Reflecting...

Everyone has their own perception of mortality, no matter the degree of idealism or optimism they possess. Since the beginning of time, self-proclaimed philosophers have forced out theories and hypotheses; all those books they make you read in AP English or Introduction to Life Studies about why we’re here. About fate, about destiny, about any convoluted reason that we exist. Somewhere amidst the four centuries of the Renaissance we evolved into romantics, engulfed with the idea that humans live for love. From generation to generation since, we have inherited the incredibly impractical conception that our purpose in life is to find true love. “True” love: a coined term invented for the sake of classifying one love from another; as if one love should be more important than another. But reality nearly always contradicts what we distinguish as truth, as true, as love. Like God, love is a faith, a hope, something that we have been programmed to believe in as a justification for our existence, when in fact, there is no reason. No more reason than for a stray cat, a spider, a sewer rat, a tadpole, a goldfish. And there is no problem with that; no cause for a reconnaissance mission to discover some sort of rationale. Philosophers, they talk in circles, and the greatest aspect of their profession, unlike that of an accountant or a chemist, is that no one can prove them wrong. You cannot incorrectly answer a question that has none at all. Love, well, it isn’t forever, no matter what it seems; and we spend entirely too much time dwelling on the idea that it is. Fixated on the thought that it is singular and discriminate, when love is everywhere. We need it. We want it. We feel it. Sometimes we fear it. And other times we embrace it. But we don’t live for it. Mortality is nothing more than a timeline, and on a long enough timeline, everyone dies, everyone is forgotten. Don’t live today thinking there is only one person to take you through tomorrow. But even if you find someone that you think can, remember there will always be a next day. A next love. Another love. Like us, even the best of things don’t last forever.

The Dreamer

People live to dream dreams, whether big or small. It’s the sort of obligation that makes us human, and separates us from the beasts. The paradox of it all lies within the question of what defines humanity, an aspect of life which deems a species strong, capable, calculating, yet riddled with holes of weakness and vulnerability. These gaps in our confidence are filled with insecurities, doubts, and plugged closed with those indiscriminate pangs of guilt and the metaphorical corks of ridicule. It is a difficult and complex plight, that of the dreamer. One who seeks hard fought opportunities and seemingly impossible realizations. One who envisions the broad spectrum and the polar differential of reveries and nightmares. One who sees angels and demons so clearly within themselves.




There are accomplices to the dream, criminal in instinct, feeding from the promise of free prosperity and sheer hope; praying to a faux-martyr under the guise of faith. Intangible, invisible, indescribable, and yet somehow completely decipherable, is that whisper in the back of your brain that screams believe when your critics wants you to fail. When the co-conspirators urge you into the darkness with sweet voices and empty promises, meanwhile letting go of your hand one shaky finger at a time. Remaining in the light just close enough to see your shadowy figure in the distance without letting it disappear. Day turns to night turns to day, and the dreamer doesn’t truly sleep; like a vacant movie theater, the film reel still turning, click-click-clicking in the desolate room, images still flashing on the screen. No one to laugh, gasp or cry in the theater seats; creating short stories and building small relationships that no one will see.




No, the dreamer never sleeps, but for those frozen moments flashing in scattered illustrations of what may never be. And so eventually some of us let dreams go; they float away into the wind like grains of sand to collect on someone else’s doorstep like simple debris. But nothing is simple. Straightforward, uncomplicated, plain. These are nothing but the aftermath of the loss, a clean acceptance of what is instead of what can be. People live to dream dreams. But it’s a wonder what to latch onto once those dreams die.

Reminiscing on a Past Self...

I've officially become a neglectful and sporadic blogger, but hey, life happens. At any rate, I was randomly looking for a notebook the other day because I'm studying to be a bartender and needed something to write on. I have this massive collection of notebooks just because I have a mild OCD about writing on clean, crisp paper. This meaning that if I ever spill something on one notebook, or it gets wrinkled, ripped, etc, I have to get a new one. Don't judge me! So anyway, I came across this pile of old ones from around 2005-2006, back when I just graduated from college, before I fully became the cynical bundle of sarcasm that I am now. This was back when I called myself a poet and wanted to perform spoken word. I used to write down and date my thoughts all the time, even if I took up an entire page with just one sentence or phrase, like "I'm trapped in my own life," or "Carpe Omnious." Some of the writing was great, and other parts I couldn't even recognize as coming from myself, all full of faux-romanticism and idealism. Which was a blessing and a curse, because it was a great reminder of the fact that no matter what life gives you, you can't lose your passion. Hard years, hard hearts and hard times shouldn't take away the focus from what you set out to do in the first place; from who you are. So anyway, for anyone that cares, this is me, circa May 2006:

