, I can say, without any hesitation - the sadness came first. I think sadness - as well as the other most powerful emotions (love, sadness, and hate is how I rank 'em) came before the art. Art is driven by a need to express yourself - and, as far as I've seen, those primal human emotions have driven those needs, in just about that order.

For me, the sad songs (not the love ones) are the most beautiful. Artists like E (Mark Oliver Everett of the Eels), or Elliott Smith have made some of the most beautiful songs ever created (sad or otherwise). Bright Eyes (Mr. Conor Oberst) has made some quite beautiful songs himself, but, in my opinion, I don't think his songs quite stand up to the standard set by Mark or Elliott.

What is the point of this blog, or, to narrow it down, this particular entry?
There is no point. Just like life. There is no point. What is the practical purpose of just about anything? There is no purpose. And that, my friends, is the point.

You live, you die, and all the shit in-between is just for fun.
And in that, in that middle part, is where life really exists.
Turn your brains off, and just live -

Comes the advice from someone who couldn't heed his own.


And the point of all this? There is no point.
getoverit.

I'm not as dumb as I will be tomorrow

Never get so attached to a poem, you
Forget truth that lacks lyricism, and
Never draw so close to the heat, that
You will forget that you must eat, oh

-Joanna Newsom




So often, people look to works of fiction - or to the writings of the great thinkers of the past - to provide a sense of reality - a sense of truth. You ask a young man about his political views, and he's likely to quote you some Marx. Ask another about life, and he'll quote you Hemingway. As someone about the human condition, and they'll tell you all about Nieztsche. Ask about love, and you'll get quotes from Shakespeare and Petrarch.

And I'm not pointing fingers - god forbid. Because then I'd have four more pointing at myself (actually - if you look at the finger pointing gesture, only three point at yourself - the thumb either points down [at the devil perhaps?] or up [god - i knew it!!!]). I do the same (though, I am very bad at quoting anything - I can read, and enjoy, just about anything - but ask me to quote something - even from something I've read a billion times (High Fidelity NEVER gets old, tellyoume), and I'm at a lost. Just not so good at that.

But - so many people seem to think that intelligence, and, god dammit... KNOWLEDGE lies in the ability to parrot back the thoughts of others. So - you can tell me exactly what Leon Festinger said about cognitive dissonance... so? Does that mean you understand the subject yourself?!? No, it does not. It means you read a book - congratulations - you're on par with just about every 2nd grader in the United States (the deep south doesn't count - for them, we say you're on par with every high schooler... but I digress).

I've found myself calling myself unintelligent, out loud and to myself, because I was not nearly as adept at quoting reputible sources as so many others - but I'm tired of it. I'm a (fairly) smart guy. I have my own ideas - though, I've come to learn through many discussions and readings, these ideas have been shared by many people - quite a few rather prolific, as it turns out.
The point is - intelligence, and human value, is found in individualism. Stop quoting texts, and trying to call the ideas your own. Instead, take a step back, observe the world, the universe, life - and try to understand it yourself. Come up with your own ideas and conclusions, and then compare them with the ideas and conclusions that those before you have come up with - you'll be surprised at just how satisfying that really is.

When you start struggling with the idea that the world - everything we think, feel, see, and hear, is either real or imagined (depending on your philosophical and ideological views on things), then you will finally be embarking on a journey of intellectual development.

Memorization, while quite nice in a classroom setting, is no substitute for actual intelligence.






And no - this is not aimed at any particular person (though, back in the way way back, the long long ago, I knew some people through my schooling who never had an original thought in their lives - yet considered themselves above everyone else.. .those fuckers. :-D God (or whatever diety you choose to believe - or not - in) you all.


*hiccup*

-chris

The importance of randomization

When I listen to a cd or mp3 playlist, I often choose to do so on the "random" setting.

Now, there are those *ahem* who look down upon such acts - so I feel it is imperitive that I explain my stance on the matter. Because, yes, this is a life-or-death matter. Absolutely - fuck hurricanes and earthquakes and a President that wants to see every American male either turned Republican or dead - THIS is what's important.

See, I listen to high quality music - such as Madonna, U2, My Chemical Romance, and Yellowcard. Now - these are some seriously high quality musicians here, who have spent years upon years honing their craft, and have nothing but artist credibility. However, because they are all working under the umbrella of large corporations (and egos, but i digress), the order of their records are often not entirely decided upon by them - So, playing them on "random" means you lose nothing in the cohesiveness of the album, and, in fact, may gain a better listening experience.

