Saturday, July 23, 2005

Michael Bublé

The regeneration of Frank Sinatra, his voice is smooth. I'm listening to him right now. Sweet, his voice is. But I consider the soothing harmonic lyrics he molds to be a facáde. How Can we grow? I ask myself.

I've only recently settled on the topic for my first novel, not to say that it will be published (or my first published book), but the first book it will be. In a way, the writing will wrench my heart, make me question how strong I am. I've proven how weak I can be at times, but only recently have I questioned again the power inside myself. The feeling is wonderous, like a child exploring nature. Intoxicating too. So, after meeting someone, I have been posed that question: How strong am I? Are we all? Sure, we are separated by body and ideal, but our soul is unified between us all, like a loaf of bread divided between us all.

I hear Michael Bublé in my mind sometimes when I think on who I am. Sure, what I write is broken and swirls like toilet water, swirls like a diabetic ice-cream machine, icing on a cinnamon roll, or like an absent-minded students scrawlings. I wonder if anyone can makes sense of my metaphor, if it does good to edit, to revise and shape my writing at all, since its too muddled to form cognative prose anyhow. Anyhow, I will test myself (and the Bublé stereophonics of my mind) in the course of this book, which in Thoreauvian in nature (not literally, but idealistically) and will center all that is known within the self. I don't purport a philosopher's mind. I haven't read enough classics to do so, but one day. One day I will, and this will be my first step in that direction and a shift of my efforts on personal pain as a triumphs. Sounds awefully, terribly confusing, I know. BUt follow me here. I'll put this note in the back of the book, if it were written better. Maybe if I revise it . . .

A note: I do wonder how this new avenue will breed life in me. How this new work will shift my focus. How my personal life will mold itself around the words I write, how they will affect who I am, and how who I turn into will shape my writing. Another terrible and confusing sentence, but it sure makes some sense to me. To begin the novel.

Tuesday, July 19, 2005

On death

While considering other's death, I think my own should be quick and fluid, straight to the point. Ya know? Life tends to make the pitch-black seems so dark, but it isn't really. Not when we spend so much time preparing, sleeping, blinking, closing our eyes when we kiss, when we hug, when we daydream. I'll embrace death when it comes. I just hope it embraces me, lets me slide right into her arms. Death is a her by the way. Gotta be. Just like God and the devil. Both women. All women. Everybody of value- women. All women. To the point again: Death does indeed wear a black cloak (for me, in my mind) but she doesn't seem so scary. She is the dancing feet of John Travolta, the smooth silk of a Degas stroke. It's funny, the American culture fearing death so much. So much, even after an experience with death, Americans still wonder and wish to know each little detail of secrecy. I generalize for my point. But I'd just prefer to be surprised, to do something good with my life before I go, taken while soaking in a bubble bath or laying in fresh cut grass. That's what I'm working on right now. I want to invent the world's fastest ice-cream dispenser. I'm so close I can taste it. Kidding. Something really good though. Something really majestic. That's a great word for the vague images in my head. Majestic. What to do? That's the question of a lifetime isn't it? That's all we really need the answers for . . . what to do. Who we want to be. We think that it will come, but it won't, not by itself. It needs a stiff push, a quiet yearning from our gut to expose itself. Who we are is composed of what we do. Something great, so I can be remembered by those who knew me as someone great. That's not too much to crave from life. And then death can come and woo me away. Then death can lift her cloak and I'll fall gracefully from the world we all know, but never really understand. That's my kind of life. That's my kind of death. Both sweet and fluid.

Wednesday, July 13, 2005

Loves Grows where my ................ Goes . . .

Day two, being in love. It is a nice fact to find, me not having to save this one. I'm sure she likes me; I am sure she has some quality that I cannot live without. The romantic in me wants to say she is the one, but of course, I just don't know yet. Her face is delicate and strong. Her eyes are just gorgeous. He mouth is like the mouth I saw in my dreams as a thirteen year old boy. Thr same mouth that was on my last girlfriend, the mouth-fraud. Her mouth is different in a way though. Hard on the outside, gentle underneath. For some reason, I want to kiss her, a want I've not had for years now. And I think that gentleness underneath is the most plush and vibrant thing I'll come across in a long time. If- if I get to come across it. Of course in love I am optimistic. It is the mindset I was raised with. My mother, my grandmother are both optimistic in love and have been lucky thus. WIll I be lucky? The men in my family are not. But the men in my family have only hurt the ones they love, where I know I will devote my life to her, when she comes to me. (Maybe this is her.) Maybe the clouds have parted and maybe she is waiting for me to propose. I always equate proposing as the ultimate act, no matter how it is objectified in that runaway-New-England-bride or the man left standing at the alter, at the bus terminal where his wife went missing.