"The sun shines in short gasps of air,
And before the stars appeared I left you there
In the shadows,
Below clouds with ambitious desires,
Fires of a mind aflame, with a heart extinguishing love,
I have become the woman who I always believed I was
Before the mirror leaked the truth.
I bleed reality in choppy sentences and unfinished thoughts,
You recognize my face despite the cost
And the soft spoken, often overanalyzed prose
From a heart never broken, and never disturbed
Those, who have lived this, can only attempt to believe
How you tried to recover the un-shattered pieces.
Pick up those jagged shards, when no help is in need,
This misleading parallel of what was and will never again be;
Incognito in spirit and undercover within words
But, you see me,
You feel the hope beneath your ribcage,
Saved by the harvest of tomorrow, when everything is barren today.
This life is flourishing beneath ground,
Left with the question of who found whom in this tangled web of current infatuations,
All of the promising obsessions in the night,
But passionate whispers across phone lines don’t define facts,
Or make anything that’s wrong, right.
It doesn’t indicate romance
Unless you breathe me,
Speak me,
Love me,
Or leave me.
Have me for the person that you thought I was,
Because,
Just because.

Escape from Solitude

We waste so much time trying to feel numb when we don't, trying not to feel vulnerable when that state of mind is so far from the truth; trapped behind these glass walls hoping never to have to attach an emotion to the pin pricks and the hurdles, the pain, disappointment and lost expectations of success. You learn to wipe away tears to pretend that they don't exist, that they were never there, hiding in these false facades of strength, imposing, posing as impenetrable, and refusing to take leaps of faith. We are enveloped in fears of failure, intimacy, change, these transient variables that choke breaths away into shallow gulps of air, drowning in self doubt. There is a solid reason for the term easy, the word simple, and the mere concept of those quick and painless scenarios that no one will ever care to remember once they are over. I let myself be haunted by these frozen moments of imperfection which are so much more substantial and important than any one second when everything seemed roses. Holding onto, latching onto, grabbing onto, clutching onto anything in a quiet desperation to avoid letting go. Addictions develop from a rampant and collective refusal to accept those sparks flying between neurons in uncomfortable or unfamiliar patterns, nothing but physiological side effects and chemical reactions. And the seconds keep ticking away in metronome beats, oblivious, completely disrespecting the gross misconception that time will somehow proceed with caution while we stew in denial of our own reality. Somewhere along the line initiative became cloudy and misunderstood, disguising itself as haste or impulse, running off into the darkness with instinct when thrown into the face of opportunity. And so we lurk in the shadows or strive to never leave the sunshine, all the while remaining pale or overexposed, ignoring those gray spaces in between. Nightmares are still just dreams, just an imagination wandering the empty sidewalks of sleep, animating the unconscious; fleeting narratives so similar to the unfavorable thoughts and emotions whose acquaintance we try so hard not to make. I’m finished swirling in this pool of vanity and pride, exhaustingly treading water in the effort to stay afloat just long enough to escape being hurt. A body covered in scars tells a thousand tales; metaphorically as does a heart, a mind, a soul. It’s as if we are in actuality lost in the matrix, blinded by the pretty colors of self-deprecation, fabrication, and those little white lies we whisper in our minds. I’m finished fooling myself.

Oh, here it is...

There’s always that one day when you really know it’s summer in the city. You finally break down and have to turn on that window A/C unit. Everyone outside is wearing shorts and flip flops, jogging in the middle of the day. Park benches are full of readers and amateurs with digital cameras, dogs off the leash. Beat cops trying to catch drug trades and college kids sipping 22-ounce tall boys in brown paper bags. You walk into a deli for some iced coffee and ‘Little Red Corvette’ is playing on the radio. I can’t hear that song and not instantly be happy to be alive. It’s impossible. Summer makes me feel like a little kid, all snow cones, pool days, and waking up at 6am for no reason at all. Realistically speaking, however, it’s more like margaritas, bar-hopping, and getting home at 6am for no reason at all, but I digress. No matter what age you reach, your career path, your plans, the summer just has that feel of infinite possibilities. More so than ringing in the New Year or celebrating another birthday. You hear all the Hallmark descriptions about the sun shining and the flowers blooming, and you have your summer blockbuster movies, your outdoor concerts, your trips to Coney Island. Summer is all of those things, and none of them at all. It’s intangible. And it’s so necessary right now. Come fall, we’ll see this whole thing turn around.