In addition to this, playing a record on "random" - actually, I should say cd, as I do not think it possible to play a record proper on random - unless you actually pick up the needle and move it, but I never learned how to spot where one track ends and another begins, so I would fail miserably in that regard.
Again with the digression - let's continue. Playing a CD on random can breath(e?) extra life into it. How many times have you listened to that Yanni cd? I know i've nearly worn it out - but, when I play it on random, it's like he's crooning to me anew. How lovely. I can almost see the grease in his hair glistening now.... yummy... *ahem* i mean.. Yanni....
moving on..

Finally - listening to a release on "random" often leads to unexpected discoveries. Did you know that, if you listen to Pearl Jam's, Metallica's, and U2's latest efforts together, on random, and you get JUST the right mix, and you've imbibed a fifth of vodka, and smoked all of your therapist's stash of 'medical' marijuana - it tells a story of a lost cat who hates music fans, is in love with itself, steals musical ideas from a dead icon, and hasn't created anything worth listening to since the early nineties? It's true. Try it for yourself.

So, yes - I listen to music on random.




I guess the point I'm trying to make here is.... what you should be getting out of this...
well, I guess what I'm trying to say is this: I listen to music on random, and am a douche for doing so.
Oh, and I dislike, in no particular order: President Bush (and other sorts of bushes - i mean, really - wtf? are you a tree or a potted plant? what's the deal with bushes?!?!), and a lot of bands. A lot. Two words.

credit, where it is due

Ok, I don't do a great job of giving credit where it is due - especially in terms of telling where I stole the pictures used here.

The background is a picture of Jandek (yes, THE Jandek) I found on Google images. Google it - you'll find it pretty quick.

The only other picture I think I've used is from http://postsecret.blogspot.com - i highly suggest going to that site. Lots of great, user created, postcards - many of which I can relate to completely (just like the one I posted here).

beginning of a story (mayhap i'll finish this one... mayhap)

Image from PostSecret

James sat at the bar, focusing intently on the drink sitting before him. The imperfect cubes of ice, floating in the light brown fluid, the flickering lights from the nearby television dancing on the surface of the drink, the din of the crowd around him just background noise, completely ignored.

He didn’t even notice the man come in through the heavy oak door. Didn’t notice him quickly take the seat next to him. He didn’t notice how this man, wearing a felt hat and long grey coat that were out of place in the summer heat outside, didn’t stop at any of the stools closer to the door – but instead, made his way directly to the one next to James. James also didn’t notice how the man never took his eyes off of him, or how his wrinkled hands reached deep into his coat pocket, pulled out an envelope, and slid it next to James’ drink. Deep in thought, staring blankly into his whiskey, James didn’t see the man at all – not even as he got up and left, stopping at the door, glancing once more at James, before disappearing into the blinding light of the outside world.

[title here]

Instead of writing something of substance - a story, whether short or long in form, a poem, a song - hell, a description of an album, or a half-assed review of a movie, I am here. Writing this - a blog no one will ever read (hehe - perhaps saying that will thusly negate it, and become a topic of much regard).

I need to do something - create something. But, writing here is so very easy. I mean, I sit down, start typing some random crap (i'll have a blue christmas...) and just keep going, with the freedom of knowing that it is pretty much just me shouting at the ocean, my words lost among the screams of the waves.

Yep - I should be doing something more productive with my time. But - perhaps this is productive? Just dumping all the excess thoughts out of my brain, and leaving only that which is of worth (oh god - I think I hear an echo in there.....).


It's funny - I think I have writer's block. Most people - mostly non-writers, I guess - think writer's block means you can't think of anything to write (and, sometimes, that is true, I guess I guess). For me, though, and for many writers I've heard speak or read interviews of/from (insert correct usage there), writer's block means this: You can come up with millions of ideas, and write until your hands bleed - but it won't be any good. It'll sound - at least to the writer him or herself - contrived and forced and... well, bad. Just bad.

That's where I am now (not that I consider myself a writer, mind you - for that, I would have had to write something that either A. was longer than 20 paged (my current best), or B. have been read by more than half a dozen people).


Now, run off, chillun, and listen to, in no particular order:
Old 97's
(smog)
Jandek
Sufjan Stevens
the Moon is a Cookie (free music here!!!!)
Son, Ambulance

that's it for now - that's your homework assignment.
Some great bands to listen to there....


Now, I'm going to take some of my crap ideas, put them to paper, and then cry uncontrollably when I read back through them, and realize that they are, indeed, crap. sigh

The usually tumultuous sea stood calm and serene, perfectly mirroring the pale blue skay above it.
Alex closed his eyes and winced in anticipation of the brutally cold water he was about to walk into, as he felt the sharp heat of the white sand burrowing into the soles of his feet.
Taking a deep breath in, he opened his eyes and started to take a step forward.
Holding his right hand, gripping so tightly that he was cutting off ciruclation, was a tiny little boy. His grip on Alex's hand prevented any kind of forward progress. His dirty brown hair swirled and danced around his face, as the wind slowly began to pick up. The boy's dark brown eyes, open wide and filled with terror, latched onto Alex's, seemed to plead with him, to beg him for some kind of salvation.
Alex's heart sank as he saw the tears welling in that little boy's eyes, and felt the pain as the grip on his right hand tightened further.