Damn, I smoke more when I've been drinking. But tonight, I don't care at all. I've been there and back tonight, being strong and trying to get to know this woman, trying to find out how close she is to my perfection. Perfection being different for each. I don't expect perfection from her (if she is the one); I only expect her to be perfect for me (if she is the one). And her roommate- she wa there- I swear I've met her before. I don't get fond memories of this meeting, but I am sure. I probably won't place it any time soon. But this girl, she is odd just enough to make me interested. And I do not think I'll have to be her savior, which is a miracle in-and-of-itself. I hope I've learned to trust my gauge enough. I hope the love in my is still solid. I know it is still.
The way I see love: Love is pure. Love is the prayer before bed, excusing the selfishness that follows a truly good person's blessings of their loved ones. Love is the blanket that covers cold feet at night, the blanket leaving warm feet uncovered. I should not say love is another's feet; it is not. Love is knowing yourself well enough to value the love you offer, valuing the ones you love as they are,and gracing them with that love no matter what. I have yet to love a woman in this way (mother's and mother-figures are the exception and a similar but altogether different love); I've spent almost four years cultivating this frame-of-mind. I am a better person for it. I am a person who is able to love fully at a relatively young age. Now comes the hard part. Testing the women I find myself attracted to, and dictating which attributes make me thus attracted. I am in love again and Donna Summers is indeed playing. I've just put her on . . .

What am I, chop liver?

About a year ago, I worked at a church with the kids and the snot and the doo-doo diapers and I loved it. Not because of any of those things, but for one simple reason. I worked with four women. It was nice and they smelled good. But more on topic, I would come in Sunday mornings (drunk or half drunk) and sleep in the corner every once in a while. Anyway, I think I fell in love again today. I fell in love with a woman with an opinion finally and to boot, she doesn't look half bad. I like her in the worst way, the Moonlighting-David&Maddie-way, or the way the little kids loved to use me as the bottom of their fort (and sometimes a long work bench) because of my uncanny ability to stay still. So there you have it. I have been looking for a wife and I might have indeed heard Donna Summers singing, I might have indeed found someone I like enough to care enough to hate enough to love. Think about that one. It makes complete sense to me. I love to love ya baby . . .

***Edit*** Loves stinks like rotten, moldy tomato soup.

Sunday, July 10, 2005

Janie of the Southwest Parkway-Kroger Clan

She looks like a slightly less feminine, freckled face-Morgan Freeman (from Robin Hood: Prince of Theives) and speaks with a condecension I did not notice until yesterday. Let me begin from a point of coherency: I have a small delimma with Kroger's grocery store. It seems every times I go into the store (once a week for major shopping) I utilize the splendid price-saving strategum of the Kroger card. Since I don't carry it with me, and it is tied to my phone number, I tell them that. They type it in- oops, 'I'm surry sur, uh- maybe its on another nummer'. Nope- don't own a cell phone, only a home phone. 'Uh- I don't know wha tell ya . . .'. So I get slightly pissed and tell them to give me another application and the line behind me waits as I fill out another card. This has happed three times. And again yesterday.

Surprise was I, when I gave Janie my number and she said I must not have filled out the card. "Of course I did; I stood in line and handed it to the lady," I said. She preceeded to tell me THREE times I must have not sent it in. How many different ways can I explain that my mail carrier was THEM!? So I told her she usually doesn't give me problems, but today she's is really getting on my nerves and being very disrespectful. She was taken aback, I assume because I can articulately express my anger and dissappointment in the human experience from practice doing so. So then she told me one more time that I was wrong again. I told her to give me another form to fill out. Then she asked me why I didn't carry the card with me, explaining that there are keychain cards and a main card. I told her I didn't want to clutter my life with their crap. Again no reponse, so she told me I could leave my fingerprint on the machine. I laughed at the idea that I would leave yet another sign that I will die unknown, with every business and goverment agency tagged onto me, still sending me mail, via the knowledge they suck from me via my fingerprint. I told her, 'no way in hell.' This time she laughed, and I called her an idiot. I didn't, but I wanted to.

