The Old Testament is surely the most violent book ever assembled. Today, I have been empathizing with a major theme of the OT: being separated from Love. The cathartic drive to kill in order to demonstrate the frustration of being cursed to live apart from Love while being overwhelmed by its reality is suddenly powerfully familiar imagery to me.
I daresay I would do anything to be with her. Every time you fall in love it feels a little different; but this time it feels reciprocated, which is novel for me. It is inexplicable why I am so compelled to trust her after having had my heart broken multiple times before. Then again, I've always been tenacious. I am fully cognizant that I barely know her. But GODDAMN I love this girl. She is 2,485.86 driving miles away according to Mapquest. It hurts. I miss her profoundly.
This is unlike me. I am very used to doing my own thing and being alone. I am an independent person! Was. Now I'm a caged canary begging to be poked at. I am King Kong.
Could be worse....
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Theme From Cyrano
What would you have me do?
Seek out some wealthy patron and crawl like a clinging vine up the lordly tree? Rising by deceit and trickery instead of my own strength?
No thank you.
Imitate what others do and dedicate my works to the rich in the hope of arousing a smile of recognition from some sterile face?
No thank you.
Breakfast everyday on insults, wear out my knees and warp my spine with endless bowing and groveling in the dust?
No thank you.
Become a master of hypocrisy and opportunism, never letting my right hand know what my left is doing? Burn incense for some glorified idol of the day? Pull all the proper strings?
No thank you.
Shall I become the captain of some literary cult by writing stupid love songs for wealthy widows and navigate to success with their sighs filling out my sails? Pay some publisher to print my poems and bribe some critic to review them?
No, thank you!
Shall I become the high priest of a petty group of hack writers who dine together once a week?
No, I thank you!
Shall I build my reputation on one flawless poem and never write another? Should I scheme to get my name mentioned in the columns of some newspaper and smack my lips over the little praises written about me?
No, thank you.
Shall I calculate and scheme, live in fear, make visits instead of rhymes, meet all the right people, seek introductions and favors?
No, thank you.
No I thank you . . .
And again, I thank you!
Oh my friend, I prefer to sing, to laugh, to dream, to travel light in my own way, to see things as they are, and speak out without fear, to cock my hat at any angle that I choose, to duel if necessary for a quick “yes” or “no.” I prefer to work alone without any thought of reward, to scorn fame for a journey to the moon. Never write a line that does not ring with sincerity. I shall be content with the fruits and flowers that grow in my garden, no matter how small, because they belong to me. Then if success should come my way, no tribute ever need be paid to Caesar, whatever fortune or misfortune that happens shall be mine and only mine.
And although I may never reach the stature of a great oak tree, I shall never be a parasitic vine. I will climb perhaps to no great height, but I will . . . climb . . . alone.
-translated by Frank Devenport (orig. Edmond Rostand)
Seek out some wealthy patron and crawl like a clinging vine up the lordly tree? Rising by deceit and trickery instead of my own strength?
No thank you.
Imitate what others do and dedicate my works to the rich in the hope of arousing a smile of recognition from some sterile face?
No thank you.
Breakfast everyday on insults, wear out my knees and warp my spine with endless bowing and groveling in the dust?
No thank you.
Become a master of hypocrisy and opportunism, never letting my right hand know what my left is doing? Burn incense for some glorified idol of the day? Pull all the proper strings?
No thank you.
Shall I become the captain of some literary cult by writing stupid love songs for wealthy widows and navigate to success with their sighs filling out my sails? Pay some publisher to print my poems and bribe some critic to review them?
No, thank you!
Shall I become the high priest of a petty group of hack writers who dine together once a week?
No, I thank you!
Shall I build my reputation on one flawless poem and never write another? Should I scheme to get my name mentioned in the columns of some newspaper and smack my lips over the little praises written about me?
No, thank you.
Shall I calculate and scheme, live in fear, make visits instead of rhymes, meet all the right people, seek introductions and favors?
No, thank you.
No I thank you . . .
And again, I thank you!
Oh my friend, I prefer to sing, to laugh, to dream, to travel light in my own way, to see things as they are, and speak out without fear, to cock my hat at any angle that I choose, to duel if necessary for a quick “yes” or “no.” I prefer to work alone without any thought of reward, to scorn fame for a journey to the moon. Never write a line that does not ring with sincerity. I shall be content with the fruits and flowers that grow in my garden, no matter how small, because they belong to me. Then if success should come my way, no tribute ever need be paid to Caesar, whatever fortune or misfortune that happens shall be mine and only mine.
And although I may never reach the stature of a great oak tree, I shall never be a parasitic vine. I will climb perhaps to no great height, but I will . . . climb . . . alone.
