I read somewhere that population scientists consider a generation to be 25 years - 100 years of age separate four generations. That means that my hundred year old great grandmother is at least 3 generations away from me.
It sure doesn't feel like my dad is 2 away or my mom is 1. We are all coetaneous.
Yet it's the simple things that give it away. A former student of mine told me yesterday that sophomores in high school today had never heard of backstreet boys or the spice girls. Such classical landmarks in the life of every single college student enrolled in the pop western world today are a thing of legend to the youngsters of today.
So it's 5 am (really 2pm here) in Vladivostok and I'm ever nearer to the mature and ripe age of whenever we grow up.
It's strange that the adults of yesterday always told us that the future belonged to our generation. Well our generation is now and the future is still in the future - we're like the horse chasing the carrot hanging from the carriage driver's fishing stick. The distance between point A and B never changes locally though it moves across the world universally.
I'm not trying to be deep. I'm going for nerdy.
So bear with me as I use Swarley's famous words and suit up.
I hope that the generations to come appreciate Charles Aznavour, the original Ocean's 11 and Oscar Wilde's rant on how all art is useless - the prologue to arguably one of his landmark works. I hope they grow up with landmark art that doesn't involve a fraternal communion of Disneyland and network TV - maybe that's snobbish.
Apathy is growing everywhere but the most dangerous places. Long gone are the days where generations would movilize around the world over an idea or a picture. Long gone are the days where generations would see leaders rise to the height of ideal only to be toppled over by their own sense of omnipotence - I'm talking about Elvis and Cobain. Long gone are the days where generations care about anything other than their localized existence; the bubble.
Don't give me the story of award winning NPOs and NGOs rising around the world along with grass-root organizations and sustainable development students volunteering at this or that group with the words "Without Borders" attached to their back. Props on the street cred.
Talk to me about an individual looking to change the world for good in one grand sweep.
Where's Ender when you need him?
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Monday, April 26, 2010
Deal me in
I've been told I'm growing dark and brooding. It's probably due to the sharp contrast of stormy weather and sunny sprees characteristic of both the Philly area and the Black Forest in Germany.
In high school I once played upwards of 5,000 hands of blackjack to determine with probabilistic incertitude that something may or may not have been true. It was then that I learned the power of the words "I'll stay" as opposed to "Peace brah" as well as card counting - in one of its most basic forms. The former is the important part of the message.
The basic premise was probably devised by a 1st grader being taught sums with big numbers (10+11). Look! 21 looks like I'm counting backwards from 2.
Or maybe it was a second grader who realized that having 3 groups of 7 cats would yield the same total as 7 stacks of 3 cookies.
Or (and here is where we skip a couple years of useless education focused on things like Geography - just in case someone discovered a new route to the Indies) maybe it was a 5th grader being taught about primes.
I realize that I'm leaving out the possibility of a religious man focusing on the holy trinity that 3 is and the idea of a 7th heaven as made popular by a group of Brothers with a warning sign.
Perhaps a strapping young man learning the mathematical background of computer sciences combined his knowledge of proofs with the RSA breaking code algorithm. Visualizing Euler and the Chinese Remainder theory in the same mouthful as a piece of spicy tuna is crammed down his gullet he screamed Eureka!
Then again that man who rides the bicycle on the back of cards probably had an R&D team looking for uses of laminated cards that didn't involve slicing bananas at a distance or performing at a low rent version of Gob's (with his sidekick Franklin of course) THE MAGIC Show.
Maybe it was a lonely farmer in the middle of Indiana yelling angrily at his parents that no matter how hard he tried the Chicken was always getting dinner.
All the while the rain is pouring but and I'm shaking my lucky snake eyes hoping for a warm table.
Who's looking for a whale?
In high school I once played upwards of 5,000 hands of blackjack to determine with probabilistic incertitude that something may or may not have been true. It was then that I learned the power of the words "I'll stay" as opposed to "Peace brah" as well as card counting - in one of its most basic forms. The former is the important part of the message.
The basic premise was probably devised by a 1st grader being taught sums with big numbers (10+11). Look! 21 looks like I'm counting backwards from 2.
Or maybe it was a second grader who realized that having 3 groups of 7 cats would yield the same total as 7 stacks of 3 cookies.
Or (and here is where we skip a couple years of useless education focused on things like Geography - just in case someone discovered a new route to the Indies) maybe it was a 5th grader being taught about primes.
I realize that I'm leaving out the possibility of a religious man focusing on the holy trinity that 3 is and the idea of a 7th heaven as made popular by a group of Brothers with a warning sign.
Perhaps a strapping young man learning the mathematical background of computer sciences combined his knowledge of proofs with the RSA breaking code algorithm. Visualizing Euler and the Chinese Remainder theory in the same mouthful as a piece of spicy tuna is crammed down his gullet he screamed Eureka!
Then again that man who rides the bicycle on the back of cards probably had an R&D team looking for uses of laminated cards that didn't involve slicing bananas at a distance or performing at a low rent version of Gob's (with his sidekick Franklin of course) THE MAGIC Show.
Maybe it was a lonely farmer in the middle of Indiana yelling angrily at his parents that no matter how hard he tried the Chicken was always getting dinner.
All the while the rain is pouring but and I'm shaking my lucky snake eyes hoping for a warm table.
Who's looking for a whale?
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Half-life
I wonder what my half-life would be if I were a chemical compound. What the name of my flagship game would be if I were a video game company. What my real life would look like separate from a Second life account.
In a literal sense half-life could be 50 years if we assume the first world will carry me all the way to a hundred. The genes are on my side but the exhaustion of living might not be.
In a true sense I'll define it as the time before someone grows tired of you in a short period of time.
Imagine this for the scene of a greek dramedy:
Name tage: Dr. Montalban
Profession: Space Cowboy/Dr./I take care of the child I am raising on my own
Hobbies? Descartes, Magritte and French enology.
In and out. Like the burger joint, except rather than a 30 minute wait it's more a really short eternity separated by a little gong knocked unceremoniously every four minutes. A bevy of girls dressed to impress in a variety of out-of-season colors and styles look charming and pretty from afar. The guys, on the other side of the bar all look the same - button down and dark jeans - as they hold a drink and fake a distant far-away-from-here type look.
And we start.
4 minutes to make an impression and the hardest job interview I've ever had rolls around. I want to seem cool and aloof but interesting enough to have them begging with questions. Mention my travels or my small collection of french wines? Should I hint at the idea of a family and a picket fence or derisively refer to that fantasy as part of my larger view on the life, ironic?
The thought of just being myself briefly crosses my mind. Ha!
Her eyes wander away from her and I make one last ditch attempt - I'm not afraid to fall in love. Thinking that's what all of them want to hear. And I'd promised myself I'd get hopped up enough to avoid my nasty habit of thinking. I'm on the patch and everything and it still doesn't help. She looks at me giving me a final appraisal and I feel like the admiral's antiques. She smiles politely as her eyes take on a beautiful glaze.
Hello half life.
In a literal sense half-life could be 50 years if we assume the first world will carry me all the way to a hundred. The genes are on my side but the exhaustion of living might not be.
In a true sense I'll define it as the time before someone grows tired of you in a short period of time.
Imagine this for the scene of a greek dramedy:
Name tage: Dr. Montalban
Profession: Space Cowboy/Dr./I take care of the child I am raising on my own
Hobbies? Descartes, Magritte and French enology.
In and out. Like the burger joint, except rather than a 30 minute wait it's more a really short eternity separated by a little gong knocked unceremoniously every four minutes. A bevy of girls dressed to impress in a variety of out-of-season colors and styles look charming and pretty from afar. The guys, on the other side of the bar all look the same - button down and dark jeans - as they hold a drink and fake a distant far-away-from-here type look.
And we start.
4 minutes to make an impression and the hardest job interview I've ever had rolls around. I want to seem cool and aloof but interesting enough to have them begging with questions. Mention my travels or my small collection of french wines? Should I hint at the idea of a family and a picket fence or derisively refer to that fantasy as part of my larger view on the life, ironic?
