Saturday, November 24, 2007
Everything
I want a world where everyone can voice his honest, raw opinion -- can create -- without being forced into submission. And, it would be nice to abolish the notion that murder and force are valid dialogs. That's all I want. That's the only thing I want. There, I said it.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Hard rain
"A hard rain's gonna fall means: something's gonna happen."
"Hard Rain is a desperate kind of song. ... Every line in it is actually the start of a whole song. But when I wrote it, I thought I wouldn't have enough time alive to write all those songs so I put all I could into this one." -- Bob Dylan.
It was written during the Cuban missile crisis of October 1962. Bob was 21.
I see it as a traveling song, a song of weathered youth on the cusp of action, a reminder that what we reap is what we sow and what happens next is up to you and I. If I had to pick a favorite song, this is it.
Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, where have you been, my darling young one?
I've stumbled on the side of twelve misty mountains,
I've walked and I've crawled on six crooked highways,
I've stepped in the middle of seven sad forests,
I've been out in front of a dozen dead oceans,
I've been ten thousand miles in the mouth of a graveyard,
And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, and it's a hard,
And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.
Oh, what did you see, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, what did you see, my darling young one?
I saw a newborn baby with wild wolves all around it
I saw a highway of diamonds with nobody on it,
I saw a black branch with blood that kept drippin',
I saw a room full of men with their hammers a-bleedin',
I saw a white ladder all covered with water,
I saw ten thousand talkers whose tongues were all broken,
I saw guns and sharp swords in the hands of young children,
And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.
And what did you hear, my blue-eyed son?
And what did you hear, my darling young one?
I heard the sound of a thunder, it roared out a warnin',
Heard the roar of a wave that could drown the whole world,
Heard one hundred drummers whose hands were a-blazin',
Heard ten thousand whisperin' and nobody listenin',
Heard one person starve, I heard many people laughin',
Heard the song of a poet who died in the gutter,
Heard the sound of a clown who cried in the alley,
And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.
Oh, who did you meet, my blue-eyed son?
Who did you meet, my darling young one?
I met a young child beside a dead pony,
I met a white man who walked a black dog,
I met a young woman whose body was burning,
I met a young girl, she gave me a rainbow,
I met one man who was wounded in love,
I met another man who was wounded with hatred,
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.
Oh, what'll you do now, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, what'll you do now, my darling young one?
I'm a-goin' back out 'fore the rain starts a-fallin',
I'll walk to the depths of the deepest black forest,
Where the people are many and their hands are all empty,
Where the pellets of poison are flooding their waters,
Where the home in the valley meets the damp dirty prison,
Where the executioner's face is always well hidden,
Where hunger is ugly, where souls are forgotten,
Where black is the color, where none is the number,
And I'll tell it and think it and speak it and breathe it,
And reflect it from the mountain so all souls can see it,
Then I'll stand on the ocean until I start sinkin',
But I'll know my song well before I start singin',
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.
"Hard Rain is a desperate kind of song. ... Every line in it is actually the start of a whole song. But when I wrote it, I thought I wouldn't have enough time alive to write all those songs so I put all I could into this one." -- Bob Dylan.
It was written during the Cuban missile crisis of October 1962. Bob was 21.
I see it as a traveling song, a song of weathered youth on the cusp of action, a reminder that what we reap is what we sow and what happens next is up to you and I. If I had to pick a favorite song, this is it.
Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, where have you been, my darling young one?
I've stumbled on the side of twelve misty mountains,
I've walked and I've crawled on six crooked highways,
I've stepped in the middle of seven sad forests,
I've been out in front of a dozen dead oceans,
I've been ten thousand miles in the mouth of a graveyard,
And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, and it's a hard,
And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.
Oh, what did you see, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, what did you see, my darling young one?
I saw a newborn baby with wild wolves all around it
I saw a highway of diamonds with nobody on it,
I saw a black branch with blood that kept drippin',
I saw a room full of men with their hammers a-bleedin',
I saw a white ladder all covered with water,
I saw ten thousand talkers whose tongues were all broken,
I saw guns and sharp swords in the hands of young children,
And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.
