People have to really suffer before they can risk doing what they love.

in the midst of finding random bits of media for the previous post, i stumbled upon a posting of a posting, and now i'm posting it here. i could try to just say what it's saying, and pass the words off as my own - but i'm too tired for that, and, let's face it, i would probably get it wrong anyway.

(remember - the following is not my words,
though I pretty much feel the same)
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I see this question posted with some regularity in the personals section, so I thought I'd take a minute to explain things to the ladies out there that haven't figured it out.

What happened to all the nice guys?

The answer is simple: you did.

See, if you think back, really hard, you might vaguely remember a Platonic guy pal who always seemed to want to spend time with you. He'd tag along with you when you went shopping, stop by your place for a movie when you were lonely but didn't feel like going out, or even sit there and hold you while you sobbed and told him about how horribly the (other) guy that you were fucking treated you.

At the time, you probably joked with your girlfriends about how he was a little puppy dog, always following you around, trying to do things to get you to pay attention to him. They probably teased you because they thought he had a crush on you. Given that his behavior was, admittedly, a little pathetic, you vehemently denied having any romantic feelings for him, and buttressed your position by claiming that you were "just friends." Besides, he totally wasn't your type. I mean, he was a little too short, or too bald, or too fat, or too poor, or didn't know how to dress himself, or basically be or do any of the things that your tall, good-looking, fit, rich, stylish boyfriend at the time pulled off with such ease.

Eventually, your Platonic buddy drifted away, as your relationship with the boyfriend got more serious and spending time with this other guy was, admittedly, a little weird, if you weren't dating him. More time passed, and the boyfriend eventually cheated on you, or became boring, or you realized that the things that attracted you to him weren't the kinds of things that make for a good, long-term relationship. So, now, you're single again, and after having tried the bar scene for several months having only encountered players and douche bags, you wonder, "What happened to all the nice guys?"

Well, once again, you did.

You ignored the nice guy. You used him for emotional intimacy without reciprocating, in kind, with physical intimacy. You laughed at his consideration and resented his devotion. You valued the aloof boyfriend more than the attentive "just-a- friend".

Eventually, he took the hint and moved on with his life. He probably came to realize, one day, that women aren't really attracted to guys who hold doors open; or make dinners just because; or buy you a Christmas gift that you mentioned, in passing, that you really wanted five months ago; or listen when you're upset; or hold you when you cry. He came to realize that, if he wanted a woman like you, he'd have to act more like the boyfriend that you had. He probably cleaned up his look, started making some money, and generally acted like more of an asshole than he ever wanted to be.

Fact is, now, he's probably getting laid, and in a way, your ultimate rejection of him is to thank for that. And I'm sorry that it took the complete absence of "nice guys" in your life for you to realize that you missed them and wanted them. Most women will only have a handful of nice guys stumble into their lives, if that.

So, if you're looking for a nice guy, here's what you do:

1.) Build a time machine.
2.) Go back a few years and pull your head out of your ass.
3.) Take a look at what's right in front of you and grab a hold of it.

I suppose the other possibility is that you STILL don't really want a nice guy, but you feel the social pressure to at least appear to have matured beyond your infantile taste in men. In which case, you might be in luck, because the nice guy you claim to want has, in reality, shed his nice guy mantle and is out there looking to unleash his cynicism and resentment onto someone just like you.

So, please: either stop misrepresenting what you want, or own up to the fact that you've fucked yourself over. You're getting older, after all. It's time to excise the bullshit and deal with reality. You didn't want a nice guy then, and he certainly doesn't fucking want you, now.

Somewhere between anticipation and nostalgia we should have been happy.

Today I traveled back in time.
No, no Delorean, and not some emaciation induced mind-trip.
I began the highly ritualized series of events that those in the know know all too well. Sorting through old records (vinyl, not economic) and long-forgotten comics.
I read through some books I never got around to finishing - or even picking up the final few issues, even though I loved the series. I listened to records I forgot I even owned. And it brought around an all-too familiar thought, made all the more poignant looking at the dates on the books, and remembering where I was, and when I was, when I bought some of the records -- What, exactly, have I done with my life?
A bit grandiose, I suppose.
Really, though, I was wondering - what happened here, exactly?
A few years have slipped by, and I'm no closer to where I want to be, and find myself making the same mistakes over and over again (still liking the wrong girl - that classic story, still working a job that doesn't fulfill me, ever the lone wolf).
Now, don't misunderstand my motives - I'm not here to whine or moan, but instead am feeling that introspective curiosity. And for me, the only way to work through these sorts of things is by writing them down. And here I get to blather on, and create a kaleidoscope of random musings and pictures, so, eventually, none of this will make sense to anyone but me.