-translated by Frank Devenport (orig. Edmond Rostand)
Friday, October 9, 2009
Potential Land Mine
“Goodnight.”
Intending to reply in kind, but it somehow came out, “I love you.”
“I love you, too.” Immediate yet calm. Natural even.
…
She just said she loved me. Excited confused interrobang. Wait, did I say I love her? How the hell…? Why did I…? He counted the days again. Two weeks, one day, ten hours. Have I completely lost it again? I didn’t want this to happen. He realized he was holding his breath. Silence to his left, and he dared not move to peek. The inexplicable thing is I believe her. I don’t believe ANYBODY. In a world full of lies I believe this goddamn potential land mine.
Still silent.
She flies out in a few hours and I’ll never see her again anyhow. But I DO love her. In the morning I’ll tell her I really do love her. It’s only been two weeks, but I’ve figured out how she melts. If I’m lucky she’ll melt. I don’t know what to do after that.
He exhaled as unobtrusively as possible. He fell asleep fast. The alarm didn't go off in the morning.
Intending to reply in kind, but it somehow came out, “I love you.”
“I love you, too.” Immediate yet calm. Natural even.
…
She just said she loved me. Excited confused interrobang. Wait, did I say I love her? How the hell…? Why did I…? He counted the days again. Two weeks, one day, ten hours. Have I completely lost it again? I didn’t want this to happen. He realized he was holding his breath. Silence to his left, and he dared not move to peek. The inexplicable thing is I believe her. I don’t believe ANYBODY. In a world full of lies I believe this goddamn potential land mine.
Still silent.
She flies out in a few hours and I’ll never see her again anyhow. But I DO love her. In the morning I’ll tell her I really do love her. It’s only been two weeks, but I’ve figured out how she melts. If I’m lucky she’ll melt. I don’t know what to do after that.
He exhaled as unobtrusively as possible. He fell asleep fast. The alarm didn't go off in the morning.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
H.
What's coming through is alive
What's holding up is a mirror
But what's singing songs is a snake
Looking to turn my piss to wine
They're both totally void of hate and
Killing me just the same now
The snake behind me hisses
What my damage could have been
My blood before me begs me
Open up my heart again
And I feel this coming over like a storm again now
Considerately
Venomous voice tempts me
Drains me bleeds me
Leaves me cracked and empty
Drags me down like some sweet gravity
Take me
The snake behind me hisses
What my damage could have been
My blood before me begs me
Open up my heart again
And I feel this coming over like a storm again now
And I feel this coming over like a storm again now
I am too connected to
Slip away fade away
Days away I still feel you
Touching me changing me
Considerately killing me
Considerately killing me again
Considerately killing me
Considerately killing me again
Without the skin here
Beneath the storm
Under these tears now
The walls came down
Once the snake was drowned
And as I look in his eyes
My fear begins to fade
Recalling all of the times
I could have cried then
I should have cried then
As the walls come down
And as I look in your eyes
My fear begins to fade
Recalling all of the times
I have died
I will die
It's all right
I don't mind
I don't mind
I don't mind
I am too connected to you to
Slip away fade away
Days away I still feel you
Touching me changing me
Considerately killing me
Considerately killing me again
Considerately killing me
-Tool
What's holding up is a mirror
But what's singing songs is a snake
Looking to turn my piss to wine
They're both totally void of hate and
Killing me just the same now
The snake behind me hisses
What my damage could have been
My blood before me begs me
Open up my heart again
And I feel this coming over like a storm again now
Considerately
Venomous voice tempts me
Drains me bleeds me
Leaves me cracked and empty
Drags me down like some sweet gravity
Take me
The snake behind me hisses
What my damage could have been
My blood before me begs me
Open up my heart again
And I feel this coming over like a storm again now
And I feel this coming over like a storm again now
I am too connected to
Slip away fade away
Days away I still feel you
Touching me changing me
Considerately killing me
Considerately killing me again
Considerately killing me
Considerately killing me again
Without the skin here
Beneath the storm
Under these tears now
The walls came down
Once the snake was drowned
And as I look in his eyes
My fear begins to fade
Recalling all of the times
I could have cried then
I should have cried then
As the walls come down
And as I look in your eyes
My fear begins to fade
Recalling all of the times
I have died
I will die
It's all right
I don't mind
I don't mind
I don't mind
I am too connected to you to
Slip away fade away
Days away I still feel you
Touching me changing me
Considerately killing me
Considerately killing me again
Considerately killing me
-Tool
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
La Sirenita vs. La Bonita
La Sirenita and La Bonita are both Taquerias on the 2800 block of Alberta Street in Portland. Only an alleyway and a seemingly abandoned home separates them, but they are a world a part. Bottom line: there are La Sirenita people and there are La Bonita people. I am of the former.