The thought of just being myself briefly crosses my mind. Ha!
Her eyes wander away from her and I make one last ditch attempt - I'm not afraid to fall in love. Thinking that's what all of them want to hear. And I'd promised myself I'd get hopped up enough to avoid my nasty habit of thinking. I'm on the patch and everything and it still doesn't help. She looks at me giving me a final appraisal and I feel like the admiral's antiques. She smiles politely as her eyes take on a beautiful glaze.
Hello half life.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Out of Business
A sign should have gone up weeks ago
SALE! While supplies last! Going out of Business! SALE! SALE! SALE!
I think I'm going out of the business I've thrived in so much over the last 20 years. It wasn't a particular product I was hocking or a particular service - it was an experience. A truly mutually beneficial agreement of 50/50 profit split - a shell corporation consisting of offshore bank accounts with loads of emotional funds. For the longest part I was passionate about this business, the industry. It afforded me insights and made me privy to information that those learning how to value companies or understand organizational design only wish they could have.
I suppose that's why business school and I turned out to be a great fit tho.
Disclaimer (because they're necessary and I like them): To all of those involved in my business right now - our contract stands. However implicit it may be. I honor the signed pieces of imaginary paper because times have been both good and bad, awkward and pleasant - and I hope to keep having those times. The terms of engagement shall remain.
I'm going to be like the Customer Service branch of a Car brand going out of business. I won't produce or sell new cars anymore (because we were in the red for too long and Chapter 7 came in and killed us) but I'll continue to fix incidental problems of the cars I have on the road.
I'm just sick and tired of chasing bad money with more money. I'm exhausted of starting out a lucrative real estate investment only to have it turn into your run-o'-the-mill commercial paper transaction. You know what I mean?
If you don't here's an illustrative example that the characters in Alcott's books would have correctly identified as an allegory.
In Chemistry class we'd start out with a collection of vials and test tube thingies with pretty liquids in a rainbow of colors. My favorites were the clear ones that hid their true identity behind a thin veneer of science that our teacher simply describes as "upper level chemistry". NaOH + HCl would start out like this but when mixed the level of clarity would vanish instantly as one hit the other - precipitating into a mixed state I hadn't expected.
The thing I've realized is that in business you can't always keep going forward. No matter how good the returns - growth for the sake of growth is a dangerous path to travel. That's why I'm stopping for a while, reassessing strengths and weaknesses and evaluating the environment with a simple SWOT analysis.
Call it restructuring.
SALE! While supplies last! Going out of Business! SALE! SALE! SALE!
I think I'm going out of the business I've thrived in so much over the last 20 years. It wasn't a particular product I was hocking or a particular service - it was an experience. A truly mutually beneficial agreement of 50/50 profit split - a shell corporation consisting of offshore bank accounts with loads of emotional funds. For the longest part I was passionate about this business, the industry. It afforded me insights and made me privy to information that those learning how to value companies or understand organizational design only wish they could have.
I suppose that's why business school and I turned out to be a great fit tho.
Disclaimer (because they're necessary and I like them): To all of those involved in my business right now - our contract stands. However implicit it may be. I honor the signed pieces of imaginary paper because times have been both good and bad, awkward and pleasant - and I hope to keep having those times. The terms of engagement shall remain.
I'm going to be like the Customer Service branch of a Car brand going out of business. I won't produce or sell new cars anymore (because we were in the red for too long and Chapter 7 came in and killed us) but I'll continue to fix incidental problems of the cars I have on the road.
I'm just sick and tired of chasing bad money with more money. I'm exhausted of starting out a lucrative real estate investment only to have it turn into your run-o'-the-mill commercial paper transaction. You know what I mean?
If you don't here's an illustrative example that the characters in Alcott's books would have correctly identified as an allegory.
In Chemistry class we'd start out with a collection of vials and test tube thingies with pretty liquids in a rainbow of colors. My favorites were the clear ones that hid their true identity behind a thin veneer of science that our teacher simply describes as "upper level chemistry". NaOH + HCl would start out like this but when mixed the level of clarity would vanish instantly as one hit the other - precipitating into a mixed state I hadn't expected.
The thing I've realized is that in business you can't always keep going forward. No matter how good the returns - growth for the sake of growth is a dangerous path to travel. That's why I'm stopping for a while, reassessing strengths and weaknesses and evaluating the environment with a simple SWOT analysis.
Call it restructuring.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Of two minds
One of them sat in class as a Sex Ed. teacher would extoll the virtues of SAFE SEX. There were bananas, condoms bought by our friends mom and a whole lot of graphic pictures and stories. I was brought up in a catholic country with separation of church and state and a laic education.
The other mind is the one that leads to Oasis's Morning Glory or Ryan Reynolds' now famous "It's the morning...". The other mind doesn't stop to think as I touch the tingly bare flesh of a neck's nape.
I'd like to say it's the compounded effect of Coldplay playing in the background, the soft and rough feel of a raw cotton bed sheet and the warm body on top.
Actually, it's probably that.
The images daguerreotyped into my mind by my education become blotted black ink images meant to comprehend the human mind. I read a book on sexual diseases written by my father. The bee and flower talk doesn't get any more technical than that.
Looking back I realize it's a Jekyll and Hyde story and the unbearable lightness of being...bullish.
That sweet tantalizing moment that gives life a correct interpretation manages to leave a man (and a woman?) helpless. Think of a blank slate ready to receive whatever may come.
Funny what the brain thinks about in the middle of the day.
The other mind is the one that leads to Oasis's Morning Glory or Ryan Reynolds' now famous "It's the morning...". The other mind doesn't stop to think as I touch the tingly bare flesh of a neck's nape.
I'd like to say it's the compounded effect of Coldplay playing in the background, the soft and rough feel of a raw cotton bed sheet and the warm body on top.
Actually, it's probably that.
The images daguerreotyped into my mind by my education become blotted black ink images meant to comprehend the human mind. I read a book on sexual diseases written by my father. The bee and flower talk doesn't get any more technical than that.
Looking back I realize it's a Jekyll and Hyde story and the unbearable lightness of being...bullish.
That sweet tantalizing moment that gives life a correct interpretation manages to leave a man (and a woman?) helpless. Think of a blank slate ready to receive whatever may come.
Funny what the brain thinks about in the middle of the day.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Golden rings and turtle doves
Aboriginal civilizations around the globe historically used the psychotropic effects of wildlife (brightly colored frogs) to connect with the spirits/seek answers/reach enlightenment. The French called it l'heure verte which allowed for much needed Bohemia. The Inca people used a subtle tea to make a stand against the great outdoors. And here the lack of reference to the Middle East and hashish marks Eurocentric-Americanized problems of our education.
Back on track.
In Asia it digressed into dens. In Colombia it became a booming business using Mexico as customs. And in the culture I currently find myself immersed in, it became a tradition of stands, little johns screaming shots and a chalice full of Upton's jungle juice.
Perhaps that's why I've garnered a fair bit of understanding over the last 20 years.
I've never been afraid to get my heart broken. I'm always looking for that silly little feeling of awkward nervousness talking to a girl I find particularly attractive. Sometimes it's a quirky comment which falls in line with my own idiosyncratic sense of self. Imagine someone who gets the reference to a pop culture movie and a classic piece of Spanish literature in the sentence. It leaves things up in the air.
Oh, and she catches the one in the last sentence too.
It scares me to think that just like in economics, the marginal cost of little piece of brilliant self-awareness will continue to increase exponentially as my life progresses. A scary thought - one that makes me wish I hadn't wasted so much time understanding that the reflection on the water wasn't me drowning or that coffee doesn't magically taste better when you get older - you simply need it and get used to it.
This weekend knowledge was given to me. "We [women] don't understand men". She meant the actions of men.
At least we're all even.
Back on track.
In Asia it digressed into dens. In Colombia it became a booming business using Mexico as customs. And in the culture I currently find myself immersed in, it became a tradition of stands, little johns screaming shots and a chalice full of Upton's jungle juice.
Perhaps that's why I've garnered a fair bit of understanding over the last 20 years.
