Wax Coffee

For the first time in a long while I feel somewhat...happy. Or at least relieved. I am finally moving towards a place where I want to be. There is an end in sight. But I find it self-indulgent to sit and prattle on about my feelings and the events, or lack thereof, in my personal life so I will cease and desist henceforth. I suppose the inherent purpose of the blog is to serve as an edifying body or at least an affirmation of existential phenomena to the reader by providing an ongoing narrative of experiences and evaluation of those experiences thereby rendering the owner of the blog a virtual writer. I am not so sure I can bite that hook. The modern blog is, by and large, a charivari full of pomp and idiocy. Any snaggletoothed pussyfoot that wants to talk about the utter torture of adolescent life and find catharsis in reciting some unintelligible gibber about how Jimmy is such an asshole and Ashley is such a bitch and their parents just do not understand simply has to sit down at the nearest computer, sign in to their respective account and flail away on the keyboard. And then there are the liberal, bohemian, Kerouac-Bukowski wannabes that think they are being artistic by typing up some esoteric free-form poem about existential philosophy and/or the situation in (insert war-torn, poverty stricken, or sub-developed area here). Why? Why does this mind-ravaging juggernaut keep crushing potentially eloquent minds under its terrible wheel? I do not know. And I am not positing that one should not write freely about what they are thinking or feeling but just do not do it where the whole damned world can see it. I do not care about Jimmy. I do not care about your parents preconceptions. I do not care about your knowledge of obscure literary references or how your heart bleeds for the underprivileged and impoverished while you sit at Starbucks with your vinti latte ordering trendy, overpriced sneakers online. What I do care about is substance. It is not that I do not want anyone to write. I just do not want anyone to write about inane bullshit. And I certainly do not want to read about it. This modern medium allows, even encourages thoughtless emotional ranting in place of clear, concise evaluation. It is reactive. Not proactive. React to your feelings or your circumstances or what you saw on television do not analyze or ask questions. Simply say something. Anything. It is not a cause but rather a facet of popular society stemming from the continual disconnect between modern humans. Millions of people pseudo-communicating with each other via texts and blogs and forums and so on. But I digress. Now I know what you are thinking: I am a hypocrite, a phony. Here I am going on about the flaws of modern society and the bastardization of the English language through digital mediums while writing in my very own blog. The unholy leviathan itself romping past. As previously stated I am not discouraging anyone from voicing their thoughts; just asking that they consider their validity and importance before blabbing them to the rest of the known world. Write about that bastard, Jimmy. Write about your square parents. Write about your tattered soul mourning over the shortage of organic soy milk at the coffee shop. Just do it in your diary. Then when you have something worth writing you can type it up in your handy-dandy blog. You can write like a stark raving mad bastard pumped up on bitterness and cynicism. You can write like one whose hypocrisy knows no bounds. You can write like me.

Spring Break Is Over

Living in the past will kill you. So will life. I was driving today, listening to the dial tone female voice of my GPS directing me toward roads that would supposedly take me home. Why do I always listen to that malevolent bitch? Is it the hypnotic sound of her crawling, icy drone that compels my hands and feet to move? Or is it the direct, insistent diction with which she commands me? I did not even want to come home. Not this time. I spent a weekend with the sea, some good friends, some new friends, and a supply of alcohol so exorbitant the mere sight would cause Keith Richards to throw up on his guitar. Skin against sky. Liquid against lips. Face against floor. Good times had by all. So why in hell would I want to go back to a job I do not like in a town where I do not want to live? That is, other than to accrue funds for the next weekend excursion? There is no reason. I come back to go through the motions of the life put on me by a society sickened with greed. And I escape that life by going somewhere else to actually live, be it a mountaintop or a dive bar. Not to sit in front of a computer and come home and watch television and rinse and repeat and repeat and repeat like some battery powered drone. Everyone knows life ain't grand. And it is not a damn box of chocolates either. The question is: Why, in this electronic life, have we humans constructed such a sophisticated society in which we ourselves are meant to act the part of the machine? We are told to stay in school, go to college, become educated and productive so that we can be active members of society and then produce more meat for the grinder. Who is benefiting from this? Wherein these metallic amusements lies our humanity? Spring Break is over. Tomorrow I go back to work to make money for the next time I can escape for a day or two. For now I will just go through the motions. Follow the voice telling me what to do Watch the road disappear. We have all got to keep moving, do we not?

Monsters Mistaken for Trees

I am the dreamer in the midwinter forest:
the vultures at dawn
fly in curves
and swing low into trees
whose death surrounds us
and swallows up our
whole damned life.

Ponzu Purification

Mr. Bourdain left me tonight with thoughts of Japan. Thoughts of the brief instance of my time here on Earth in which I spent my days and nights immersed in a culture both very alien and very similar to the one I have become so used to. To be a part of such a culture and yet be so apart from it is a strange thing. As an American I have little grasp on what is to be a part of a cohesive culture, to have tradition. And what I gleaned of the central ethos in my travels is far removed from anything I can find here. I encountered an appreciation of things which I've always simply passed by or skipped. A simple noodle. An oblique ikebana. An empty space. A focus on the beauty of the present while encompassing past and future. This is what I learned and what I have forgotten. I have been stuck between past and future and never living the present, only killing time. This is usually where I wrap my thoughts up in a nice, neat package. This is usually where I mark some change or proclaim some mission statement. But not tonight. Tonight I think I will just contemplate the present and go from there.

The River

Change. An irrevocable property of existence. What then does one do upon finding everything is changing and there's not a goddamn thing to do about it? It is said that one cannot set foot in the same river twice. The river is always moving. The river is always changing. I suppose, like the river, life is doing the same. Constantly moving. Constantly changing. I guess we have to enjoy our time in each river, in each distilled moment we find ourselves. The difficult part is acknowledging those few great moments and appreciating them while you are there. I hope to do that, to learn that, as soon as I can. And maybe, now that I've thought of it, I'm already there.

Close to the New

Lately, Jim Harrison quantifies "it" for me:

Often, lately, the night is a cold maw
and stars the scattered white teeth of the gods,
which spare none of us. At dawn I have birds,
clearly divine messengers that I don't understand
yet day by day feel the grace of their intentions.

I find myself restless, which would well describe my condition in this life and perhaps even explain the perpetual discontent. I am always looking forward. Always looking for something new rather than enjoying the present. Though, as of late, the present offers little enjoyment. So perhaps this uneasiness is merited and not simply a byproduct of a restless nature. I recently began constructing my family tree. This project began after a sudden and unexplainable interest in my Cherokee ancestry. So far I have not discovered any deep family secrets or any romantic family history. I have discovered some funny names though, like Creasy Lucretia. I already knew my paternal great grandfather's history, how his ancestors rebelled against the Scottish nobility and were forced to flee to Ireland and then to America. It would appear restlessness is quite the family trait. I am ready for a change in both pace and location. I am ready to go back to school. I am ready to live somewhere new. Most of all I am ready for the journey. To move. I have romantic ideas of my trek across the States to the Northwest, where I have all but signed off on going to school. I feel my heart is already there, already belongs there in some new place full of giants. I have always been fascinated by giants. Not giants as in very large humans but as in big nature and the nature of living and being in a certain place. And that is where I think I am going. Perhaps I am foolish to think that something so simple as a piece of land can change my outlook on life. Perhaps it is an illusion I've created to pacify my restless nature and when I get there I will be ready for something else. But no one will ever know unless they just take the ride and see for themselves.