And what did you hear, my blue-eyed son?
And what did you hear, my darling young one?
I heard the sound of a thunder, it roared out a warnin',
Heard the roar of a wave that could drown the whole world,
Heard one hundred drummers whose hands were a-blazin',
Heard ten thousand whisperin' and nobody listenin',
Heard one person starve, I heard many people laughin',
Heard the song of a poet who died in the gutter,
Heard the sound of a clown who cried in the alley,
And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.
Oh, who did you meet, my blue-eyed son?
Who did you meet, my darling young one?
I met a young child beside a dead pony,
I met a white man who walked a black dog,
I met a young woman whose body was burning,
I met a young girl, she gave me a rainbow,
I met one man who was wounded in love,
I met another man who was wounded with hatred,
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.
Oh, what'll you do now, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, what'll you do now, my darling young one?
I'm a-goin' back out 'fore the rain starts a-fallin',
I'll walk to the depths of the deepest black forest,
Where the people are many and their hands are all empty,
Where the pellets of poison are flooding their waters,
Where the home in the valley meets the damp dirty prison,
Where the executioner's face is always well hidden,
Where hunger is ugly, where souls are forgotten,
Where black is the color, where none is the number,
And I'll tell it and think it and speak it and breathe it,
And reflect it from the mountain so all souls can see it,
Then I'll stand on the ocean until I start sinkin',
But I'll know my song well before I start singin',
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Background noise
I feel as if I've written this one hundred times. I am at unease. I haven't laughed in weeks. I check my email; the universe gives me nothing new. Distract me, I say; keep me from answering these questions. There is silence, and there is no answer, that is what we know. This is revolting, and yet we are all here, alive. Show me inspiration, show me honesty, show me progress. Where is it? What do you see? Give me the answer, I'm done trying to figure it out. There is no answer, we say.
I can't think on Wednesdays. It's my favorite day; on the floor, there's only room for smiling, for small bouts of courage, and for saying yes, at least we're still here, tonight. I always come home. No messages. No answer.
I write by incandescent light. I wait. Challenge me. No, not that much. Entice me. Oh. Fine. Let's talk about the game again. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again.
Again, I wait. Where do we want to go? We're on the sea; at least the sun is out. You don't need your book, you know how it goes, you've read it before.
No messages. Tell me a joke that involves the president, our leader, our beacon, our representative, our selves. At what point do we give up. This isn't our country. These aren't our lives. Some day we'll learn. Some day I'll learn. Some day I'll be honest. I'll write. I'll share. Some day. Eight hours at work. Eight hours of a life. Not my life, I say. What a lie, what an easy path. Yet, I wait.
I can't think on Wednesdays. It's my favorite day; on the floor, there's only room for smiling, for small bouts of courage, and for saying yes, at least we're still here, tonight. I always come home. No messages. No answer.
I write by incandescent light. I wait. Challenge me. No, not that much. Entice me. Oh. Fine. Let's talk about the game again. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again.
Again, I wait. Where do we want to go? We're on the sea; at least the sun is out. You don't need your book, you know how it goes, you've read it before.
No messages. Tell me a joke that involves the president, our leader, our beacon, our representative, our selves. At what point do we give up. This isn't our country. These aren't our lives. Some day we'll learn. Some day I'll learn. Some day I'll be honest. I'll write. I'll share. Some day. Eight hours at work. Eight hours of a life. Not my life, I say. What a lie, what an easy path. Yet, I wait.
Monday, November 12, 2007
Unfinished.
Everything I write here has been said before. Even that. Even that. Imagine our plight 2,000 years from now; not only will everything have been written, but it will have been written eight times over; it will be searchable, hyper-linked to the others, and tagged by thousands of strangers with meanings you never intended. Let’s take a moment to be thankful for the arcane times we live in.
Now is when we can pretend to be unique from time to time, as we hide our flashes of brilliance from the world for fear of being too honest, too insane, as we balance upon the dull edge of what we call the brink, as the gods note the standard refrain. Now.