I've never been afraid to get my heart broken. I'm always looking for that silly little feeling of awkward nervousness talking to a girl I find particularly attractive. Sometimes it's a quirky comment which falls in line with my own idiosyncratic sense of self. Imagine someone who gets the reference to a pop culture movie and a classic piece of Spanish literature in the sentence. It leaves things up in the air.
Oh, and she catches the one in the last sentence too.
It scares me to think that just like in economics, the marginal cost of little piece of brilliant self-awareness will continue to increase exponentially as my life progresses. A scary thought - one that makes me wish I hadn't wasted so much time understanding that the reflection on the water wasn't me drowning or that coffee doesn't magically taste better when you get older - you simply need it and get used to it.
This weekend knowledge was given to me. "We [women] don't understand men". She meant the actions of men.
At least we're all even.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Obsessing
I've been away for a while.
And it has to do with my obsessive and addictive personality. People crave it all the time.
Ha! See what I did there?
I've been reading Ariely, learning about deception training and going through my insurance policy. I've been obsessing about lying. The idea of catching the slightest sigh of relieve, jumping at a proof of innocence or the up(down)swing of lips is something I'm quickly discovering to be a passion.
I'm passionate about understanding people, meeting people and figuring out what makes them tick. More often than not it's a coil mechanism that is both self-winding and solar with both digital and analog display.
There's a(several) reason(s) I'd never do South Florida nose candy.
But I digress - the problem is that the problem isn't selective. It's not just for overachieving, playing squash or attempting to stay up for 13 days in a row. Though the latter is more fatal than I initially thought.
I can't stand not being able to get a read on a person. To think that the girl in front of me is happy when instead she's burning up with the desire to sprint down the block and buy a cup of water (pronounced wuter) ice. Or that the casual dribbling of food down her chin is in fact not proof of how comfortable she is with herself but of a nervousness that she can't quite explain to herself.
Maybe what actually bothers me is the incredibly cute and almost to well-placed use of the "shit"*2.
I reason that maybe that was the one acceptable curse word - other than Crucio - at home for her, or maybe it's that she knows that the high pitched inflection she gives it makes it everything but crass - all of it an adorable sass.
The waitress might come over and wave her wand of magically awkward silence as I sit there wondering what's actually happening, letting my mind race as I nervously reach for the water hoping to catch something in your reflection. And I don't know what it is I expect, a wink? a playful jab to the gut? maybe I hope to see you play with your hair? I just need a sign.
And shit just got theological.
But not really, it's the male psyche. People talk about signals, decoding them, sending them. But they're a confusing tapestry - 19th century, battlefield, Napoleon rides in to an awaiting Josie - of misunderstood truths and are equal parts reality and fiction.
I'll keep reading.
And it has to do with my obsessive and addictive personality. People crave it all the time.
Ha! See what I did there?
I've been reading Ariely, learning about deception training and going through my insurance policy. I've been obsessing about lying. The idea of catching the slightest sigh of relieve, jumping at a proof of innocence or the up(down)swing of lips is something I'm quickly discovering to be a passion.
I'm passionate about understanding people, meeting people and figuring out what makes them tick. More often than not it's a coil mechanism that is both self-winding and solar with both digital and analog display.
There's a(several) reason(s) I'd never do South Florida nose candy.
But I digress - the problem is that the problem isn't selective. It's not just for overachieving, playing squash or attempting to stay up for 13 days in a row. Though the latter is more fatal than I initially thought.
I can't stand not being able to get a read on a person. To think that the girl in front of me is happy when instead she's burning up with the desire to sprint down the block and buy a cup of water (pronounced wuter) ice. Or that the casual dribbling of food down her chin is in fact not proof of how comfortable she is with herself but of a nervousness that she can't quite explain to herself.
Maybe what actually bothers me is the incredibly cute and almost to well-placed use of the "shit"*2.
I reason that maybe that was the one acceptable curse word - other than Crucio - at home for her, or maybe it's that she knows that the high pitched inflection she gives it makes it everything but crass - all of it an adorable sass.
The waitress might come over and wave her wand of magically awkward silence as I sit there wondering what's actually happening, letting my mind race as I nervously reach for the water hoping to catch something in your reflection. And I don't know what it is I expect, a wink? a playful jab to the gut? maybe I hope to see you play with your hair? I just need a sign.
And shit just got theological.
But not really, it's the male psyche. People talk about signals, decoding them, sending them. But they're a confusing tapestry - 19th century, battlefield, Napoleon rides in to an awaiting Josie - of misunderstood truths and are equal parts reality and fiction.
I'll keep reading.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Verified by a confessor
I once convinced an MD that I had an inherited nervous tick that every now and then led to the bridge of my nose bleeding. I also told him (and a litany of sweet and patient nurses) that my life long dream had been to become a doctor so I could help others.
I don't have that nervous tick and though my family is made up of doctors the hyppocratic oath never beckoned me from its streetlight corner.
Politicians might call it massaging the truth, some convince themselves that they are merely fixing the truth - probably because it has the annoying of breaking down - and there are those who proudly display their lies as trophies.
PR people.
Though this is unfair to the PR people in it for the right reasons. It also unfair to fail to mention the marketers that told us smoking was cool, that placed brief snapshots of deserts in pepsi ads to make us drink more and the little kid who broke a mug but says he doesn't know whodunnit.
It takes a skill that only few develop to their max potential. The ability to layer ever-more complicated versions of reality in a beautifully stacked house of cards is a skill available only to kings. To hide our ace and King suited from those around us while spinning tails about floating mountains and blue people that live in a mushroom.
Sometimes it's as easy as saying no when the answer is yes. Or picture a toll road made of ghosts where there allegory of lying is illustrated with a fork in the road.
What's best is when they strike unseen. Like a shiv pulled out in the middle of a prison food fight.
The reaction goes...wait! what? she said WHAT? About who? With that!? Seriously?
A feeling of disgust and revulsion ensues. In my mind I struggle to come up with an appropriate adjective or noun to express the lightheaded feeling and empty gut sensation. An expletive fills in the void and I go about like the gatherer in the hunter/gatherer relationship of the stone age - gathering information from the grapevines.
It's like finding out that glass slippers don't actually exist or that the beast usually never gets the beauty.
See ill.
I don't have that nervous tick and though my family is made up of doctors the hyppocratic oath never beckoned me from its streetlight corner.
Politicians might call it massaging the truth, some convince themselves that they are merely fixing the truth - probably because it has the annoying of breaking down - and there are those who proudly display their lies as trophies.
PR people.
Though this is unfair to the PR people in it for the right reasons. It also unfair to fail to mention the marketers that told us smoking was cool, that placed brief snapshots of deserts in pepsi ads to make us drink more and the little kid who broke a mug but says he doesn't know whodunnit.
It takes a skill that only few develop to their max potential. The ability to layer ever-more complicated versions of reality in a beautifully stacked house of cards is a skill available only to kings. To hide our ace and King suited from those around us while spinning tails about floating mountains and blue people that live in a mushroom.
Sometimes it's as easy as saying no when the answer is yes. Or picture a toll road made of ghosts where there allegory of lying is illustrated with a fork in the road.
What's best is when they strike unseen. Like a shiv pulled out in the middle of a prison food fight.
The reaction goes...wait! what? she said WHAT? About who? With that!? Seriously?
A feeling of disgust and revulsion ensues. In my mind I struggle to come up with an appropriate adjective or noun to express the lightheaded feeling and empty gut sensation. An expletive fills in the void and I go about like the gatherer in the hunter/gatherer relationship of the stone age - gathering information from the grapevines.
It's like finding out that glass slippers don't actually exist or that the beast usually never gets the beauty.
See ill.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Consider a series
I woke up jealous this morning. Wishing I could be as clever, as biting and as insightful as what I saw last night.
Called a project - the projects, I saw a family bare itself in a way that the paid hicks on Jerry Springer can only dream of doing. Maury wishes he had a story as real as the one slammed last night. The classical writer of our other time wished they could develop metaphors like they did. Gently threading black fibers across the white, yellow, red, and brown cloth of their existence they were brilliant.
