After this my Lungs'll be so fucked up!

In English class this past year, David Chernin posed the question to me, asking about poetry, of "Why can't a tree just be a goddam tree?" And I never had a viable reason why a tree just couldn't be a tree. It seemed possible since, y'know, a tree itself is great what with its cycles and its leaves and its life and its trunk and the trauma of the chainsaw; however, I finally have the reason why a tree isn't just a tree to poets.

I don't like the term poet, as an aside, it sounds too coffee-house cliche. But whatever. I have no choice. So, poets often deal in terms of those ineffable things in life--those things which cannot be described, cannot be made known by any language, except the language of imagery. A poet may see a tree in Winter and see the accumulation of his life: dead-for-now, threadbare, and either surrounded by dead grass or snow or mud or what you will. Any person can see these things in life, any person can think in similes.

Any person can think on a higher level, can understand themselves better, all they have to do is look out their goddam window. And that's why a tree isn't just a tree, David.

--
A Tangent: Go see An Inconvenient Truth. It's not as leftist, crazy, as you'd think it'd be...

Or boring, what with Al Gore being the lead and all. I absolutely loved it.
Go See it at the AMC Ontario Mills. It's playing there. But not the Victoria Gardens... It's under the little "AMC Select." Definitely worth watching. It even has some sweet previews.

--

Love,
Evan

An Observation

Today, I was sitting on our patio in the backyard that looks south towards the rest of Rancho. You can't see that, though, because of all the trees. Big trees, some Eucalyptus, some unknown, some Pine, you get the idea. Anyway, as I was sitting there, watching all this, there was an eastern breeze which is typical now this time of year.

The trees were swaying with the breeze, and birds were chirping and all that sappy stuff. But what I noticed was that everything taller than a blade of grass and less dense than a bush, trees and tall things and fruit, y'know, sways with the wind, sways with give and take of the wind, with non-resistance to the breeze.

But my house did not. It was stagnant, with no sway, no give, just stagnancy. No movement and no give to the greatness of the earth around, nothing. Just rigid, blatent, stubbornness.

I'm not a tree. I'm a house.

With Love.

I'm No Sort of Fabric.

I'm out $110.09. I'm going public with the whole book thing. Prelude to Postscript, formerly The Purple Calligrapher's Angeles Step is the title and that's the link. Uhm, it's different from TPCAS in that it has a different last poem, some extra revisions and an added poem I wrote entitled Shades of Blues. I italicized it because it's more like a novella. Goddam. It's this poem that was going to be a book, but I lost interest in it the moment the tassle went from left to right. It's about HS. and all the shit-crap I got my whore-ass into.

I spent 110.09 in order to get an ISBN and a barcode and to be put into databases used by Barnes and Nobles and Borders and Amazon. I have a copy in the mail which is so that I can revise anything that needs revising, and then from there I push. Push with self promotion. Things like putting a sign up on Posterboards in that Outdoor Sporting Store near Circuit City, putting posters up around the city, that kind of thing.

This is the first step in the long journey to me winning the Nobel Prize. That's my ultimate goal: to be put into the league of Hemingway and Steinbeck and TS Eliot and Faulkner and Beckett--or at least to be nominated and lose like F. Scott and Twain (who beat Mark Motherfucking Twain?!). I want to be that good, I hope to humbly place myself into the writing community as that blasphemous Christian with the religious undertones yet the harsh overtones. That kind of thing. But who knows, life is so phlegmatic and writing is so liquid that it could shift and shape any plastic bottle or glass vile I am in at that time, allowing my soul to echo in even the darkest caverns of the soul.

Fuck fuck fuck. Here's to hoping, here's to wishing, here's to Prelude to Postscript.

With love.

I'm just so close to my menstrual cycle that I could scream!

"After that it got pretty late, and we both had to go, but it was great seeing Annie again. I... I realized what a terrific person she was, and... and how much fun it was just knowing her; and I... I, I thought of that old joke, y'know, the, this... this guy goes to a psychiatrist and says, "Doc, uh, my brother's crazy; he thinks he's a chicken." And, uh, the doctor says, "Well, why don't you turn him in?" The guy says, "I would, but I need the eggs." Well, I guess that's pretty much now how I feel about relationships; y'know, they're totally irrational, and crazy, and absurd, and... but, uh, I guess we keep goin' through it because, uh, most of us... need the eggs." - Annie Hall, 1977

So, okay. Self-mutilation comes in all forms, not just cuts--it comes in the form of relationships and bad decisions and trying to impress someone and all that neo-classical bullshit they call life.

Right now, though, the mutilation comes in the form of coping--coming to grips with the fact that no one wants to hire me and that it'll probably be another five to ten years before I even get considered for publication. I've applied at nine seperate places, some multiple times, and I haven't been hired yet. I'm probably doing something wrong, or I don't care enough. One of the two. It's probably the latter. I'll be honest, I just don't give a fuck about working a part time job, serving the wealthier-than-thou disillusioned peasants who of course need either the young or the mexican to do everything for them so as to feel like they are the ones caught in this caste of systematic "never-getting-anywhere-but-Rancho" thought process.