La Sirenita is a run-down stucco place with a withering awning and graffiti tags all over it. There are colorful plastic tables to sit on outdoors. Inside is dark and haphazard with a television usually playing Mexican music videos (always with scantily clad women) in a corner. Mexican pop music blares from out of the kitchen. The walls are covered in cobwebs and plastic faux brick. Next to the counter is a big orange jug like something you’d see in a construction zone to pour yourself water from, if the Styrofoam cups have been stocked. The tables are not regularly bussed or cleaned, but most are stocked with a roll of paper towels. The employees are often singing, flirting or otherwise goofing around and you sometimes have to wait awhile for them to appear or decide to ask you what you want. I almost always want the no pales burrito. It is, in my opinion, possibly the greatest lunch ever invented, even though its quality varies widely depending upon who’s working that day. (For this reason, I don’t recommend La Sirenita on weekends.) For $3.50, you get a huge log consisting of piping hot cactus, rice, cheese and refried beans wrapped in a flour tortilla. They have a condiment bar with awesome grilled jalapenos. Their red sauce is okay but a bit too smoky for my taste. UPDATE: They sometimes have a second red sauce now which is much better. I seldom resist biting into the burrito before it cools down, so I usually end up burning the skin out of my mouth. Well worth it. I usually alternate between burrito and jalapeno bites. Yes, the jalapenos are spicy. (Why do people ask this?)
La Bonita is a much newer looking place, nicely painted (if you like mauve) with large windows and clean wood tables. Inside is mood lit with hanging emerald-colored lampshades, and waiters seat you and bring you menus as Rod Stewart serenades from above. I went there once, on a recommendation from a chef (at another restaurant) who said it was, “very clean.” Fortunately, cleanliness is not on my list of things desired in a taqueria. I ordered the veggie burrito, which had lettuce, broccoli, carrots and a bunch of other crap that doesn’t belong in a burrito. It also had black beans, which I sometimes like but don’t expect to see unless I ask for them specifically. It was like a cooked salad wrapped in a tortilla. Booooooring! The “gringo burrito” was over $5.00. It was about half the size as the burrito two doors down. I find myself wary of anyone who patronizes this establishment, and assume they are the same type of people who sit in coffee shops working on laptops. I don’t trust those people either.
La Sirenita is a run-down stucco place with a withering awning and graffiti tags all over it. There are colorful plastic tables to sit on outdoors. Inside is dark and haphazard with a television usually playing Mexican music videos (always with scantily clad women) in a corner. Mexican pop music blares from out of the kitchen. The walls are covered in cobwebs and plastic faux brick. Next to the counter is a big orange jug like something you’d see in a construction zone to pour yourself water from, if the Styrofoam cups have been stocked. The tables are not regularly bussed or cleaned, but most are stocked with a roll of paper towels. The employees are often singing, flirting or otherwise goofing around and you sometimes have to wait awhile for them to appear or decide to ask you what you want. I almost always want the no pales burrito. It is, in my opinion, possibly the greatest lunch ever invented, even though its quality varies widely depending upon who’s working that day. (For this reason, I don’t recommend La Sirenita on weekends.) For $3.50, you get a huge log consisting of piping hot cactus, rice, cheese and refried beans wrapped in a flour tortilla. They have a condiment bar with awesome grilled jalapenos. Their red sauce is okay but a bit too smoky for my taste. UPDATE: They sometimes have a second red sauce now which is much better. I seldom resist biting into the burrito before it cools down, so I usually end up burning the skin out of my mouth. Well worth it. I usually alternate between burrito and jalapeno bites. Yes, the jalapenos are spicy. (Why do people ask this?)