I wish I had that shotgun of a voice.
Or a smile so wide it needs extra space on that face.
I'm trapped inside the flatness of my voice on a screen. Punctuation and grammar are my mean little siblings robbing me of that sweet baritone falsetto I like to pretend I have. Robbing me of the stance I could have and the explosion I want to make.
I wish I could see from within.
We're a little similar but we're very different. I see the stars as women. One of them saw that as well. The difference? He noticed that the stars are beautiful and brilliant but they also die along and no one gives a damn because they're so fucking far away.
And one of them seemed indifferent. Cooly confident that her voice would carry the subtle and penetrating qualities of the phrases she had for so long worked on.
They sang lyrics without music.
Red light, white light, black out. A tear robbed from the audience as they open up to a crow of strangers and I'm wondering not how but why they do it. What compels them to crack open the book that is their mind and read out loud their deepest darkest thoughts and fears and pains and happy stories.
Thank you.
Called a project - the projects, I saw a family bare itself in a way that the paid hicks on Jerry Springer can only dream of doing. Maury wishes he had a story as real as the one slammed last night. The classical writer of our other time wished they could develop metaphors like they did. Gently threading black fibers across the white, yellow, red, and brown cloth of their existence they were brilliant.
I wish I had that shotgun of a voice.
Or a smile so wide it needs extra space on that face.
I'm trapped inside the flatness of my voice on a screen. Punctuation and grammar are my mean little siblings robbing me of that sweet baritone falsetto I like to pretend I have. Robbing me of the stance I could have and the explosion I want to make.
I wish I could see from within.
We're a little similar but we're very different. I see the stars as women. One of them saw that as well. The difference? He noticed that the stars are beautiful and brilliant but they also die along and no one gives a damn because they're so fucking far away.
And one of them seemed indifferent. Cooly confident that her voice would carry the subtle and penetrating qualities of the phrases she had for so long worked on.
They sang lyrics without music.
Red light, white light, black out. A tear robbed from the audience as they open up to a crow of strangers and I'm wondering not how but why they do it. What compels them to crack open the book that is their mind and read out loud their deepest darkest thoughts and fears and pains and happy stories.
Thank you.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Effigy
Who are you?
So again. Who are you? Not! what do you do for fun? Not! where do you work? Not! where are you from or what's your name. But what defines that unique accident of chance that describes a particular genetic code? It took an immense amount of probability to get the right amount of cells and atoms and energy and nutrients to make us happen all the way from tadpoles. Who kissed the human race and turned it into a prince?
Here lies a man believer in his own medicine with a head perennially filled with stories of small hamlets in the middle of the arid plains of Mexico. The man who always required hand-made tortillas, jalapeno peppers on the table and a glass of cold straight-from-the-cow milk. When he broke his hip at 87 the doctors looked at it and asked him what 25 year old was walking around missing a hip. That much of an oak.
Here lies another who I never met - at this point he is an eight of my ACGT puzzle. I like to picture him as wiry man who once had it all and then suffered the revolution - everything taken from him and starting anew. He was... a loving husband and an interesting man. Even at their lowest he humor my great-grandmother by buying her a small bottle of Concha de Toro - red. Here lies a man who understood the little pleasures.
Here lies a man who understood the true meaning of an asterisk. I knew him as well as a reader knows his writer. That is too say I knew (invented) more about him than there might have actually and I missed crucial elements of his being because they probably did not fit in with my image. They were the random red streaks of painting in a blue monochrome post-modernist monstrosity. Or a urinal. He taught others that inventing a language and understanding time was for the bold.
The problem is that an effigy will afford even fewer words. A sentence at best and probably poorly constructed. Should it be in one language or esperanto to show citizenship of the world. Should we divide ourselves by political boundaries or are we not, all of us, citizens of the world? I can't wait for space travel to kick in in my life time.
My effigy:
A self propelling vessel (more like a satellite) constantly accelerating across the galaxy in just the right path that eventually it becomes a meteor-like structure visiting the earth every 25 years. A number not randomly chosen but one that separates generations in the scientific study of populations. The satellite would always broadcast the same radio signal: Connecting scattered data for the sake of character and knowledge. Or something equally, I hope, relevant.
*
D
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Age of Interest
I’ve been blessed with the pleasure of having questions asked to me. I also question everything I do and I would call it nihilism if I didn’t think that was a little presumptuous. I hope others will judge me posthumously and read into my trash what they will.
We live in the age of interest. Or maybe an age where showing interest is the easiest thing a man can do and the most careless of things.
It used to be, in my mind at least, that a man(guy) interested in a woman(girl) would seek her out, wait for her after the class he saw her go into or hang out by the coffee cart where they first met so he could utter a few clever sentences and maybe win a date. It required effort and a fortunate cosmic accident where a guy would run into a girl reading a book on Sartre at the library and remember that it was him who said that “human nature” does not exist. We had to wear preppy collegiate sweaters or worn out jeans with dried specks of white painting from a summer spent in construction to get away with it of course.
But now we mass text. And we think that’s enough.
A simple:
Hey, Been thinking bout u. When r we hanging out?
Constitutes enough of an effort. If carefully done it is appropriately addressed to mask anonymity but an explanatory clause to keep them hoping. Chivalry (isn’t) dead.
I don’t mean to say I like calling or that I call at all. All I’m trying to say is that with a new socially established point of reference life is easier for the determined guy and that a simple, careful gesture, pays off.
Again and for the sake of completion I’m not talking about handing out a blossoming red rose, or walking up to a stranger and asking her for the chance to sit down with her over a cup of dark, brewed necessity and get to know each other or calling.
I’m talking about using what you know to bridge the chasm between idle chat and interesting dialogue. It’s all in the detail, carefully planned to seem subtle and spontaneous the secret is in knowledge.
Scientia est Potentia
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Addendum
A man - Jack- lived in a prison cell with only one small, barred window for 30 years. Every morning he would wake up, go to the window and see the barren ground. His sentence ended and he left the place a much older but barely wiser man. A new man - Darren - took his place as is prone to do in state sponsored hotels, sorry, prisons. Every day Darren wakes up, goes to the window and takes in the sky.
What I'm trying to say is that I should have mentioned the stars and the icebergs.
We live in the frisky way galaxy in the middle of a universe. Note the conspicuously placed "a" over "the". Yes, I'm a multiverse kind of guy. But I was talking about my own little vessel last time we were here.
The ship's stores are full of rum and biscuits and there's a gold doubloon nailed to the mast as a reward for the first man to spot the big white whale. But it's nighttime now and I also enjoy stargazing.
So women:
These are immutable, always there but far enough not to be a crew member. Close enough so that I can name a few of them and know them by their group of friends - call it Orion's belt or just a clique. Call one of them or all of them Polaris for they are inevitably of the same mold. Bright, attractive in brain and body and the sweetest hug(Z) ever but you can't reach the stars. If Pip learned anything from Dicken's poorly masked metaphor is that you can reach Estella. Mostly because the sweet taste of friendship has no place when there are too many separating factors between you and the world.
As for Icebergs? You see them and you crash. And they let go.
I've been fortunate enough not to have met one yet.
A votre sante!
What I'm trying to say is that I should have mentioned the stars and the icebergs.
We live in the frisky way galaxy in the middle of a universe. Note the conspicuously placed "a" over "the". Yes, I'm a multiverse kind of guy. But I was talking about my own little vessel last time we were here.
The ship's stores are full of rum and biscuits and there's a gold doubloon nailed to the mast as a reward for the first man to spot the big white whale. But it's nighttime now and I also enjoy stargazing.
So women:
These are immutable, always there but far enough not to be a crew member. Close enough so that I can name a few of them and know them by their group of friends - call it Orion's belt or just a clique. Call one of them or all of them Polaris for they are inevitably of the same mold. Bright, attractive in brain and body and the sweetest hug(Z) ever but you can't reach the stars. If Pip learned anything from Dicken's poorly masked metaphor is that you can reach Estella. Mostly because the sweet taste of friendship has no place when there are too many separating factors between you and the world.
