-The Fiery Furances
So we are back to this. My daughter has only been alive for a fortnight, and I can finally stay awake long enough to be plunged into an existential crisis and be found at midnight listening to nonsensical indie music and drinking a cheap scotch (Jura, which is probably the best value in Scotch I've ever found, kinda an Islay-lite for like $30 a bottle) because I wanted to save the good stuff once I got a taste for it again.
Wasn't I just here? I guess. But this feels different. All of that waiting, biding, pining is over. Everything that I've ever wanted I somehow, inexplicably have. A wife, a daughter, a job where I make way more than I ever deserve... and yet, predictably, I'm at a loss as to what to do next. I have 6 weeks off, which is beautiful, really, but has the unnerving side-effect of reminding me that this luxury is temporary, and is in exchange for not seeing my daughter this much for the rest of her life. And so I think about this and it gets worse because I can't devote all of my attention to her as I feel I should, and allow myself to get distracted by stupid stupid things, about which I will proceed to elaborate.
I made a list of all of the stupid, senseless, wonderful material things I would need to be happy (excluding house, furnishings for said house, student loans, retirement, clothes, kitchen) and I got up to about $40k. I got to this by breaking down my desires into a handful of hobbies, namely: book-collecting, photography, backpacking, drinking, media, bicycling, travel. And these are just relatively big-ticket items. I know that there are millions of tiny accessories for accessories that I haven't yet considered.
But who do I want to be? I started reading a diatribe written by some bike enthusiast/retailer. I could probably subscribe to many of those things he says, for the most part. But I don't want that to be my life. Hours and hours and hours? I just want a bike... for what? I don't even know. I want my peace. I want to be able to get from here to there and I want to probably take pictures there and spend the night.
What is this worth, though? Is this worth my soul? What does it even mean to *live*? I don't have the slightest idea. I have a vision, nothing more. A vain vision, a selfish one. I wake up, make an espresso, ride for 60 miles, hike past a waterfall to a campsite and spend the night. I'll take pictures and make it back into town the next day. But could I even do that? Do I have the latitude? I don't see my family enough as it is!
Where is my life and what is recreation? Is that something to live for? I have the hardest time at work because I feel the expectation is for that to be my life. I couldn't care less about work, not really. I am there to be there. I am there to get paid more than I deserve. I solve fun problems occasionally, and I'm probably happier there than being bored at home. But I haven't been bored at home in a while, and with a daughter, probably never again. Could I live for this job, or any other? Could I live for the paycheck itself, for the apparent good of my family? Certainly not on the first hand, and while the second was good enough for my grandfather, I, la moyenne bourgeois that I am, will not deign myself to such crassness. For my life must have a purpose! Merely enjoying this time until my eventual and too-soon death is the most horrifying of thoughts.
Wednesday, June 26, 2013
Sunday, January 27, 2013
"Terminal Grain"
It was so easy, and it was so hard: you were clutching your copy of Kierkegaard. Repetition. Repetition.
-The Extra Glenns
I got something off of my chest just now. It didn't feel like much. A feeble first step, maybe. Anything, really, to begin to plumb the depths of my being. Since I have felt shallow for so long now. I have begun to collect the answers. But I don't know the questions. I am happy. I am satisfied. (I should be.) Yet I can feel the twitching of adventure. I don't know where it will begin. I don't know the full scale of the journey. I don't like thinking in metaphysical terms. Because I get anxious with metaphysical questions. I can't answer these. I want to, certainly, but what is there, really? When we come to it, won't I just end up naked and screaming something from Tolstoy from the rooftop until the police come for me? I don't have the courage to scream anything from anywhere, and I'm far too bashful for rooftop nudity. But at least I have Tolstoy. Sometimes I think that I'm too narrow, too limited. But I have some Ignatius somewhere, and I have enough poetry to get me through/into a lot of emotional imprisonment. I have the Elder Edda in a place of particular prestige, right in between The Kalevala and Chaucer. Am I being clear enough? I keep trying to ground myself, but every time I try to do so, I am probing Walden's false bottoms. I have constructed this edifice. The sheer and interminable facade. I wish I was a better writer. Maybe then I could publish and gain immortality. But I have spent my life in sloth, and have come naturally into no talent. I have no grasp on human speech, human psychology, or human relations. My essays are miserable and ill-formed. I brood. What is there for this brooder? Where might this brooding reach? Maybe I'll find the other brooders. I'm sure there are others, somewhere. Maybe it is just me and the teenagers in art schools. I can move back to Portland and spend my days smoking pot at Reed. Maybe I can take responsibility for something. Certainly, I am having some great responsibility thrust upon me. But what of it? I will simply try to form up myself from this innocent. To perpetuate my sorrows, and in that way, grant upon them the gift of immortality.