The point, if there can be said to be one, is that we always seem to be either looking forward or looking back - so the now never really exists, and if that is the case, when do we get to be happy?

Now go be happy.

btw,iloveyouifyoudidn'tknow

I started to talk to myself
but I pictured somebody else
someone who looks like
what I feel like

Someone who told you
what you needed to hear
the man who became what you dreamed
so kindly ripped out the seams

In the dark light
he just passed by
all these lost fights
Because I wish I could talk to you on the phone
but instead I am searching alone
trying to find
a reason to fight

all that remains
is a memory of a girl
some shades of shame
and a world full
of regret and passions lost
lovers turned into ghosts

friends have become memories
just pass along,
nothing left to see...
a prop to make the world
seem a little
more real
the bus fare in your pocket
makes it more real, and so
i told you so
the world will go
fade in and out
if that makes you believe
i love you
less than i do

I can't top anyone, not even myself.....

I honestly don't usually like anything I've written.

I think it's happened maybe twice in my life that I've gone back and read something I've previously written, and actually liked it. One was a short story about a flying squirrel named fudge (yes, Fudge the Flying Squirrel). Another was another short story, about a guy seeing a girl running from something - but that doesn't really count, as that was only half finished- and I've yet to actually finish it.

But tonight, I was feeling depressed - and therefore, creative - so I decided to write something new in all 3 blogs I currently have: here, the one linked to from here, and an ancient, decrepit myspace. I did the one here, and the one at the other place - but then I went to myspace, saw a post I did not recognize, read it, and decided that should stay as the top one for now. I remembered what I was writing about - a love so true it can only be experienced by a child - and it made me feel like whatever I'm feeling now is completely inconsequential. I actually kind of liked it. So this is that. Well, what follows this is that, I should say. This is not actually that. NOW this is that:





"A man's work is nothing but this slow trek to rediscover, through the detours of art, those two or three great and simple images in whose presence his heart first opened." --- Albert Camus



A smile.

I remember a smile.




I have been happy, gloriously, unflinchingly happy. Without regret or remorse. Without doubt or introspection.
Living in the moment, existing for the only thing that truly exists - right now.




The first image - an innocent smile. A smile given freely, without expectation of reciprocation. A smile given without thought, but with cause. A smile memorized, seen only in the depths of dreams - too fragile for consciousness.
Seen through the rear window of a moving vehicle, seen disappearing into the quickly disappearing dusk.
A smile as haunting as it was beautiful.

And so long ago, it can only exist in the vaguest of memories.





and after reading that - and the quote that is included therein - i guess that's what everyone who writes does. We just try to capture those two or three beautiful moments in our lives, and share them with the world.

I promise, I'll try to do a better job of it. You, and those memories, deserve better than my feeble follies.

Dusk in October

I saw your naked fingers
clamped around his neck
your eyes weren't wet
you kept your head

The aftermath was just
shadows and shapes
they called it fate
never said your name

I kept your secret
hidden in my head
buried with the dead
but could not forget

Paths of right and wrong
seem to dance and intertwine
and under that cold moon light
all i could think was that
you looked divine

When we wake from this coma
maybe we'll feel some regret
maybe we'll wish we could forget
until then let's share this cigarette
watch the night become day
and pay no attention
when we run out of things to say

somewhere in my head, buried in back
a thought still lingers
when will i see those naked fingers
around my neck?

only when the clock stops does time come to life

I've been waiting
watching the clock's hands
wave another day past
wondering if this
will ever
happen

I just sit in my dark car
watching the smoke die
so perfect and lovely
before it just
disappears

So maybe there's some
meaning hidden somewhere
in the clouds we see god
or maybe just a
butterfly


Ever so slowly
I'm starting to believe
there is just energy
we are just beings
bursting and floating
connecting and expanding
fading and then dying

So when I see you
on that lonesome interstate
I won't wave
No, I won't satisfy
that urge to say goodbye

i don't give a damn what the doctors say, i ain't gonna spend another lonesome day

we've killed our fathers
for that smattering of applause
sold the soulless
kissed virgin lips
and never once did we bother
to pause and ask ourselves why

it all seemed to matter so much
intoxicated by the momentum of the moment
didn't even notice
it had passed us by

petty and pretty, just prancing around
out about town in your sleeping gown
counting all the looks you get
stealing my life like Pinochet

still i pause and introspect
find your fragrance and whispers
a throbbing pain and latent tears
still feel your presence, what did i expect?
it's not finished, still the same fears

confused, signals crossed
insipid and insignificant
what i want to say i'll carry inside
i'll put the camera down
try to see with my eyes
what has passed

a moment can seem to last a lifetime
but gone in the blink of an eye
we travel our separate paths
i will whisper goodbye
and watch you walk away
alone

Radio on the TV

I've been watching a lot of TV lately - well, I've downloaded a lot of shows, and watched those - and noticed that American TV is actually getting better. For the first time in a long time there are actually a few shows that I want to watch every week (or, there were, before all the shows went on hiatus for the holidays, being replaced by terrible gameshows and various reality TV shows).