As for Icebergs? You see them and you crash. And they let go.
I've been fortunate enough not to have met one yet.
A votre sante!
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
The women in my life - sort of.
There are so many women in my life. Some of them are great to have and act as my rocks in what I like to see as the ocean of my own ego - 3/4 of my conscious self is that ocean.
Some act like the sirens when I'm on a boat, tied to the mast and my crew has ears stuffed of wax - I'm going crazy trying to reach out to them. They represent the impossibly hopeful dream of happiness that seems to be made out of cellophanes, re-usable plastic bottles and penny wishes. Call it a school child crush but I still hope to "go-steady" with every other girl that flashes me a warm smile and has a kind word to offer.
Some act like archangels (or if we keep it PC, saving entities) swooping in with gold-feathered wings, white tunics and sandals made of extremely fine Coach leather. There to talk with and any topic goes. Everything from the odd toy you might order online to the importance of being a caring lover. They provide me with interesting insights to the world inside the collective construct that is "women are complicated". These are some of my best friends and they saved me when the storm formed in the perfect way such that my boat almost made it over an obnoxiously large wave but then tipped over instead. We had a full load of catch. We share the most perfect of moments with them.
Some are ethereal ocean wisps. They formed mostly through smoke signals and end-of-the-telescope mirages. I'd take the black opal to full sail but never actually catch up with them. For the most part painfully beautiful, if only because they were the apple (though I'd prefer clementine) of mine eye. They keep life interesting if only because they send bits of drama and intrigue on my life in the shape of a curious text or bbm or even a story about me passed through the entire social network.
There are also ravens and jays. Awful cries that could interpret this metaphor as the women in my life that I'd consider harpies. Rest assured that's not my intention gentle reader. I, like so many before me, use them as omens. Grim but not fatal - the kind that would make my smile a little bit off for the rest of the day. An encounter leaves me feeling a little bit...unfit. They're prone to spreading lies of the not-so-flattering kind that offend character and moral fiber. My approach? Live up to my standards and hope the truth speaks softly but confidently.
On the ship (i thought that this was an ocean originally too, don't worry I know it got trippy at some point) there is also a collection of awkward smiles now just called a list of acquaintances with multiple beginnings and no lasts - the real numbers ran out. They give me the I-know-you look but then glance away as they realize we probably met in unfortunate circumstances or circumstances that are best spoken of in furtive whispers late at night after the ship's been in a state of revelry.
It's a small compendium still.
It's a good thing I plan on living forever.
Some act like the sirens when I'm on a boat, tied to the mast and my crew has ears stuffed of wax - I'm going crazy trying to reach out to them. They represent the impossibly hopeful dream of happiness that seems to be made out of cellophanes, re-usable plastic bottles and penny wishes. Call it a school child crush but I still hope to "go-steady" with every other girl that flashes me a warm smile and has a kind word to offer.
Some act like archangels (or if we keep it PC, saving entities) swooping in with gold-feathered wings, white tunics and sandals made of extremely fine Coach leather. There to talk with and any topic goes. Everything from the odd toy you might order online to the importance of being a caring lover. They provide me with interesting insights to the world inside the collective construct that is "women are complicated". These are some of my best friends and they saved me when the storm formed in the perfect way such that my boat almost made it over an obnoxiously large wave but then tipped over instead. We had a full load of catch. We share the most perfect of moments with them.
Some are ethereal ocean wisps. They formed mostly through smoke signals and end-of-the-telescope mirages. I'd take the black opal to full sail but never actually catch up with them. For the most part painfully beautiful, if only because they were the apple (though I'd prefer clementine) of mine eye. They keep life interesting if only because they send bits of drama and intrigue on my life in the shape of a curious text or bbm or even a story about me passed through the entire social network.
There are also ravens and jays. Awful cries that could interpret this metaphor as the women in my life that I'd consider harpies. Rest assured that's not my intention gentle reader. I, like so many before me, use them as omens. Grim but not fatal - the kind that would make my smile a little bit off for the rest of the day. An encounter leaves me feeling a little bit...unfit. They're prone to spreading lies of the not-so-flattering kind that offend character and moral fiber. My approach? Live up to my standards and hope the truth speaks softly but confidently.
On the ship (i thought that this was an ocean originally too, don't worry I know it got trippy at some point) there is also a collection of awkward smiles now just called a list of acquaintances with multiple beginnings and no lasts - the real numbers ran out. They give me the I-know-you look but then glance away as they realize we probably met in unfortunate circumstances or circumstances that are best spoken of in furtive whispers late at night after the ship's been in a state of revelry.
It's a small compendium still.
It's a good thing I plan on living forever.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Theatre of Living Arts
I often use the spoken word to express myself. That is, I use words that have been spoken by someone before me to say what I want to say. Think of the ditzy girl in greek living her life like a romantic comedy or the blonde actress in 30 rock for living her life theatrically. I have friends in engineering working on a real-world interphase for everyday montages with the appropriate mood-filled song in the background.
I like to quote Casablanca and Vonnegut in the same sentence. Mention the benefits of laughing over crying (from a purely clean-up stand point) while suggesting what the minute possibility that of all of the gin joins, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine (you have to use a two-tailed probability test for that one).
Perhaps it's because inherently I feel like collectively we've reached the apex of human creativity. Newer and better ideas are often just amalgams of vintage concepts. Or maybe it's because trusting ourselves to speak intelligently 24/7, 365 is too much and we can lean on the words spoken by the greats. People assumed not to have a higher degree of insight but rather, a status elevated enough for someone to record their words.
If only we could know who would grow up to be famous so we could have historians monitoring them from an early age to get a complete picture.
So as we go on performing on this globe theatre of us I have but one question...are you playing the crowd? Are you pandering to the crowd? Are you following your queues and segues appropriately? Understanding the difference between backstage/green room/stage left? Warming up your vocal chord?
I don't know how to count.
I like to quote Casablanca and Vonnegut in the same sentence. Mention the benefits of laughing over crying (from a purely clean-up stand point) while suggesting what the minute possibility that of all of the gin joins, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine (you have to use a two-tailed probability test for that one).
Perhaps it's because inherently I feel like collectively we've reached the apex of human creativity. Newer and better ideas are often just amalgams of vintage concepts. Or maybe it's because trusting ourselves to speak intelligently 24/7, 365 is too much and we can lean on the words spoken by the greats. People assumed not to have a higher degree of insight but rather, a status elevated enough for someone to record their words.
If only we could know who would grow up to be famous so we could have historians monitoring them from an early age to get a complete picture.
So as we go on performing on this globe theatre of us I have but one question...are you playing the crowd? Are you pandering to the crowd? Are you following your queues and segues appropriately? Understanding the difference between backstage/green room/stage left? Warming up your vocal chord?
I don't know how to count.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
What Joyce would have been like on schyzo?
I have ideas in my head.
What's interesting is that they're in the same of unintelligible electrical impulses that are somehow programmed to interact in one fluid motion to conjure thoughts of color, a plus sign and knee-jerk.
There's an idea that point masses don't actually exists. If they did, a collection of such masses that stretched, let's say, a 10000 miles, could be pushed on one end and the other end would move instantly. This of course makes no sense...because of Einstein and all his relative nonsense.
When I hit 60 I'll let my hair grow out (assuming I still have some), blow up a boiler on my face every morning after the shower and ride my bike around with my pants tucked in to my wool socks.
I keep liking the impossible. Adidas told me that impossible is nothing. Ergo I apparently like nothing but if that is the case then my version of the dictionary is broken. Nothing - not a single thing.
It's the fifth abbreviated paragraph common to blogging and emailing and ____ing online activities and still no title. I'm getting a little concerned.
Some day I hope to change the world. In some unstoppable tour de force I hope to own this oyster that is the world and clink my martini glass a la mad man. I can't invent lying, that's been done, first by some tiny parasite that hid just a little extra food for itself and then by ricky gervais in that cunningly smart new genre that mixes low-cost production with wit and dry humour. Spelled OU because I felt like it.