-The Extra Glenns
I got something off of my chest just now. It didn't feel like much. A feeble first step, maybe. Anything, really, to begin to plumb the depths of my being. Since I have felt shallow for so long now. I have begun to collect the answers. But I don't know the questions. I am happy. I am satisfied. (I should be.) Yet I can feel the twitching of adventure. I don't know where it will begin. I don't know the full scale of the journey. I don't like thinking in metaphysical terms. Because I get anxious with metaphysical questions. I can't answer these. I want to, certainly, but what is there, really? When we come to it, won't I just end up naked and screaming something from Tolstoy from the rooftop until the police come for me? I don't have the courage to scream anything from anywhere, and I'm far too bashful for rooftop nudity. But at least I have Tolstoy. Sometimes I think that I'm too narrow, too limited. But I have some Ignatius somewhere, and I have enough poetry to get me through/into a lot of emotional imprisonment. I have the Elder Edda in a place of particular prestige, right in between The Kalevala and Chaucer. Am I being clear enough? I keep trying to ground myself, but every time I try to do so, I am probing Walden's false bottoms. I have constructed this edifice. The sheer and interminable facade. I wish I was a better writer. Maybe then I could publish and gain immortality. But I have spent my life in sloth, and have come naturally into no talent. I have no grasp on human speech, human psychology, or human relations. My essays are miserable and ill-formed. I brood. What is there for this brooder? Where might this brooding reach? Maybe I'll find the other brooders. I'm sure there are others, somewhere. Maybe it is just me and the teenagers in art schools. I can move back to Portland and spend my days smoking pot at Reed. Maybe I can take responsibility for something. Certainly, I am having some great responsibility thrust upon me. But what of it? I will simply try to form up myself from this innocent. To perpetuate my sorrows, and in that way, grant upon them the gift of immortality.
"Ends"
-Everlast
Maybe. If I were to ever write anything, I would call it You, me, and the Escatons. But I will never write. And I have nothing to say about the ends. (What ends?) But I hear about it a lot these days. I have decided to look into Christianity again. Since High School, I have been there and I have been back again, and I haven't given much thought to religion in the meantime. So I start where I always start these days. With the academy. I don't work any more. I listen to lectures that Yale put up a couple years ago. I'm making my way through the curriculum. They are mostly just entry-level classes, but I don't care. Anything for a taste. And so I found the religious studies department. And I went out and bought the most liberal Bible I could get my hands on and started reading. I read the historic-cirtical critique of the gospels and Paul. (I don't care much for Paul) And then I read about the history of Religion in America, and the book was so boring, Jesus isn't mentioned once. Paul isn't either, but they just say Calvin, Calvin, Calvin. The history of Religion in America is Calvin. This is why I had to stop being a history teacher. I can only say "Calvin" so many times before I become maddeningly depressed. Where is the sadness in the world? It seems like America is oppression and nobody bothers to be sad about it. We are the un-elect. We, the un-elect, who sit at our desks listening to the Yale lectures or the Daily Show in the background, staring at graphs to make it look like I'm working. Always working. I'm never working, ever bored. I want to rip open my Bible and find the saddest verse in the whole damn thing, some pitiful wail of some lost prophet, probably. I would paste it to every wall in the dirty city. So that I can feel again. I am stuck here. Stuck in my charts, in the endless lines of code that don't mean anything or do anything. I am trapped with dozens of engineers. I can never tell if they are as bored as I am, or if they are thrilled with the thought of every day. I have no right to complain. I am wailing in the desert. I am the un-elect. Where in America can we be sad about that? Maybe my brother knows. He, who is in the throes of passion. He works too hard and takes too many drugs. He is living life in the trenches. Maybe. I am removed here. Removed from everything but the gentle, slow condemnation of John Calvin and endless Puritans. And I can't complain because I am somehow winning. Or treading water. But in America, even that is winning. Where is life? Where does it end? What is the span? What is its measure? What depth?