Uhm, I guess when the water is boiled, and the harmful bacteria is eradicated (maybe that shit that came out was high school), I'll be okay. We'll see. I'm just not gonna worry. I opened a savings account today. So that's okay too.

And I've still got God who himself said, "If a man lies with a man as one lies with a woman, both of them have done what is detestable. They must be put to death; their blood will be on their own heads." No. Wait. That's not the detestable thing we're talking about--not worrying, that's detestable since to worry is to be human and to not worry about shit is caustic. However, the other Testament does state, "Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more important than food, and the body more important than clothes?"

So, yea! Who of you, by worrying can add a single hour to their life?

Love is all I've got to give.

Honest to a Fault

So here it is, ladies and gentlemen, June 14th. The day which the class of 2006 graduates from Los Osos High School. And I sit and wonder, "Was it all me? or was it all God?"

I know the answer, that it was all God, because I don't think that I could have connected with such amazing people without him. I don't think my memories would be as sweet. I don't think I'd be as nostalgic right now. I probably would be able to sleep past 5:45. But it's like I'm a child going somewhere exciting. I can't sleep.

Nostalgic, terrified, and horribly morose, I rise to face this day so epochal and triumphant in my life. Milestone #1 of my adult life. It all starts today when it all ends, when everything that I know ends, everything I understand ends. It's staggering to think that perhaps the best years of my life are to come and are not behind. However, the best years of my 18 years of life have definitely been the last four. And it's all because of you guys--

You, who lifted me up, supported me as Social Atlas's, tireless pulling my world when I was down. You, whom I learned so much from. You, who molded and shaped the blunt edges of a man to come, a man to be. I am a reflection of every single g-ddam one of you. And I'm grateful.

I'm grateful I never succumbed to anger or hate or hermitage, passing up all that being sociable has offered me. I enjoyed laughing and joking and eating and dancing with you guys.

And now it's all over. And that's good. It never grew old and it was about to. It never grew out of my hands, and it was about to.

So it's over. And that I am happy for. I can go on to live my next 60 years of life with the sweetest memories of just who you all are.

And when we walk away from Grad Night unto the greatness of new life, carrying the weight of then-life, I will think of you and how you were bigger than me in my own life.

"never thought this day would come
you threw the bricks that built this wall
amantillado! at the top of your lungs.
and i cant hear you anymore"

Goodbye to all I love!

Sphinx of Aluminum

I've figured out why we're so fucked up. It's that when we get what our id desires, our ego wants our desires to happen faster. And our basic needs? Shelter, warmth, food.

Fast food is ruining our lives. We can walk into a warm shelter and satisfy our hunger in 10-15 minutes for a minimal price. Suddenly, we're satisfied. And we want want want to the point of non-contention, never satisfied. Our ego suddenly bursts with the thoughts of "same day delivery" and email and contact and reaching out with no lag. Seeking without really wanting, just seeking more and more for the sake of masking our boredome, for the sake of hiding the fact that we aren't supposed to satisfy the id in ten to fifteen minutes.

Fast food has tricked us into gluttony, tricked us into upsized combos and upsized desirous wants--I guess you could say that fast food causes many rapists to do what they do since they aren't willing to wade through a courtship to possibly get sex. They want it now now now, and they'll take it however they want. Same with pedophiles. Can't wait for the child to grow up. Take it now. Within ten to fifteen minutes.

There's still no justification for beastiality. No matter how much money it brings.

She'll never Stay as long as you still run

Is there a difference between Christian and Christ-like? I would think so even though Christian is supposed to mean Christ-like. But most Christians as of late succumb to darkness and non-camaraderie, non-brotherhood which Christ called us unto--to love God and one anothers above all else.

And so I must wonder, why aren't Christians often following their definition? Is it because it's just word? Because just the word does not define just the beliefs? Are we as Christians overly judgemental about people who swear or masturbate or are sick..tired..POOR..dirty..minority..lost (I am guilty of all.)? Do we treat others as we wish to be treated?

Or are we too bored with the Bible, God's patient timing, in our world of instant communication, instant answers, drive-thrus and countless, needless, medications? Are we drugged into a comatose state that allows us to just lay in bed, as Aaron mentioned in his blog posting from June 3rd, and allow the world to pass us by, when if you were to look out your window and see perhaps a tree and all the life it--oh. right. Out your window is a Wal Mart. Out your window is a billboard. Your window is a television.


If we were to just immerse ourselves in God's life, God's creation instead of the concrete malpractice of the suburbs, we could see and feel and think and know just what it is to be alive--just what it is to be loved by a God who created the infinite amount of stars and who loves little, finite, us.

Or are we waiting for God to come to us. For God to reach out and grab us. That only brings us so close for seeking is what will bring you closer--asking will bring you into his wings.

Let's go down to river to pray.