Now is when we can pretend to be unique from time to time, as we hide our flashes of brilliance from the world for fear of being too honest, too insane, as we balance upon the dull edge of what we call the brink, as the gods note the standard refrain. Now.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Anxiety
Encircled by a mix of good friends and strangers, I'm alone, standing in the middle of the room. The lights are warm; music is blasting, smiles all around, hands are clapping, "dance!" is shouted into the air. I'm supposed to be dancing, and everyone is watching to see what I'll do. My palms begin to sweat, my back slowly follows in suit; my pulse quickens and my throat tightens; I look down, flushed and embarrassed, and walk outside. "I can't dance."
That's never happened; but, seven months ago, it was my largest social fear. I wasn't someone who was meant to dance, I would tell myself. "Just do what comes natural," friends would say; standing around seemed natural to me, or simply bobbing my head -- perhaps groping a nearby companion would come to mind, but that's not polite, and so I refrained.
I used to dance all the time. I remember it well: I was five or maybe four or three. Couches created for the sole purpose of jumping upon were mine; Chicago was the band of the hour, sharing time with the Fame soundtrack; jumping, spinning, closed eyes, smiling. Stop. Switch. Embarrassment begins, expression ends. What if someone sees me? How horrifying. I'll sit for a while. Prom comes and goes; no, not for me.
There are some things people don't teach us early enough in life; but, to be fair to our elders and our peers, perhaps we're all still searching. After all, with the possibilities of the world before us, why else would we instruct our children to kill -- because we have it all figured out? Perhaps not.
In light of this, I propose an incomplete set of rules for life:
I like to watch it; it oscillates sometimes, or moves by chance. Without the force field, the fear would fall and shatter like a glass ball dropped from 327 feet, cutting into me, into me, forcing me to sit. Sometimes I hold it with both hands, shaking it like a snow globe to see what it will do. It spins and sways, gurgles, bubbles. I put it in my pocket, and it's light. It's mine.
After a short tango on Wednesday, I was told that I was becoming quite a good dancer. I said thank you. Another said she loves dancing with me. Hil-arious. Not that I disagree; in fact I love dancing with her, too; it's a riot, and we know it.
I started to swing in late June, out of obligation to my self; I wasn't going to die without having danced, first. A wedding in September -- surely an opportunity to dance -- merely provided the excuse to go through with it.
I had no idea what I was doing, but that's part of the point. You're with someone, on the floor, and that's all there is. You can't mess up; just have fun. Just dance.
That's never happened; but, seven months ago, it was my largest social fear. I wasn't someone who was meant to dance, I would tell myself. "Just do what comes natural," friends would say; standing around seemed natural to me, or simply bobbing my head -- perhaps groping a nearby companion would come to mind, but that's not polite, and so I refrained.
I used to dance all the time. I remember it well: I was five or maybe four or three. Couches created for the sole purpose of jumping upon were mine; Chicago was the band of the hour, sharing time with the Fame soundtrack; jumping, spinning, closed eyes, smiling. Stop. Switch. Embarrassment begins, expression ends. What if someone sees me? How horrifying. I'll sit for a while. Prom comes and goes; no, not for me.
There are some things people don't teach us early enough in life; but, to be fair to our elders and our peers, perhaps we're all still searching. After all, with the possibilities of the world before us, why else would we instruct our children to kill -- because we have it all figured out? Perhaps not.
In light of this, I propose an incomplete set of rules for life:
- Rules are for those who don't know what they're doing.
- If you have no fear then you're not a human being.
- There is a short list of things that matter. What happens on a dance floor isn't one of them.
- No one knows what one's doing.
- Expression is a duty, not a right.
- Don't worry about combining rules 1 and 4; just go with it.
I like to watch it; it oscillates sometimes, or moves by chance. Without the force field, the fear would fall and shatter like a glass ball dropped from 327 feet, cutting into me, into me, forcing me to sit. Sometimes I hold it with both hands, shaking it like a snow globe to see what it will do. It spins and sways, gurgles, bubbles. I put it in my pocket, and it's light. It's mine.