"You have to be brave," Alex said, as he dropped to his knees, looking straight into the eyes of this small child. "You can be afraid - that's ok. But you have to face those fears"

The little boy was shaking with fear, the tears streaming down his face openly, catching onto errant strands of hair.

"Look at me," Alex said, as the boy's eyes darted quickly to the ground. "Look at me. It's going to be ok. You can do this - I know you can. Ok?"

Meekly, the little boy nodded his head in affirmation.

"Ok. Hey - remember what I told you, when you were little?" Alex asked him.

Very quietly, the little boy replied, "No..."

"You'll live forever."

At this, the little boy looked into Alex's eyes, the disbelief showing clearly, the fear evident in every inch of the child.

"No, I won't," he replied.

The tears were streaming down both of their faces now, the cold wind coming off the ocean making them even more noticeable.

Lips trembling, cold tears streaming down his face, Alex took hold of the little boy's face, and gently kissed his forehead.

"Be brave."


With that, he took the boy's hand, and stood back up. Looking down at the little boy, Alex felt his heart breaking. With a deep breath, he took a step forward, towards the now chaotic sea. The froth building on the waves seemed to be hands, beckoning them forward. The little boy, this time, didn't stop him - they both went forward, towards the newly darkened sea.

As the lapping waves caressed his legs, Alex was surprised at the warmth. It was almost as if the ocean was inviting him, and the little boy, into its depths.

Taking a few more steps in, until the waves were reaching his waste, and almost up to the boy's head, Alex plunged in, until the tug of the boy's hand prevented him from moving further along.

Staring straight into his eyes, the boy spoke to Alex with no sense of fear or apprehension.

"Stay here."

"What?" Alex asked.

"I have to go alone."

"But..."

"It'll be ok. Be brave," the little boy echoed Alex's tidings.

"Ok..."

"Be brave. They need you now." At that, the boy pointed to the distance, behind Alex.

Alex turned to look, but nothing was there. As he turned to look back, towards the boy he came here with, he all he saw was the sea. Scrambling forward, he was stopped by a violent gust of the wind. Shielding his eyes from the salty wind, he quickly looked around, trying to spot the little boy.

Standing ten feet away from him, submerged in an eery spot of calm waters, was the boy, staring straight into Alex's eyes. As Alex stumbled forward, his salty tears mingling with the ocean waters, the boy shook his head, and turned away, quickly disappearing into the depths of the violent ocean waters.








He woke slowly, at first hearing the regular beeps he had become so accustomed to, then hearing the feared extended beeeeeeeeeep.

The world around him took a few moments to regain focus - staring with blurs of white and green clad beings darting to and fro, finally materializing into nurses and doctors, all huddled around a hospital bed.

Alex could still feel the tears streaming down his face as the hospital room filled with yelling people, and that horrible beep that wasn't beeping - just a long, drawn out, high pitched sound. The sound he recognized immediately from years of watching ER.

The remaining tears blurred his vision further, but he saw - he saw much more clearly than he ever wanted to. Those big brown eyes, staring into his, as he saw the life leave them. As he saw the doctors and nurses do all they could - unsuccessfully - to save the boy in the hospital bed.

He saw all this, and did the only thing he could do.
He saw all this, and wept.

berd

So, this is it.
The beginning.
Of a New Blog.

Wow.
WoW.



Anyway.


There will be more to come. Perhaps a few works of fictions. Perhaps a baring of a soul. Perhaps perhaps.

Or, maybe I shall just mislead all.... ermm... 1 or 2 of you who drunkenly happen to stumble upon this. I'll mislead the hell out of you. Perhaps.


Probably not.

But you never know.

But this is the first post - so I should say something indicitive of what is to come.

Well... that's rather daunting. I'll do it tomorrow, I swear it.


For this night, I sleep. Later, I'll sleep. I still have some other stuff to do, such as leave a comment on a very good man's page - a friend that I, sadly, have far too little contact with. Not for his lack of trying, but for my own anti-socialness. If that's a word. But point being - I often find myself wanting nothing more than to isolate myself from the rest of humanity, including the very rare exceptional people, such as himself. I often need to go into a dark room, and stay there, for as long as it takes. To what? you may ask - well, that I do not know. I stay there until I am freed from my bonds, and that is all I know. All I need to know.

And that is all.