Look. I am alive. On what? Neither childhood nor the future grows less...
Maybe. If I were to ever write anything, I would call it You, me, and the Escatons. But I will never write. And I have nothing to say about the ends. (What ends?) But I hear about it a lot these days. I have decided to look into Christianity again. Since High School, I have been there and I have been back again, and I haven't given much thought to religion in the meantime. So I start where I always start these days. With the academy. I don't work any more. I listen to lectures that Yale put up a couple years ago. I'm making my way through the curriculum. They are mostly just entry-level classes, but I don't care. Anything for a taste. And so I found the religious studies department. And I went out and bought the most liberal Bible I could get my hands on and started reading. I read the historic-cirtical critique of the gospels and Paul. (I don't care much for Paul) And then I read about the history of Religion in America, and the book was so boring, Jesus isn't mentioned once. Paul isn't either, but they just say Calvin, Calvin, Calvin. The history of Religion in America is Calvin. This is why I had to stop being a history teacher. I can only say "Calvin" so many times before I become maddeningly depressed. Where is the sadness in the world? It seems like America is oppression and nobody bothers to be sad about it. We are the un-elect. We, the un-elect, who sit at our desks listening to the Yale lectures or the Daily Show in the background, staring at graphs to make it look like I'm working. Always working. I'm never working, ever bored. I want to rip open my Bible and find the saddest verse in the whole damn thing, some pitiful wail of some lost prophet, probably. I would paste it to every wall in the dirty city. So that I can feel again. I am stuck here. Stuck in my charts, in the endless lines of code that don't mean anything or do anything. I am trapped with dozens of engineers. I can never tell if they are as bored as I am, or if they are thrilled with the thought of every day. I have no right to complain. I am wailing in the desert. I am the un-elect. Where in America can we be sad about that? Maybe my brother knows. He, who is in the throes of passion. He works too hard and takes too many drugs. He is living life in the trenches. Maybe. I am removed here. Removed from everything but the gentle, slow condemnation of John Calvin and endless Puritans. And I can't complain because I am somehow winning. Or treading water. But in America, even that is winning. Where is life? Where does it end? What is the span? What is its measure? What depth?
Look. I am alive. On what? Neither childhood nor the future grows less...
Monday, January 14, 2013
Our Life is Not a Movie or Maybe
--Okkervil River
I am thinking of the word 'residue'. It has been with me, stuck with me, unmovable from me, since half-way through the overly-dramatic Les Mis. So much of that story is a part of me, a determined stain. I remember, think thoughts of Paris. I read it there, some of it, or Burgundy, where I ended up finishing the whole thing. I remember the priest, dead now, who sent us there. I remember the insolence and petulance with which I insulted him when I returned. I remember the shame of hiding, not finding all that there was there. A tiny village. A chateau of some sorts. I took a run, was immersed in so many solitudes and obsessions.
I biked up a San Francisco hill to an Episcopalian Church Wednesday night for the residue there. A shadow of a shadow. It was dark and quiet. A candle-lit cross. I made a crude joke to Ben about it. I feel dim. The single voice of the chants. Dull. I end my days consumed. I find no time to live. I flit out barely my existence. I am no voice, not even the single determined voice. I am a whisper in the darkness. Lost in the flickering shadows.
I do not know if I am returning or leaving a final farewell. My head is fuzzy, my thoughts unclear. My writing has atrophied, clearly. I am crass and cheap. Still adolescent in my thoughts and words. I have wasted so much. Felt so little, loved so poorly.
I am thinking of the word 'residue'. It has been with me, stuck with me, unmovable from me, since half-way through the overly-dramatic Les Mis. So much of that story is a part of me, a determined stain. I remember, think thoughts of Paris. I read it there, some of it, or Burgundy, where I ended up finishing the whole thing. I remember the priest, dead now, who sent us there. I remember the insolence and petulance with which I insulted him when I returned. I remember the shame of hiding, not finding all that there was there. A tiny village. A chateau of some sorts. I took a run, was immersed in so many solitudes and obsessions.