Where is Spring?

The human condition is more of a process than a state of mind. It is developing a repertoire of addictions and fatal flaws, all of which make a person less than perfect in the eyes of idealism. We are all unwittingly fighting to be the much adored and all too eagerly martyred protagonists of our transient lives, stars of the epic novel no one will ever read. The tall tale never printed, but passed from mouth to ear and mouth to ear until our considerably mediocre lives are forgotten in a last whisper, disappearing into the thin air like hot breath. You can strive to be a hero or a villain, but for the majority of the time, you can only just be. Be confused or uncertain. Be conflicted. Be angry. Be proud. Be something or anything. Be nothing.
But you can’t ever really be whole. You shouldn’t want to be. You aren’t a piece of fruit, a pizza, or an apple pie. You are not an inanimate object that at one point is whole before it is devoured. People chase this dream of completion that simply does not exist; not in another person, a career, or a desirable amount of zero’s at the end of a paycheck. Strive. Strive. Strive. We are always striving for something instead of realizing the simplicity of it all; piecing together the enigma of ourselves as we want to be remembered. Chances are, however, that no one will be writing your name in a history book. And chances are, even if someone does, on a long enough timeline, no one will care.
I no longer want to waste time figuring things out. I don’t want to be puzzle, some novelty meant as a diversion to pass the days. A jigsaw puzzle is manufactured in hundreds of jagged little pieces. Tongues and grooves, patterns of color, all packed into a cardboard box rattling full of chaos. That is, until the puzzle is complete. You see a landscape of snow covered mountain peaks or a herd of wild horses trampling through a meadow. You see a picture that is finished. You see a frozen moment that is over and done. Sometimes you meet people that seal these puzzles in a frame for display, some sort of unorthodox makeshift diploma as proof that they have too much time on their hands. But most people, they break that puzzle apart, shove the pieces back into the box and slide it under a bed, on the shelf of a storage closet or in the dusty corner of a basement.
Nothing is complete forever, nothing is whole for eternity.
You hear stories about hunters and fisherman who pursue the quintessential catch, the ultimate game. And once they catch it, all camouflage, determination and gratification, they set it free. Because after that, there is nothing left. The future narrows down to a pinpoint. You solve the ultimate riddle and suddenly, there is nothing else. Strive. Strive. Strive. You have nothing left to strive for.
To be complete. To be whole. You are then either consumed, broken down, or inertly sealed away. It isn’t a process; it is a fleeting circumstance, not to be maintained. I don’t need to be complete, I just need to be. That’s the human condition. That’s life.

Somewhere in Between...

The term limbo has several similar meanings (none of which involve a horizontal pole, embarrassment, and back-breaking flexibility). Religious people adopt the notion that limbo is some gray region on the border of Heaven and Hell, like the stuffy waiting room of afterlife. More commonly, it's simply a place or state of oblivion, a home for things that are cast aside, forgotten, or unresolved. Placed on life's transitional little backburner.

More scientifically, the word is derived from limbus, usually associated with the distinctive border between the cornea and the sclera of the eye. It's always interesting how a definition so vague can walk hand-in-hand with one so completely literal and exact.



Limbo. There's something poetic about constantly hovering on a border, a state of sheer indecision. We face it every day as we open our eyes, daylight shining onto that microscopic border just ahead of those delicate optic nerves. You can always make a decision to quit, stop trying. Or you get up and face another day.

Limbo can also be described as a place of imprisonment or confinement. Those times you feel damned if you do, damned if you don't. But you still have to choose. Limbo is never a place that can you stay, it's never really a home.

I am a randomized playlist...

I keep seeing this commercial for Lethal Weapon 4. I've had absolutely zero interest in actually watching the movie, especially after seeing Mel Gibson and Danny Glover scream and crash their police car into a plate glass window for the seventeenth time in a four hour span. However, there's a clever line that keeps playing in my head. Some faceless female character asks Mel Gibson if he goes out looking for trouble, to which he replies:

"No. Trouble pretty much always knows where I am."




Mel, I have the same problem!

Sometimes you just have to throw up your hands in defeat and let trouble handcuff you then beat you silly.