La Bonita is a much newer looking place, nicely painted (if you like mauve) with large windows and clean wood tables. Inside is mood lit with hanging emerald-colored lampshades, and waiters seat you and bring you menus as Rod Stewart serenades from above. I went there once, on a recommendation from a chef (at another restaurant) who said it was, “very clean.” Fortunately, cleanliness is not on my list of things desired in a taqueria. I ordered the veggie burrito, which had lettuce, broccoli, carrots and a bunch of other crap that doesn’t belong in a burrito. It also had black beans, which I sometimes like but don’t expect to see unless I ask for them specifically. It was like a cooked salad wrapped in a tortilla. Booooooring! The “gringo burrito” was over $5.00. It was about half the size as the burrito two doors down. I find myself wary of anyone who patronizes this establishment, and assume they are the same type of people who sit in coffee shops working on laptops. I don’t trust those people either.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Go Home
Well let me tell you if you’re feeling alone
Instead of whining and moaning
Just get on the phone, tell her you’re coming home
If you need her, you should be there
If you scream in your sleep, or collapse in a heap
And spontaneously weep, then you know you’re in deep
If you need her, you should be there
Go home
There’s nothing better than affairs of the heart
To make you feel so good then tear you apart
Make up your mind and stick it out or start again
You can’t imagine what an effort it takes
When you make a mistake
And you know in the wake that her heart’s going to break
If you need her, you should be there
If you’re flummoxed and flushed
And your heartbeat is rushed
Then get out of the slush, tell your dog team to mush
If you need her, you should be there
Go home
If you think of her as Joan of Arc
She’s burning for you, get your car out of park
If you think of her as Catherine the Great
Then you should be the horse to help her meet her fate
If you need her, you should be there
Go home
You can’t believe it, but it’s true
She’s given everything to you
Now take a moment to be sure
Before you give it all to her
Well now you’re thinking that its over at last
All your woes in the past
But you’ve got to be fast; put your foot on the gas
If you need her, you should be there
So now you’re out from under the gun
And its over and done
I won’t spoil all the fun but if you ever wonder
She’ll be there if you need her
Go home
If you’re lucky to be one of the few
To find somebody who can tolerate you
Then I shouldn’t have to tell you again
Just pack your bags and get yourself on a plane
If you need her, you should be there
Go home
If you need her, you should be there
Go home
- Steven Page and Ed Robertson
Instead of whining and moaning
Just get on the phone, tell her you’re coming home
If you need her, you should be there
If you scream in your sleep, or collapse in a heap
And spontaneously weep, then you know you’re in deep
If you need her, you should be there
Go home
There’s nothing better than affairs of the heart
To make you feel so good then tear you apart
Make up your mind and stick it out or start again
You can’t imagine what an effort it takes
When you make a mistake
And you know in the wake that her heart’s going to break
If you need her, you should be there
If you’re flummoxed and flushed
And your heartbeat is rushed
Then get out of the slush, tell your dog team to mush
If you need her, you should be there
Go home
If you think of her as Joan of Arc
She’s burning for you, get your car out of park
If you think of her as Catherine the Great
Then you should be the horse to help her meet her fate
If you need her, you should be there
Go home
You can’t believe it, but it’s true
She’s given everything to you
Now take a moment to be sure
Before you give it all to her
Well now you’re thinking that its over at last
All your woes in the past
But you’ve got to be fast; put your foot on the gas
If you need her, you should be there
So now you’re out from under the gun
And its over and done
I won’t spoil all the fun but if you ever wonder
She’ll be there if you need her
Go home
If you’re lucky to be one of the few
To find somebody who can tolerate you
Then I shouldn’t have to tell you again
Just pack your bags and get yourself on a plane
If you need her, you should be there
Go home
If you need her, you should be there
Go home
- Steven Page and Ed Robertson
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Song Lyrics
Some of you may be wondering why I've been posting a lot of song lyrics. The answer is easy: 1) I'm too lazy to write original blog entries right now; 2) I sometimes find myself listening to music that seems to be EXACTLY where I am at when I hear it.
I had a friend in college who was paranoid that the radio was sending him messages. "That's the beauty of music," I'd explain. The greatest art, by its very nature of expression limited by senses, allows us to feel connected to others. This connection is simultaneously profound and illusory. An example I like to use is all those who claim to relate to Holden Caulfield from The Catcher in the Rye even though NOBODY has ever acted anything like that character in the history of humankind.
Combining poetry with music is a sublimely potent means of communication. Despite all the song lyrics I have included in my blog, I have rejected others with ONE word that I couldn't precisely relate to. The lyrics I post are intended to relay to my (imaginary) audience where I am at that moment. I have even gone through my own past posts to try to recall how I was feeling at a particular time, found some lyrics I’d posted and listened to that song. It makes for effective memory triggering.
Now you know, and knowing is half the battle. G.I. JOE!
I had a friend in college who was paranoid that the radio was sending him messages. "That's the beauty of music," I'd explain. The greatest art, by its very nature of expression limited by senses, allows us to feel connected to others. This connection is simultaneously profound and illusory. An example I like to use is all those who claim to relate to Holden Caulfield from The Catcher in the Rye even though NOBODY has ever acted anything like that character in the history of humankind.
Combining poetry with music is a sublimely potent means of communication. Despite all the song lyrics I have included in my blog, I have rejected others with ONE word that I couldn't precisely relate to. The lyrics I post are intended to relay to my (imaginary) audience where I am at that moment. I have even gone through my own past posts to try to recall how I was feeling at a particular time, found some lyrics I’d posted and listened to that song. It makes for effective memory triggering.
Now you know, and knowing is half the battle. G.I. JOE!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)