After a short tango on Wednesday, I was told that I was becoming quite a good dancer. I said thank you. Another said she loves dancing with me. Hil-arious. Not that I disagree; in fact I love dancing with her, too; it's a riot, and we know it.
I started to swing in late June, out of obligation to my self; I wasn't going to die without having danced, first. A wedding in September -- surely an opportunity to dance -- merely provided the excuse to go through with it.
I had no idea what I was doing, but that's part of the point. You're with someone, on the floor, and that's all there is. You can't mess up; just have fun. Just dance.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Energy
I'm teeming with potential at this moment. What do you want to do? Where do you want to go? Let's do it. Let's go. Let's fucking do something amazing and worthwhile, climbing out of this mud that we've been stuck in for years. These thoughts are fleeting, I know, but now they have a sense of permanence. I wish I could scream and all my passion would be conveyed -- a futile effort, likely.
We've given up everything, as if we held something at all. We're in China. Now what. The emptiness is there, the excitement of the moment gone, as we long nostalgically for yesterday, for what we felt in that moment. Daydreaming, we begin to sink again. There's a certain excitement about being homeless -- the feeling of being more alive; at least for a week. A warm bed is all we want, we say, to be happy, to keep us from the rain, hail, wind and loneliness. What better is it compared to what we have -- our passion and our courage, our lives.
Still, I am restless. If I think hard enough, there will be peace in the form of full-on, overwhelming life. As if this isn't life. As if there is something more real inside of me, trying (not very hard) to escape and exist. I hold on to the familiar, to my home, to my work, for no-more stronger a reason than why I like orange juice -- perhaps for a weaker reason.
Remember when we went to China? Wasn't it perfect?
The end of the world is near. It always is. Such are the times we live in, the same as our friends of the past have contemplated, have shared with their old friends. It's our turn to share what they've thought, through our mouths. Perhaps I love you. Perhaps it doesn't matter. Perhaps we're all that is beautiful in this world and poets of the future and poets of the past will write of us while clutching their hearts, cursing their useless pens.
Let's just keep singing.
We've given up everything, as if we held something at all. We're in China. Now what. The emptiness is there, the excitement of the moment gone, as we long nostalgically for yesterday, for what we felt in that moment. Daydreaming, we begin to sink again. There's a certain excitement about being homeless -- the feeling of being more alive; at least for a week. A warm bed is all we want, we say, to be happy, to keep us from the rain, hail, wind and loneliness. What better is it compared to what we have -- our passion and our courage, our lives.
Still, I am restless. If I think hard enough, there will be peace in the form of full-on, overwhelming life. As if this isn't life. As if there is something more real inside of me, trying (not very hard) to escape and exist. I hold on to the familiar, to my home, to my work, for no-more stronger a reason than why I like orange juice -- perhaps for a weaker reason.
Remember when we went to China? Wasn't it perfect?
The end of the world is near. It always is. Such are the times we live in, the same as our friends of the past have contemplated, have shared with their old friends. It's our turn to share what they've thought, through our mouths. Perhaps I love you. Perhaps it doesn't matter. Perhaps we're all that is beautiful in this world and poets of the future and poets of the past will write of us while clutching their hearts, cursing their useless pens.
Let's just keep singing.
Monday, July 30, 2007
Transparency
I believe the kindest thing you can do for a human being is to be honest with him. Be honest, be transparent and share your opinion. In my experience, people usually take honesty well -- they can handle it, despite my reservations. When I withhold honesty, it's because I don't trust my audience's judgment.
To paraphrase Camus, every dishonest act, every misleading or false opinion, over time, leads to death; in order to minimize the cruelty of this world, to refuse adding to the sum of all evil things, it is our duty to be honest.
I can write those words, and in most cases I believe in them. However, there are many times when I refuse to offer the truth, despite my conscious efforts to expose the truth. Ironically, this refusal occurs in my most-treasured relationships -- or, rather, in my relationships that are on the cusp between treasured and congenial. The word for that is cowardly, and today I am a coward.