Speaking of trouble, I was in a terrible mood the other night, and actually feared that my wildly hormonal mood swings were a symptom of being inexplicably pregnant. After reminding myself that pregnancy usually involves sex with a man and/or a turkey baster, I decided I was probably not with-child, but in desperate need of chocolate and a cocktail.

At any rate, my utter irritation usually leads to writing. This was the result, later to be dubbed The Human Experiment:

"Briefcase in hand, he strolled to the car dreaming of semi trucks careening out of control on the freeway. He had twisted revelations that we are no different from the fauna and the savage beasts. He sits toiling away in a cubicle maze wearing sky blue neckties with pinstripes and polished leather shoes, worrying about reports and deadlines, and 401Ks for the retirement beach homes in Boca Raton one day when he's too old to surf and terrified of UV rays. Timelessly, the waves crash against the sand and consume a little bit of the shore, take a fraction of his sanity in their wake. Typing, editing, dying inside. Entangled in the great American dream, the great human nightmare. The complete and utter lie we tell ourselves over soy lattes and buttery croissants.

He was simply a slave to safety and convention. Loving his gadgets and his wi-fi. Drinking bottled water and buying organic food, free-range chicken and whole grains. It seems so asinine once you spell it out, discover the less we depend on each other and the more we rely on trivialities.

People judge you based on your diploma, or your resume, or the fact that you’re a cashier at Starbucks instead of a young executive climbing the corporate ladder like a trained chimpanzee. When did we become so shallow, our egos growing with the promise of power, of money? Money and power somehow became synonymous in this materialistic world of Malibu Barbies and plastic suitors. We are all so commercialized and factory-made, rigid from assembly-line production and quick fixes. Here we are dry-cleaning shirts and pressing pants, wearing make-up and high heels to compensate for a complete lack of sincerity."



In other news, today my mother decided it would be cute to dress my dog in a string of pearls. Accordingly, the dog has been jingling around the house like one of The Golden Girls off her meds. A dog should NEVER be wearing pearls, it's just wrong.

A Poetic Rant for a Change...

The natural inclination after a long, stressful day (especially one involving lack of sleep, hostile confrontation and/or menstruation) is to uncork one of these:


Today, however, I decided to take the high road, go for a long walk, and then get drunk on words (which, essentially is not nearly as fun, but causes me to behave). So, in a welcome retreat from the usual, my poetic rant:


There is this disconnect between thoughts and actions, the wires get tangled, crossed or erode away in dusty crevices inside thick walls. Futile attempts leave sweaty brows and broken spirits beyond a barrier not easily surpassed. I stroll the sidewalks, side-stepping reason and rationale hidden between the cracks, dodging the dawn. Sunlight is not illumination, but the passage of time, slowly winding, rotating; a living creature drawing stolen breaths of life. We oblige the burglary of spirit, suffocating character with the exhalation of harsh words, noxious waste like the second-hand air. Slamming doors without latching the locks or turning keys, only fooling the night and its implications. Don't be daft and detrimental, blindly bandaging self-inflicted wounds, fingertips running across silent scars. We exist in the gray hues of black and white life, believing in dichotomy, imagining colors on the convex surface of the lens. The audience is subjective if aware at all, if present at least. But the show continues, curtain open wide, the monologues echoing acoustic. Try to repair the cables and leads, walking in the darkness until it stretches into day. Knock-knock-knock at the closed doors until there is an answer; sweet fluidity coursing through veins and into hearts. Listen, focus, dream reality in the gaps of doubt and uncertainty. Reconnect.


Re-enactment of me after my rant:

And for sh*ts and giggles, I came across The Cattleman Stress Test. Please observe the picture below and then continue reading for your stress diag-nonsense.

• Above is a photograph taken of two dolphins
• The dolphins appear to be nearly identical when viewed by stress-free individuals. The test is not sufficiently accurate to detect mild stress differentials, but is very accurate on individuals with higher stress-levels.
• Deviations in appearance between the 2 dolphins are indicators of potential stress-related problems and the deviations, if any, may also indicate the source of stress.
• If you experience significant deviations, you may want to consider taking things a little easier...

A Lesson in Typing

I am still in a sort of mild depression concerning the fact that Heroes is still not back on TV. So, in the interim I decided to blog about the show. While searching google for images, my ring finger slipped and I typed 'herpes' instead of 'heroes.' I'm now pretty traumatized, and I urge you all to please check your spelling before pressing the enter key.

This has been a public service announcement brought to you by:

CASARDI
(the Council for Accurate Spelling and the Avoidance of Ridiculously Disgusting Images)

Thank you.