However, every time I think our shows here are getting good, I find something from the other side of the pond that's even better, and puts our programming to shame.



Case in point: Life on Mars. I became a fan - somewhat - of the American show Journeyman. It had an interesting premise - guy goes back in time, but doesn't know how or why, and ends up having to help people back there. Sort of a lazy man's Quantum Leap. Good, easy entertainment, in other words.

Then, I saw Life on Mars, and everything changed. Not only does it feature incredible music from that era (1970's), but it doesn't dumb itself down for viewers - there's no hand-holding here. In Life on Mars, the protagonist gets into an accident, and finds himself in 1973. He - and we - don't really know if he's really back in time, or if the entire thing is his comatose dream. The show goes on to show him solving crimes. It's hard to really describe, but the show manages to make you, the viewer, feel everything he feels - the frustration, the anger, and the simple joy of finding your place. It's the same basic premise as Journeyman, but manages to create a relationship between the viewer and the characters on the screen, while bringing forth issues of morality and justice. By showing the world back then, it creates a contrast to the world we know now - and shines a light on all the successes and failures of our modern society, especially in law enforcement.

The point is, every time our American shows take a step forward, so do the British - so we're always at least a step behind. It's a bit frustrating, but at least entertainment is getting more... entertaining.

Now watch Bowie sing.

when i say niggy you say nuthin

Just a quick post, as I ponder what time it is, or is supposed to be right now.

Check out Saul Williams' latest album, The Inevitable Rise and Liberation of Niggy Tardust. Not only is it an excellent album, featuring Williams' great poetry along with producer Trent Reznor's wall-of-noise approach, but it's a giant middle finger to the music industry.
get it here http://niggytardust.com/saulwilliams/download

They decided to release the album for free, or for $5 if you want a higher bitrate version. Both downloads come with full liner notes (in PDF).

I suggest getting it; It's actually a very interesting (I thoroughly enjoyed it) hip-hop album, with just a hint of Trent's industrial noise. Ok, more than a hint. But it's like nine in nails, but with hip-hop. But better than I just made that sound.

Hopefully more artists will follow the lead set forth by Saul (with Trent) and Radiohead. I feel dirty buying cd's from major labels, knowing that I'm just making some executive rich - I'd rather have a system like this, where the money is going straight to the artists.

Luna Perigee

btw, look up

the moon is gorgeous right now (that was, actually, the content of the very random text message I received the other night).

the moon is 356754 km away from the earth right now, so it looks huge - that, coupled with the fact that it's a full-moon makes it spectacular to see.

I sat outside watching it for a twenty minutes, sipping on cheap bourbon out of a styrofoam cup, hearing John Vanderslice wailing through the windows. It was a spectacular sight, absolutely gorgeous, seeing that celestial body floating through the sky, bracketed by a thin layer of clouds.

So, I repeat,

Look Up.

atrocity exhibition

I still exist.



I really want to see control, hence the title, and first line.

but that has nothing to do with anything.


A few things I've seen recently:

A car full of people all talking on their phones. I don't know what exactly it was about that that caught my very insubstantial attention, but that scene did. Maybe it was the isolation of those people in that very closed space - four people crammed into a mid-sized car, all in their own private conversations. Or maybe it was the fact that i imagined them perversely conversing with each other, each listening in on each others' private words, learning more about each other that way than through direct conversation. Or maybe it was the fact that they stopped a good twenty feet behind the car ahead of them, forcing me to glare at them (as they were blocking me from making my left-hand turn).

A spider. Not any spider, but a seven-legged spider. And not any seven-legged spider, but one with an incredible ability to survive. You see, I saw this seven-legged spider months ago, in my home. I was drawn to it even then - maybe it was a morbid curiosity, but I couldn't help but watch it make its way up the walls. I even took pictures of it - I would post them here, but I'm A) too lazy, and B) I have no idea where my camera is. Which brings us back to A, but I digress.
I saw this spider long ago, and saw it again less than a week ago. This isn't all that impressive in and of itself, but there's another little fact - my house was fumigated a few weeks ago. So, a couple of months after originally seeing the spider, my home was filled with poisonous gas. Then I see the very same seven-legged spider trudging through his day. I thought that was amazing, and found myself imagining his perilous journey, surviving the poisonous fumes that filled his home, with one leg missing, then seeing this bizarre giant who took pictures of him so long ago.
I now wish I had caught said spider, and given him/it a more comfortable home - a sort of retirement, where it/he didn't have to worry about survival. But I suppose that would be a sort of insult - this is, most likely, a proud, honorable creature that has survived far too much to be relegated to mere pet. After roaming freely through my entire house, a small glass cage would be dishonorable.