I'm excited to find myself with grey hairs. Or is it gray? Maybe a spot near the front to give me a faint de-bon-aire attitude. Or a full head of white hair, the kind you find on the board room types in oil paintings immortalized in the hallowed halls of a strange building where they never set foot. Not willingly at it.
It's Saint Patrick's church out there.
Go Green!
What's interesting is that they're in the same of unintelligible electrical impulses that are somehow programmed to interact in one fluid motion to conjure thoughts of color, a plus sign and knee-jerk.
There's an idea that point masses don't actually exists. If they did, a collection of such masses that stretched, let's say, a 10000 miles, could be pushed on one end and the other end would move instantly. This of course makes no sense...because of Einstein and all his relative nonsense.
When I hit 60 I'll let my hair grow out (assuming I still have some), blow up a boiler on my face every morning after the shower and ride my bike around with my pants tucked in to my wool socks.
I keep liking the impossible. Adidas told me that impossible is nothing. Ergo I apparently like nothing but if that is the case then my version of the dictionary is broken. Nothing - not a single thing.
It's the fifth abbreviated paragraph common to blogging and emailing and ____ing online activities and still no title. I'm getting a little concerned.
Some day I hope to change the world. In some unstoppable tour de force I hope to own this oyster that is the world and clink my martini glass a la mad man. I can't invent lying, that's been done, first by some tiny parasite that hid just a little extra food for itself and then by ricky gervais in that cunningly smart new genre that mixes low-cost production with wit and dry humour. Spelled OU because I felt like it.
I'm excited to find myself with grey hairs. Or is it gray? Maybe a spot near the front to give me a faint de-bon-aire attitude. Or a full head of white hair, the kind you find on the board room types in oil paintings immortalized in the hallowed halls of a strange building where they never set foot. Not willingly at it.
It's Saint Patrick's church out there.
Go Green!
Sunday, March 14, 2010
H(indie) (alter)native
This is a drunk story.
This is also a story about plaid shirts, over vintage christian heavy metal band t-shirts, skinny skinny jeans and black shoes. Everyone is 21 and the question of what's in the wild is one better left to Krakauer.
I'm neither.
The night starts off like most nights - no plan and no schedule. A vague notion of class tomorrow at 11am is quickly forgotten as the 40s become 80s and then 160s. Into a pub, a bar, a local watering hole and I can feel the shy run away. A quick nod to the bounce who is a wrestling buddy of mine and I'm in. Solid.
The mob is here not in the Colliseum. I'm tall and that helps to catch the bartender's eye who is apparently oblivious to the meat market in front of him. "Keep it open" I yell and ask for the usual and wonder what he'll pour for me. It's a girl's birthday and I've made new friends. Jose Crow is in the house, forget my real name and I pour salt haphazardly around the outstretched, licked hands.
Salud! We toast to good health in my country. Kind of ironic for something served in shots. Shot. Bang.
Make my way to the back, a subtle bob and weave and I'm back on the basketball court using my footwork to go through the crowd. The average age is 21. I'll give you that. But the lower quartile definitely starts at 17 and the upper quartile ends at 23. Thank you PPD.
Some of my best friends are here.
Why is it that the greeks were so often so annoyingly right about both buoyancy and spirits? Veritas in vino. I'm quickly and successively approached by three different people.
1. I have a crush on this and this person but it's complicated for this and this reason and OMG what would they say about this and that???
2. Can we talk about my secret? Can we talk about what's going at home? About the situation? Can you help me?
3. I hooked up with your ex. I'm sorry, it'll probably happen again. I'm like a slutty Miranda.
I wish for the day when all people can openly talk to me. When the imbibing strength of Veuve and Tanq provides us with an inner strength likened only to faith is when we are free. Primal and forgetful -call it a brown(black)out I observe with pleasure how, as a collective, we debase the archetypes built for us and pound on dirty bar counter peanuts and attempt the act of kissing by slobbering over someones neck. I think the french had a version of it with a little more finesse.
My theory/thesis: Psychologists and psychiatrists could help their patients if their patients showed up piss drunk, (sort of) functional, and open. The folds in a human brain fill out with an -OH ending that allows veracity to escape and withholds the illustrating and sometimes allegorical red herrings.
Open up to me in the warmth of an embrace or the calm of an afternoon Argentinian mate tea or sitting in front of a blaring Sports Center. When I can be a conscious executor of my decisions and can quote Romeo and tell you that we are the masters to our own ship. I will be the other end of the phone anytime and put out a fire. To fix the faulty wiring in the whole building I'm going to need a little less than a .22.
Cheers.
This is also a story about plaid shirts, over vintage christian heavy metal band t-shirts, skinny skinny jeans and black shoes. Everyone is 21 and the question of what's in the wild is one better left to Krakauer.
I'm neither.
The night starts off like most nights - no plan and no schedule. A vague notion of class tomorrow at 11am is quickly forgotten as the 40s become 80s and then 160s. Into a pub, a bar, a local watering hole and I can feel the shy run away. A quick nod to the bounce who is a wrestling buddy of mine and I'm in. Solid.
The mob is here not in the Colliseum. I'm tall and that helps to catch the bartender's eye who is apparently oblivious to the meat market in front of him. "Keep it open" I yell and ask for the usual and wonder what he'll pour for me. It's a girl's birthday and I've made new friends. Jose Crow is in the house, forget my real name and I pour salt haphazardly around the outstretched, licked hands.
Salud! We toast to good health in my country. Kind of ironic for something served in shots. Shot. Bang.
Make my way to the back, a subtle bob and weave and I'm back on the basketball court using my footwork to go through the crowd. The average age is 21. I'll give you that. But the lower quartile definitely starts at 17 and the upper quartile ends at 23. Thank you PPD.
Some of my best friends are here.
Why is it that the greeks were so often so annoyingly right about both buoyancy and spirits? Veritas in vino. I'm quickly and successively approached by three different people.
1. I have a crush on this and this person but it's complicated for this and this reason and OMG what would they say about this and that???
2. Can we talk about my secret? Can we talk about what's going at home? About the situation? Can you help me?
3. I hooked up with your ex. I'm sorry, it'll probably happen again. I'm like a slutty Miranda.
I wish for the day when all people can openly talk to me. When the imbibing strength of Veuve and Tanq provides us with an inner strength likened only to faith is when we are free. Primal and forgetful -call it a brown(black)out I observe with pleasure how, as a collective, we debase the archetypes built for us and pound on dirty bar counter peanuts and attempt the act of kissing by slobbering over someones neck. I think the french had a version of it with a little more finesse.
My theory/thesis: Psychologists and psychiatrists could help their patients if their patients showed up piss drunk, (sort of) functional, and open. The folds in a human brain fill out with an -OH ending that allows veracity to escape and withholds the illustrating and sometimes allegorical red herrings.
Open up to me in the warmth of an embrace or the calm of an afternoon Argentinian mate tea or sitting in front of a blaring Sports Center. When I can be a conscious executor of my decisions and can quote Romeo and tell you that we are the masters to our own ship. I will be the other end of the phone anytime and put out a fire. To fix the faulty wiring in the whole building I'm going to need a little less than a .22.
Cheers.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Precise Language
Smart people. What a drag.
Inevitably some of the more insightful people I´ve had the uncomfortable pleasure of knowing have been teachers. Teachers of English or English teachers as they would offhandedly point out.
2 of them former alcoholics recovering by taking a swig from the cheap bourbon bottle under their desk. One of them, the older one, was a man of true class and weight. Burdened by the weight of elitist higher education beyond what most people would see neccesary and uncovering the vast expanses of knowledge hiding in "the epistemological effects of the Shor algorithm in post-modernist literature". Relevance becomes a beautifully relative term. The meaning of it becomes as apt at describing current merit in the conversation at hand as when you describe a cat by calling it a dog.
One of them I had as a young pup in high school. He practiced wolfing - standing at his classroom door and greeting every student by name, handshake, or pat on the back as appropriate according to their rank and where they had taken a piss earlier that morning. Girls could ask questions. Men were expected to know and avoid all sorts of foolishness. He recommended a book to me - Aztec - and with a grin masking the cavernous eye sockets whispered: it has loads of sex in it.