So life have a funny way of giving you lemonade and peeing on your face like R.Kelly did. Now Janie and I will soon be married, as I proposed in between the canned carrots and tollhouse semi-sweet chocolate. Actually, if by proposing I mean to say, "mailing a letter to the head of the Kroger Branch in Houston, Dallas, Austin, San Antonio, and her local regional manager" then yeah, I proposed. I haven't done this yet, but give me two weeks and let my anger fester. Better yet, let me go in again and have my ONLY phone number rejected one more time. Sounds like I have my evenings planned, doesn't it? Anyway, it really gets me when people can't extend simple human kindness. People sometimes ask me why I'm so grumpy. It could be one of two reasons: 1. You have made me grumpy and I am responding to your stupidity without blatantly throwing it in your face; or 2. I've just gotten back from Kroger's. If I am ever rich, I'll hire some crazy guys to blow up all the business buildings that mess with me. Crazy guys like doing that kind of stuff, and they usually get away with it. Because they're crazy.

Thursday, July 07, 2005

I was Mistaken about Donna Summers

I was mistaken about Donna Summers, meeting the girl of my potential dreams. I am not looking, but if she happened my way I won't pass up the opportunity. We all have our 'what if' stories; I just don't want anymore of those clouding my memory. I'd like those 'shot down' stories or 'she's not what I expected' stories. No more regretfuls though. So no Donna Summers, not Love to Love you Baby. That's alright. I expect to give things a shot, and move on. I am hopeful, not expectant. There is a world of difference between the two. Age, accountability, wise judgement separate the two. So if things don't work out, no worries, as I will once again (soon, most likely) fall back in love for the moment, fall right out of it. I guess the only time I should worry is when love doesn't leave and I've found the woman who sticks. That would be the kicker. Then I'd have something to love. Right now, I put my pride on the line and that is replenishable. That wanes like the tides. Some gone, some to refill. But not trying, not hoping to meet someone who I can make happy, who turns my oven burners full blast, the click of the igniter slamming loudly. To not hear that torch fire hot, that's the biggest sin of love. Don't be the regretful one. I'm certainly not. But there is no Donna Summers today. . . .

Wednesday, July 06, 2005

For my Senior Poetry Course

Somebody's a poet. Watch out! Here it comes . . .

Breath of me
Raymond Faulkner

In sleep I take the rains of petals flittering away from the core,
a blanket of yawns only a Texas heat brings on.

Only a Texas sun: birth of the cool
fighting trees, then blush at my smile,
insiteful winds to bumrush the shirt I wear.
Only a Texas sun pierces me and the fire-wheels:

Oh, they sing of backs on broken soil.
It breathes of my lingua franca.
My Paris, Texarcana, refried cactus lips for linseed oil

Only the suns of Texas sing Z's under a hat tipped to shadow,
the course of a life summed up in hummingbird's kisses-
the damned beija flor takes my heart and breaks it,
and I let her while the world breaks nature's heart.

A masquerade lawn of a new world, almost untouched
except for 'Tonio and CowTown and 6th and Montross;
Almost untouched,
the virgin lips of the beija flor stealing my heart.

my heart closed,
the weight of dew without sun,
the weight of my heart sleeping.

I'll give this nimble grass, sucked by me
a way to suck me back.
I'll give the breath passed symbiotic
the infallible tick of a broken clock.

I'm in love today;
I'm in love now.
The women
I see before me,
best watch out.

I've a love strong like the trees when I sleep.
I've a tree like the tower of babel,
built on the ashes of men
feeding the nibbled grass grey,
the nimble fire-wheels shining bright city lights.

Only in my mind, until I wake,
loving all new:
the woman and the beija flor, the same
caress for both, wild sweet-grass uncut.

Tell me that isn't the good stuff. . . .

fell in love yesterday, but . . .

Dammit. I fell in love yesterday and wrote it all down, then hit 'spell-check'. It all went away. Some really elegant shit. So I won't rewrite it; only to say this girl surprised me, and if she can keep doing that, I'll ask her to marry me. If not- well, I'll cross that bridge when I come to it. I'm sleepy. Is it being in love, or that I've been working too damn much? Maybe a kind of euphoria from both? Donna Summers, Love to love ya baby. In an aweful spin, in a spin. . . .

Water and Sleep

This morning I was imagining the beauty of a waterfall's rushing. The soothing sound (probably the most soothing sound besides Billie Holiday's voice) in my ears, my dog jumping his fifty pound body on the bed, making me stir. The sound was nea, compact and I thought it was odd in a way, but hey, as a man trapped in the confines of city life (albeit not much of a city, but a city nontheless) I took it to heart. I heard it again later, the same rushing sound, this time more like a bucket of water falling. The dog's face had changed as I lay fully awake. He was no longer curious of the noise, but curious as to how I'd handle it.