In all cases, or if not all then most, once I open my mouth to speak, I am no longer a coward, before I even articulate my intent. In my view, this simple act of deciding to speak is the widest chasm to cross. It is also the most noble, the most courageous, and the most reasonable act. Although, I write this without justifiable reason; I take Camus' word for it -- a crime of philosophy, perhaps, but a practical starting point; Camus spent untold days grappling with such views, and it will take me untold more to form a basis upon which I can stand with my own novel (should I be so fortunate!) viewpoint.
I am committing such a non-transparent act in this mere blog entry. I am not mentioning a specific instance where I've been too cowardly to speak my mind. On the other hand, it is not my position to broadcast a person's name over the Internet (or upon whatever medium this is published in the future (ha!)). This blog is my own, and it is my public forum for associating thoughts with my name, but others' thoughts are their own, and they can decide whether they want to claim them by name. I am comfortable should you, dear reader, choose to broadcast my name in any honest fashion.
So, is there a limit to transparency? I'm forced to say yes, as evidenced by what I said above. However, this will eventually lead to death, apparently -- I don't see how. I can say for myself that I choose openness, that what encapsulates my thoughts is transparent, and that the curious need only to inquire. But, I believe everyone must make a similar choice for himself, and to choose openness for another human being is a way of force that I cannot justify (as force can so very rarely be justified).
But, when I am asked for my opinion, you will receive it, in kind. To sugarcoat it or make it politically correct is only to disrespect. At the same time, vulgarity and sarcasm are not the same as honesty; to be honest one must articulate unambiguously (which may involve ambiguity), and this takes many iterations and concentrated work. Because of this inherent difficulty, I hold it to be the greatest compliment one can give.
To paraphrase Camus, every dishonest act, every misleading or false opinion, over time, leads to death; in order to minimize the cruelty of this world, to refuse adding to the sum of all evil things, it is our duty to be honest.
I can write those words, and in most cases I believe in them. However, there are many times when I refuse to offer the truth, despite my conscious efforts to expose the truth. Ironically, this refusal occurs in my most-treasured relationships -- or, rather, in my relationships that are on the cusp between treasured and congenial. The word for that is cowardly, and today I am a coward.
In all cases, or if not all then most, once I open my mouth to speak, I am no longer a coward, before I even articulate my intent. In my view, this simple act of deciding to speak is the widest chasm to cross. It is also the most noble, the most courageous, and the most reasonable act. Although, I write this without justifiable reason; I take Camus' word for it -- a crime of philosophy, perhaps, but a practical starting point; Camus spent untold days grappling with such views, and it will take me untold more to form a basis upon which I can stand with my own novel (should I be so fortunate!) viewpoint.
I am committing such a non-transparent act in this mere blog entry. I am not mentioning a specific instance where I've been too cowardly to speak my mind. On the other hand, it is not my position to broadcast a person's name over the Internet (or upon whatever medium this is published in the future (ha!)). This blog is my own, and it is my public forum for associating thoughts with my name, but others' thoughts are their own, and they can decide whether they want to claim them by name. I am comfortable should you, dear reader, choose to broadcast my name in any honest fashion.
So, is there a limit to transparency? I'm forced to say yes, as evidenced by what I said above. However, this will eventually lead to death, apparently -- I don't see how. I can say for myself that I choose openness, that what encapsulates my thoughts is transparent, and that the curious need only to inquire. But, I believe everyone must make a similar choice for himself, and to choose openness for another human being is a way of force that I cannot justify (as force can so very rarely be justified).
But, when I am asked for my opinion, you will receive it, in kind. To sugarcoat it or make it politically correct is only to disrespect. At the same time, vulgarity and sarcasm are not the same as honesty; to be honest one must articulate unambiguously (which may involve ambiguity), and this takes many iterations and concentrated work. Because of this inherent difficulty, I hold it to be the greatest compliment one can give.
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