I biked up a San Francisco hill to an Episcopalian Church Wednesday night for the residue there. A shadow of a shadow. It was dark and quiet. A candle-lit cross. I made a crude joke to Ben about it. I feel dim. The single voice of the chants. Dull. I end my days consumed. I find no time to live. I flit out barely my existence. I am no voice, not even the single determined voice. I am a whisper in the darkness. Lost in the flickering shadows.
I do not know if I am returning or leaving a final farewell. My head is fuzzy, my thoughts unclear. My writing has atrophied, clearly. I am crass and cheap. Still adolescent in my thoughts and words. I have wasted so much. Felt so little, loved so poorly.
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
"Against Pollution"
When I worked down at a liquor store, a guy with a shotgun came raging through the place, bustled his way behind the counter. I shot him in the face. This morning I went down to the Catholic Church....
-The Mountain Goats
Sometimes there are beginnings. Sometimes we will find our way home. Sometimes something within us will burst.
-The Mountain Goats
Sometimes there are beginnings. Sometimes we will find our way home. Sometimes something within us will burst.
Saturday, July 28, 2012
"Barrel of a Gun"
-Guster
There are times, of course. Fewer, now that I am dating and then engaged and now, less than a week before my, no it's never the first person any more. Our nuptials. I am lonely. The wine, $5 French. Entry-level from a premier grand cru Bordeaux name. I think the disjointed incomplete sentences are artistic, please bear with me. Although I know only Sandi and Ben know this exists, and I know their love is damn near unconditional. So, back to the wine. And I am watching BET. Because <i>Coming to America<i> was on. And damn, that movie is good. Surprisingly astute. Not that I remember why, only that that was my general impression. And since the Olympics are only during the days on the weekends, I am sticking around for the Tyler Perry movie that follows. So I think about Elizabeth Alexander. She wrote an essay once about Tyler Perry and the emasculation of the Black male. But I <i>like</i> Tyler Perry movies. They are pleasant. Pleasant somehow and unbelievably so. Like a big down comforter. Like all of the good things about the South with none of the racism. Well, according to Alexander, no <i>overt</i> racism. It is subtle, I guess. The reduction of black life to that of the Black Urban Professional. But I am, of course, now, an urban professional too, and it shocks me. I never did get used to the idea that I was poor. My father made sure of that. Even when we were legit poor, there was never telling him that. So I guess I kinda always assumed that I was at the point of life that I actually am now. But yet. For some reason... Elizabeth Alexander had assumed that I was a doctor when I was assigned to show her around campus and be her guide for the day. I was clearly the most academic one on campus (besides the actual phd candidate, but he isn't actually affiliated with the school. And he probably will never finish his thesis.). But there was that statement that my Machine Learning professor said to me... our semester project... I didn't do it for him... I did it for myself. Of course I did.... I am the absolute opposite of altruistic. I only do things for myself. All I really need to do, I guess... is feature selection and I can at least present at Kalamazoo. It would be a dream for me. To contribute to some esoteric scholarship. I bought a clump of garnet and it reminds me every time of the Old Frankish or English jewelry at the Met. You walk to the right of the big staircase straight ahead of the entrance and before the first doorway is the good stuff. I'll get there eventually. The doctorate. The Anglo-Saxons. But not now. My life, now, is not my own. Nor has it ever been. I am increasingly in control, but now I am happy. I have a job where I get paid a ridiculous amount to just sit at a computer and play with numbers. I would do that anyway. Not that I ever did... but eventually. I'll come into my powers. Slowly, slowly, the fulfillment comes. Today it is getting a stupid little Python script to run, tomorrow is marriage. Then the children we have already named. But slowly, slowly. I translated it into Latin once. If I ever got a tattoo, it would be that. I forget the words, but it was something like "Anima en motua non mortua est." The soul in motion is not dead. I am in the middle of writing my wedding vows, and the only thing I can ever promise is this: The soul in motion is not dead.
Post Script
I forget what it said, but I saw a tattoo once on the MAX written in Latin. It was clearly wrong. Permanently mis-translated Latin. It made me cringe.