Stories. Especially the filmed variety. I've watched quite a few movies recently, ranging from the recent (the likes of Ocean's 13 and 28 Weeks Later) to the legendary (Rear Window and Cries and Whispers). I noticed something that, for me, set apart the stories I loved from the ones I could barely pay attention to. The best stories, for me, are the ones that focus on the individuals' stories, instead of some grand picture. Some stories try to be all encompassing, while others - the truly great ones - speak volumes about the human condition by focusing on the lives of individuals in minutiae. Those stories that focus on a few characters, and delve deeply into their lives' and experiences hold more weight, for me, than the ones that make sweeping generalizations about humanity as a whole (I'm speaking to you, Michael Moore).


Oh, and I've fallen even more in love with Joy Division.

Plus, I got a random text message from someone I haven't talked to in a long, long time. That was weird.

And I just rambled on for a good, long while about nothing in particular.



Now go listen to David Bowie and Joy Division, and Jenny Owen Youngs (one of these things is not like the other... but great anyway!!!!).


This is just a means to an end (yet another joy division reference, which is what reminded me of Jenny Owen Youngs, as I just refer to her as JOY anyway)

I think I saw you in an ice-cream parlour

I don't think there's any hope, either. I was just trying to make you feel better.

Why can't I sleep? No rest for the wicked, and all that, I suppose. But really, how wicked can I really be?

I was laying in bed for two hours, trying to fall asleep, before giving up and writing this. I would go out and get something to drink, but that doesn't really help, and it's too late, anyway.

I just laid in bed, thinking too much. My mind drifted from memory to imagination to vexation. I thought of a girl I knew a long time ago, a conversation we had years ago, missed meanings, and what may have been. Or maybe I just conjured up a false memory, to shield me from some god-awful truth.

Why can't I sleep? I relived an argument from months ago. Words said and unsaid - especially unsaid. My verbal jabs are much more poignant spoken silently in the stillness of night.

I think I'm a good person, overall. I can't say I've never hurt anyone - but can anyone really say that? Even if unintentionally, every single one of us has harmed another. Maybe it was someone who deserved it. Maybe we were having a conversation with someone else, and said something hurtful that someone else overheard. Maybe the person we hurt was someone we loved. Maybe it was something said, or done. Or, every bit as likely, it was something we didn't do. Something we weren't there for.

I laid in bed, trying to sleep. The noise from the neighbor's air conditioner humming into the night. They must sleep under yards of down comforters - I'm cold in here, and they have their AC on. My monitor buzzes when it's off. Not really a buzz, I guess - more of a high-pitched whine. I turned on my side, going fetal, my ragged blanket bundled up around me, a cotton womb. I checked my phone - only a few minutes had passed since the last time I checked.

I start writing a story in my head, and it's pretty good. I outline the plot to myself, working out the kinks and inconsistencies. I even write out some scenes in detail, picturing it while translating that into words. It's a short story, of course - my mind is far to feeble to contain anything of considerable length. It's the worst, though, when I write the scenes out in my head - whenever I try to write them down proper, for the world to see, it's never as good as it was before. I lose the exact wording, the images blur, I start to lose the plot. That, and I get bored of it - the story's already played out for me, so it's the verbal equivalent of watching a rerun or a semi-decent drama. Sure, it was good the first time - but once you've seen it, there's no real point in watching it again.

But maybe I'll try writing this one down. To quote _Storytelling_, it's confessional, yet dishonest.

But instead, I write this, to no one in particular. Sort of a public diary, I suppose. Maybe, someday, I'll write something of substance, and that will make all of these rantings seem more interesting. Or maybe I'll die a beautiful, tragic death, which would have the same result - only a bit more on the macabre side.

On that note, good night.




and if you were wondering, the title is also a quote from Storytelling. Great movie, if you can find it. No stores seem to carry it - I've called them all.

JOY

as in Jenny Owen Youngs:

"It’s silence at the bottom of a bottle
ba da da da da da

The problem will find them sooner or later
you have to hit something."


I feel as though I've said this before, but you should check her out.