For the first time this morning, I realized I was not a product of my own fantasy, but of a major bathroom delimma. Fear not; I didn't crap myself or pee or have myself an adolescent angsty dream. My toilet exploded. Accurately, it busted at the base, leaving water spreading everywhere. It just kept going while I rubbed the sleep away from my face. So I called calmly, leaving a message for the landlord. "Hi, this is Joe from 9B and my bathroom is flooded. There is water everywhere and I need to pee (and crap). This is a major concern for me, as I pee pretty regularly and am leaving now, but will need to pee when I come home. So please attend to this nasty ordeal of water all over my apartment. Outside, I looked at the 'welcome' mat. It was soaked through; my feet made a squish sound as I pushed my toe into it. The world is coming to an end, all because I slept late. The first time in two weeks. But that's the college life: a landlord screws you out of money, the University scres you out of money, dating screws you out of money, and the young, carefree attitude bilks your wallet as well. Oh well, one day I'll be old and save every penny, live in a house where, if the water pipes burst, I'm the one to wade through and fix it. One day I won't wake up, see a disaster, and passively write it off as nothing but the droning of everyone around me screwing me over. ha. The life of a college student bettering himself.

They should offer a "getting-screwed-and-smiling" class at freshman orientation. Hopefully, I won't be one of the 'unstanding citizens' doing the screwing when my hair falls out and I grow fat. Well, fatter anyway. Passive resistance no longer exists. Today its just called resistance. And we're all very bad at it indeed. Come what may, seems like the phrase of the generation. Hopefully, I'll be the be that 'come way may' when I'm hit the aforementioned age. Hopefully, the phrase won't be used sarcastically. Hopefully my generation won't exhaust itself in material possessions. Hopefully most people will grab hold of what's important, realize life has the lifespan of a sit on the back. Let's sueeze that zit with a smile; don't let it fester, grow, become infected. Let the sit make out skin more resistant, instead of the reason why we wear a shirt, protect our scars. Let's expose our sins, learn from them, leave the bandage we considered using to cover the zit on our nose. Leave all our clothes at home and bound ourselves to the bounty of the earth, not the confines of a car and a bottle of hair dye. Don't let your life slip away in remarks to make others think you are a person of virtue. Let you life slip through your hands while you strangle it, while you remark to others, "I have no virtue at all!" This, I think, will prove to be the most virtuous act we could accompish. whatever the case, reevaluate your life today. When the pipes burst, and you get yourself good and screwed, let it pass like water off a ducks' feet. Like water off your own feet. Like your feet were wings, your insecurities only more reason to take this moment to soar. I feel like my life is done with sometimes. I'm glad. Those are the times I act irrationally, accidently showing kindness. I've had the acts returned. Though not always. It would be nice if you folks did the same. I'm done ranting.

Tuesday, July 05, 2005

Sleep is important

I compare being a college student to being a deformed bum beneath an overpass. We both smell bad on occasion; both of us collect random things we find on the road or in the garbage; Let's not even mention our diet and knowledge of how long food can pass its expiration date or level of hardness; and of course, a love of alcohol while sitting in the sun. It's odd how no sociological studies have taken place explaining the similarities. Truth be told, it says more about the worth of a man than anything else.

Unless there is a job, attended everyday and paying well, the value of a man is small to none. You may be on your way up in the public eye, or on your way down, but the lifestyles are uncannily similar. It seems we make little of the life of a man learning who he is, and more of a man supposing he is somebody of worth. In America we do this. Constantly. We treat those who treat themselves well. We look down on the people who struggle, to fight to find the true self inside. Of course I don't mean people with real jobs don't know themselves. But sitting and doing nothing under an overpass gives much time for reflection. So does sleeping off a heavy night of drinking. Whatever the cause, the people who have-not, attempt to find peace in their own person instead of seeking merit through possessions. I find this a mighty noble act. But so is raking in 6-figures a year, plus a chubby, chubby bonus. It all depends on perspective.

I like being poor. I am. I live well, I save money to buy things I want and need, but I don't have an abundance of money. My point is this: there are merits in both having money and having none. The important thing is to enjoy living life, pull from it what you can, not judge yourself too harshly and remember that every single aspect in life is fleeting, and everything that has come will leave, so gather up your tin cans while ye may.

My first blog here. I like it; breaking down at the end, it has its merits too, doesn't it? Makes me feel a little better. Hopefully, I'll have more to say the next time around.