There are times, of course. Fewer, now that I am dating and then engaged and now, less than a week before my, no it's never the first person any more. Our nuptials. I am lonely. The wine, $5 French. Entry-level from a premier grand cru Bordeaux name. I think the disjointed incomplete sentences are artistic, please bear with me. Although I know only Sandi and Ben know this exists, and I know their love is damn near unconditional. So, back to the wine. And I am watching BET. Because <i>Coming to America<i> was on. And damn, that movie is good. Surprisingly astute. Not that I remember why, only that that was my general impression. And since the Olympics are only during the days on the weekends, I am sticking around for the Tyler Perry movie that follows. So I think about Elizabeth Alexander. She wrote an essay once about Tyler Perry and the emasculation of the Black male. But I <i>like</i> Tyler Perry movies. They are pleasant. Pleasant somehow and unbelievably so. Like a big down comforter. Like all of the good things about the South with none of the racism. Well, according to Alexander, no <i>overt</i> racism. It is subtle, I guess. The reduction of black life to that of the Black Urban Professional. But I am, of course, now, an urban professional too, and it shocks me. I never did get used to the idea that I was poor. My father made sure of that. Even when we were legit poor, there was never telling him that. So I guess I kinda always assumed that I was at the point of life that I actually am now. But yet. For some reason... Elizabeth Alexander had assumed that I was a doctor when I was assigned to show her around campus and be her guide for the day. I was clearly the most academic one on campus (besides the actual phd candidate, but he isn't actually affiliated with the school. And he probably will never finish his thesis.). But there was that statement that my Machine Learning professor said to me... our semester project... I didn't do it for him... I did it for myself. Of course I did.... I am the absolute opposite of altruistic. I only do things for myself. All I really need to do, I guess... is feature selection and I can at least present at Kalamazoo. It would be a dream for me. To contribute to some esoteric scholarship. I bought a clump of garnet and it reminds me every time of the Old Frankish or English jewelry at the Met. You walk to the right of the big staircase straight ahead of the entrance and before the first doorway is the good stuff. I'll get there eventually. The doctorate. The Anglo-Saxons. But not now. My life, now, is not my own. Nor has it ever been. I am increasingly in control, but now I am happy. I have a job where I get paid a ridiculous amount to just sit at a computer and play with numbers. I would do that anyway. Not that I ever did... but eventually. I'll come into my powers. Slowly, slowly, the fulfillment comes. Today it is getting a stupid little Python script to run, tomorrow is marriage. Then the children we have already named. But slowly, slowly. I translated it into Latin once. If I ever got a tattoo, it would be that. I forget the words, but it was something like "Anima en motua non mortua est." The soul in motion is not dead. I am in the middle of writing my wedding vows, and the only thing I can ever promise is this: The soul in motion is not dead.
Post Script
I forget what it said, but I saw a tattoo once on the MAX written in Latin. It was clearly wrong. Permanently mis-translated Latin. It made me cringe.
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
"Poke"
-The Frightened Rabbit
I love depressing end-of-love songs, even though I don't ever want to have that ever with Sandi, it seems to mirror the expression of my soul just so. Like how I can only read elegies.
How did I used to do this? I guess the answer is a type of distance. Between myself and the world around me and no real way to approach or bridge that gulf. And I have no need... since I always have somebody to talk to about anything. I've been writing all of this for years for her, so what's the point of continuing? I still don't know, but I'm growing self-conscious at what I perceive as a dimming mental acuity. It is as if I am discovering a realm of sensitivity to people which, while illuminating, distracts me from unraveling the writhing mess of confusion and angst living within myself. I'm also somehow more self-conscious, more vulnerable now than when I had nothing, which is a weird feeling. I'm suddenly strikingly conservative, like when I looked at my first paycheck and saw how much of my money was going to the government each month. And I'm afraid to lose even the meanest gain.
I love depressing end-of-love songs, even though I don't ever want to have that ever with Sandi, it seems to mirror the expression of my soul just so. Like how I can only read elegies.
How did I used to do this? I guess the answer is a type of distance. Between myself and the world around me and no real way to approach or bridge that gulf. And I have no need... since I always have somebody to talk to about anything. I've been writing all of this for years for her, so what's the point of continuing? I still don't know, but I'm growing self-conscious at what I perceive as a dimming mental acuity. It is as if I am discovering a realm of sensitivity to people which, while illuminating, distracts me from unraveling the writhing mess of confusion and angst living within myself. I'm also somehow more self-conscious, more vulnerable now than when I had nothing, which is a weird feeling. I'm suddenly strikingly conservative, like when I looked at my first paycheck and saw how much of my money was going to the government each month. And I'm afraid to lose even the meanest gain.
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