One of the had a long confucian beard. He was a fan of the teachings of Lao and focused his chi around his rotund belly. A physical and spirtual center of mass I always figured. He was a gentle soul dominated by his wife who would at once scream in outrage at the collection of dead white men that "great" literature had become while at the same time lamenting that there were truly no great female writers because they were grappled by fear of success. Very Coach Carter-esque.
One of them was young-ish. He was older than he liked admitting to himself and though he was personable and relatable and owned AK47s he was always the more subtle of most of them. He would adopt the surly smarter-than-thou asshole tone described by Penguin Book group when discussing elementary prose with primal minds. We have a word for them in Mexico - fresas. Strawberries literally translated. They speak of that sweet and sometimes slightly sour taste they give off, white on the inside for purity, not very filling either in taste or in consistency. Usually a little too bland and often too simple to stand alone (except when the ulterior motif of sex helps draw the situation out). The girls of course swooned. He would turn, look at me at my friends and share a shameless laugh. Some of us were in the secret.
One of them taught me how to light a cigarrette. Properly.
The last one was a young and charismatic woman who had had aspirations of becoming an oceanologist. A decision made before she had ever seen the ocean. This is the kind of logic even Mentats cant fight. She had a soft giggle and a manner of speaking that told you of fantasies rolling around in her head of french maids turned mistresses and an appreciation for the ironic Not! jokes. She named her daughter a possibility and her son a term of endearment.
These are my teachers. I learned very little grammar, I cannot pick apart a sentence and categorize individual words within it. They taught me just enough vocabulary to surpass the average citizen. They told me to read and analyze and grab at straws in order to make a paper that 5 years from now may seem little more than a nonsensical string of words.
English savvy?
Inevitably some of the more insightful people I´ve had the uncomfortable pleasure of knowing have been teachers. Teachers of English or English teachers as they would offhandedly point out.
2 of them former alcoholics recovering by taking a swig from the cheap bourbon bottle under their desk. One of them, the older one, was a man of true class and weight. Burdened by the weight of elitist higher education beyond what most people would see neccesary and uncovering the vast expanses of knowledge hiding in "the epistemological effects of the Shor algorithm in post-modernist literature". Relevance becomes a beautifully relative term. The meaning of it becomes as apt at describing current merit in the conversation at hand as when you describe a cat by calling it a dog.
One of them I had as a young pup in high school. He practiced wolfing - standing at his classroom door and greeting every student by name, handshake, or pat on the back as appropriate according to their rank and where they had taken a piss earlier that morning. Girls could ask questions. Men were expected to know and avoid all sorts of foolishness. He recommended a book to me - Aztec - and with a grin masking the cavernous eye sockets whispered: it has loads of sex in it.
One of the had a long confucian beard. He was a fan of the teachings of Lao and focused his chi around his rotund belly. A physical and spirtual center of mass I always figured. He was a gentle soul dominated by his wife who would at once scream in outrage at the collection of dead white men that "great" literature had become while at the same time lamenting that there were truly no great female writers because they were grappled by fear of success. Very Coach Carter-esque.
One of them was young-ish. He was older than he liked admitting to himself and though he was personable and relatable and owned AK47s he was always the more subtle of most of them. He would adopt the surly smarter-than-thou asshole tone described by Penguin Book group when discussing elementary prose with primal minds. We have a word for them in Mexico - fresas. Strawberries literally translated. They speak of that sweet and sometimes slightly sour taste they give off, white on the inside for purity, not very filling either in taste or in consistency. Usually a little too bland and often too simple to stand alone (except when the ulterior motif of sex helps draw the situation out). The girls of course swooned. He would turn, look at me at my friends and share a shameless laugh. Some of us were in the secret.
One of them taught me how to light a cigarrette. Properly.
The last one was a young and charismatic woman who had had aspirations of becoming an oceanologist. A decision made before she had ever seen the ocean. This is the kind of logic even Mentats cant fight. She had a soft giggle and a manner of speaking that told you of fantasies rolling around in her head of french maids turned mistresses and an appreciation for the ironic Not! jokes. She named her daughter a possibility and her son a term of endearment.
These are my teachers. I learned very little grammar, I cannot pick apart a sentence and categorize individual words within it. They taught me just enough vocabulary to surpass the average citizen. They told me to read and analyze and grab at straws in order to make a paper that 5 years from now may seem little more than a nonsensical string of words.
English savvy?
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Cempazuchitl
Picture a small island in the middle of lake. The water is still - surrounded by small mountains. The port is teeming with people holding lit candles. The mass starts trudging collectively towards the top in the sinewy and poorly crafted swirling path the local government has fashioned. The summit is a merely a couple of hundred meters away. There's low singing that sounds more like ululation's, there's cempazuchitl everywhere and prayer. Lots of prayer.
Mexicans have a tradition of playing a staring game with death. Look it in the eye, laugh about it and acknowledge the finality in it. It might be our religion. At least that tells us that when we die we go where we deserve to go. A one way ticket to custom (read: purgatory) and then it's either heaven or one of the seven hells. If you've got the cash you also get a satin lined oak box to lie dormant for the rest of eternity. I'm hoping for cremation.
Friends and family gather around the deceased for nine days - a novenario - working their way through rosaries, stories and food. The family doesn't grieve alone. It's a community thing. It reminds me of sitting shiva.
It makes me wonder if what I know and how I was brought up is reflected with the way I deal with death. My first instinct is to hug those that are facing it - personally or vicariously. I don't talk about the emotions I experience but I hear it helps other do just that. I can help by listening or distracting and I believe I am exceedingly good at both though there are obvious areas of improvement. It makes me hope that some Hollywood writer will someday write the perfect script for the things that need to be said and the things that are better left to sound out in an empty room.
The easiest way to help is to know the person that needs the help. It might be that it's your freshman year of college and you know they'll want saltines and a kit kat because there's a wild fire raging through their state and though they will never talk about it, they'll walk into your embrace because you are the only human being out there who knows they need it. It might just be that they'll txt or bbm you the right combination of 2 or 3 words when you need it most.
In live we have the unique opportunity of facing death in the company of our friends.
In death we stand alone.
Mexicans have a tradition of playing a staring game with death. Look it in the eye, laugh about it and acknowledge the finality in it. It might be our religion. At least that tells us that when we die we go where we deserve to go. A one way ticket to custom (read: purgatory) and then it's either heaven or one of the seven hells. If you've got the cash you also get a satin lined oak box to lie dormant for the rest of eternity. I'm hoping for cremation.
Friends and family gather around the deceased for nine days - a novenario - working their way through rosaries, stories and food. The family doesn't grieve alone. It's a community thing. It reminds me of sitting shiva.
It makes me wonder if what I know and how I was brought up is reflected with the way I deal with death. My first instinct is to hug those that are facing it - personally or vicariously. I don't talk about the emotions I experience but I hear it helps other do just that. I can help by listening or distracting and I believe I am exceedingly good at both though there are obvious areas of improvement. It makes me hope that some Hollywood writer will someday write the perfect script for the things that need to be said and the things that are better left to sound out in an empty room.
The easiest way to help is to know the person that needs the help. It might be that it's your freshman year of college and you know they'll want saltines and a kit kat because there's a wild fire raging through their state and though they will never talk about it, they'll walk into your embrace because you are the only human being out there who knows they need it. It might just be that they'll txt or bbm you the right combination of 2 or 3 words when you need it most.
In live we have the unique opportunity of facing death in the company of our friends.
In death we stand alone.
Important Questions
On a flight this morning I heard an interesting story.
Consider this little piece of non-fictional fiction a disposable one where the names don't matter and I do not know them. The setting is an American Airlines flight that as per the American Airline standard is far outdated, worn and torn but somehow remains operational through a deft combination of technical expertise, magical elves and hope. These planes fly on computers with the processing power of your average laptop computer. The physics of flight are somewhat misunderstood by the foremost experts in the field. Process the following thought: a landing is nothing more than a controlled crash - the crash acts as the braking power. Fun!
Squished between the aisle and a lovely matronly woman I began to regret the idea of flying as a general concept. It was too hot for my sweatshirt but too cold to turn on the recycled air vent above me. I was trying to decide between the two high-quality reads provided by the airline - Sky Mall or Fly with Us! - when I was engaged in conversation. Crack my ribs once you have me on the down and panting for breath.
"Where are you going? Do you go to school in philly? Oh my gosh are you in a fraternity (as my greek letters were goldly displayed across my chest)?! That's so exciting! Hi! My name is...
All of this in rapid succession. The flip-flop wearing delight sitting across the aisle from me flashed a comfortable sorority girl smile that comes with years of knowing that she's too-hot-for-school and that if she talks to you you best consider yourself damn lucky. I gave her answers.
I did go to school in Philly. But today I would be Jack and my major would still be the nerdy combination of engineering and business that I now pursue passionately - but I would be pre-med as well. Grown up in Mexico but raised in an international locations known to her only as "abroad, you know...". I would be a senior with med-school lined up and yes, I was considering an offer from Big Bank but that's the way these things go - "you know...:. An easy smile flashed back inherited from a culture my parents proudly inculcated in me. The flash of pearly whites is a combination of friendly amusement and interested bemusement.
I get my Kindle out of my messenger bag, carefully insert my earbuds and proceed to ignore her as I see the telling glint in her eye. She has more questions. She is bored. She needs attention.
Who am I to refuse her?
And so she tells me an interesting story about her travels. How much she learned by being abroad in Istanbul and how her Middle Eastern Studies Major combined with minors in Farsee and French are opening doors for her in an embassy in Oman. Shit. Truth bomb. My interest peaks right around the time we start discussing the oil works of Latin America and the two polarizing examples - Petrobras and Pemex.
--
I hate the disposability of the story as I continue to engage in it. An interesting one-time serving of a person like this comes along once in an aquamarine moon. Someone to talk to about the wide range of topics stewing in my mind, someone that uses the word marinate and political spectrum in the same sentence, someone who realizes that the use of the word petticoat in this day and age represents little more than pure snobbery. Perhaps I am hypnotized like my gender is prone to be. We are the snake and everything about a woman - their sweet sweet eyes, soft giggle and sideways sloped bangs - are the enchanters flute.
Ladies and Gentlemen, in preparation for our arrival please put your tray tables up and return your seats to their fully upright position.
And with that conversation ceases. She still doesn't know my name and I've quickly forgotten hers.
Touchdown.
Consider this little piece of non-fictional fiction a disposable one where the names don't matter and I do not know them. The setting is an American Airlines flight that as per the American Airline standard is far outdated, worn and torn but somehow remains operational through a deft combination of technical expertise, magical elves and hope. These planes fly on computers with the processing power of your average laptop computer. The physics of flight are somewhat misunderstood by the foremost experts in the field. Process the following thought: a landing is nothing more than a controlled crash - the crash acts as the braking power. Fun!
Squished between the aisle and a lovely matronly woman I began to regret the idea of flying as a general concept. It was too hot for my sweatshirt but too cold to turn on the recycled air vent above me. I was trying to decide between the two high-quality reads provided by the airline - Sky Mall or Fly with Us! - when I was engaged in conversation. Crack my ribs once you have me on the down and panting for breath.
"Where are you going? Do you go to school in philly? Oh my gosh are you in a fraternity (as my greek letters were goldly displayed across my chest)?! That's so exciting! Hi! My name is...
All of this in rapid succession. The flip-flop wearing delight sitting across the aisle from me flashed a comfortable sorority girl smile that comes with years of knowing that she's too-hot-for-school and that if she talks to you you best consider yourself damn lucky. I gave her answers.
I did go to school in Philly. But today I would be Jack and my major would still be the nerdy combination of engineering and business that I now pursue passionately - but I would be pre-med as well. Grown up in Mexico but raised in an international locations known to her only as "abroad, you know...". I would be a senior with med-school lined up and yes, I was considering an offer from Big Bank but that's the way these things go - "you know...:. An easy smile flashed back inherited from a culture my parents proudly inculcated in me. The flash of pearly whites is a combination of friendly amusement and interested bemusement.
I get my Kindle out of my messenger bag, carefully insert my earbuds and proceed to ignore her as I see the telling glint in her eye. She has more questions. She is bored. She needs attention.
Who am I to refuse her?
And so she tells me an interesting story about her travels. How much she learned by being abroad in Istanbul and how her Middle Eastern Studies Major combined with minors in Farsee and French are opening doors for her in an embassy in Oman. Shit. Truth bomb. My interest peaks right around the time we start discussing the oil works of Latin America and the two polarizing examples - Petrobras and Pemex.
--
I hate the disposability of the story as I continue to engage in it. An interesting one-time serving of a person like this comes along once in an aquamarine moon. Someone to talk to about the wide range of topics stewing in my mind, someone that uses the word marinate and political spectrum in the same sentence, someone who realizes that the use of the word petticoat in this day and age represents little more than pure snobbery. Perhaps I am hypnotized like my gender is prone to be. We are the snake and everything about a woman - their sweet sweet eyes, soft giggle and sideways sloped bangs - are the enchanters flute.
Ladies and Gentlemen, in preparation for our arrival please put your tray tables up and return your seats to their fully upright position.
And with that conversation ceases. She still doesn't know my name and I've quickly forgotten hers.
Touchdown.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Now we are free
The fuzzy feeling in my head is still around. Guy and Sherlock are both in my mind as one word keeps popping in and out: discombobulate.
Palahniuk was the first bringer of good fortune in my life. He came up with my kind of country club. One of dingy basements where the concrete floor has enough give to crack a human skull. Where Pollock wears a different frock and Dexter has a masterpiece to analyze. It would have made Denzel proud to see death in the living.
Every time I let myself die a little it makes me realize just how much more alive I am. Because every time I give away a little bit of my soul I know that it's a tiny fragment of my life that lives on somewhere else. I've been genetically programmed to think like this...
And tonight I fought. Not a controlled environment like I do at the gym every other day. I dress my hand in boxing wraps and sparring gloves, warm up and then juke and jive tossing in a cross every now and then to keep the punching bag guessing. Everlast is a clever one.
On the wooden floor in a second. Using momentum and brute force the next to position myself in just the right way I sweating waiting for the next shift. Another one runs in and tackles me stealing my breath from under me. Face on the floor and my kidneys just got crushed. I jack knife with my legs and slam my forearm into a neck - not mine.
His back flat on the floor, my left temple throbbing and three dead knocks on the floor and it's over. I'm covered in a rain of salt water coming from everywhere, the room spins and the light is crystallized.
And now my body is at peace - warming down as my mind chooses to begin its own race. It's always something with the human body.
Palahniuk was the first bringer of good fortune in my life. He came up with my kind of country club. One of dingy basements where the concrete floor has enough give to crack a human skull. Where Pollock wears a different frock and Dexter has a masterpiece to analyze. It would have made Denzel proud to see death in the living.
Every time I let myself die a little it makes me realize just how much more alive I am. Because every time I give away a little bit of my soul I know that it's a tiny fragment of my life that lives on somewhere else. I've been genetically programmed to think like this...
And tonight I fought. Not a controlled environment like I do at the gym every other day. I dress my hand in boxing wraps and sparring gloves, warm up and then juke and jive tossing in a cross every now and then to keep the punching bag guessing. Everlast is a clever one.
On the wooden floor in a second. Using momentum and brute force the next to position myself in just the right way I sweating waiting for the next shift. Another one runs in and tackles me stealing my breath from under me. Face on the floor and my kidneys just got crushed. I jack knife with my legs and slam my forearm into a neck - not mine.
His back flat on the floor, my left temple throbbing and three dead knocks on the floor and it's over. I'm covered in a rain of salt water coming from everywhere, the room spins and the light is crystallized.
And now my body is at peace - warming down as my mind chooses to begin its own race. It's always something with the human body.
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