After a meal at In N Out, we went to church. The two things we do every Christmas Eve since I can't remember.
The church we go to is one that I've gone to since I was three years old, one that I've endured through societal hardships and piety and prevalence. Through High School years that were up and down and very black and white.
But I hadn't gone in a few months because of work and a lacking faith in the religious establishment. And sometimes I was just plain tired.
So this outreach-fest of Christmas Eve service was to be the first service I'd attended in a few months, and I was hoping that the apologetics and the "Jesus died for your sins, but was born today." message would be what I needed to reignite my faith.
What I got was the opposite.
What I ascertained was a wanton desire to get up and walk the fuck out.
Arriving early, we sat and read through the Pastor's written message to the congregation which was filled with seeming theological holes. It all felt a bit off. Too shallow, too easily related to Santa Claus.
And as the message moved through moving clips of the church's mission trips in Central America--things that, actually, were quite inspiring (they were able to get a paraplegic Honduran boy a wheelchair for free from a Mexican wheelchair builder)--and then clips of the Polar Express to explain how we should just believe (in Christ, not Santa) and we could hear the bell ringing. Or the cross burning. Or something like that.
And I realized that my problem with Christianity, my tie into why my faith is struggling, is the same reason why I've never been able to feel out extended metaphors in literature.
When they call us to keep our eyes on God and listen to our Hearts I can't feel or see anything. All these apostrophic callings and creeds seem to be lost in me, lost in my cynicism. I've tried to push it away, tried to erase all this doubt and fear in my heart--tried to keep my eyes on God--but all I've found is more and more layers of doubt and cynicism.
And this is nothing against my church. The Pastor is great, the congregation is unified, everything with it is wonderful.
Just not for me.
Christianity isn't working anymore. I'm walking away for a little while though I'll never be able to completely walk away because I obviously still believe there's a God and I've been taught that once you're a Christian, you're forever a Christian. I still pray when things are real ultra fucked up. And when people need me to. And I fall asleep. I still have my faith.
But my criticisms far outweigh anything I've ever encountered.
And maybe one day a return will come and I will be the zealot I once was.
For now, though? I am stagnant.
God is. I am not.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Sunday, December 23, 2007
You're in the Jungle Baby. You're gonna die!
lFuck.
A lot to write about but nothing to write about.
All of it is only half-congealed thoughts--embryos not quite fetuses not quite babies not quite dissenting teens or twenty-somethings. Yes, I know I left out infancy, but fuck you and whatever.
I guess I'll just sinkk--
Words spilling like boiling mold wine out of a pot to stain your floors since you never seem to clean anything up. You should work on that. Work on being independent but not work on being any different of a person. Fine enough as it goes how it goes how do you do that thing with you tongue that coincides with your hands? I think it was when you stabbed me and told me nothings and then sweetly grabbed my hair and drove the shiv into my lower stomach, releasing at once all the urine I contained because I hadn't pissed. I'd rather be with you than relieve myself.
I have no idea what I'm speaking of. I've never been stabbed and no one has metaphorically stabbed me lately. This is ridiculous. My mind is ridiculous. Isn't that ever enough--to be a little crazy? I can't find it but I know it's there. Like my early modern TB case of carpal tunneling down into the bottomless sea o abysmal masochism like that shit we once knew once made once procured and contemplated if only to throw it back into the ocean to make it late late late for a very important date date date .I know your allusions too well because they're all trite and imperfect and overused.
That's why I'm mad at the Apatow produced comedies and all this YouTube bullshit. I realized this wile watching Juno tonight. It's become way too cool to mention esoteric, bad, shit that came out twenty years ago and only dorks dweebs and nerds understand it. Apatow did it when he called someone Dave Caruso in Jade or Serpico from Knocked Up. Come on, it can only go so far before it feels pretentious. I love Knocked up and superbad and the 40 Year Old Virgin. But they've started something horrible. Mentioning horrible things. Suddenly it's cool to toss out names of characters and actors that were in second rate shit twenty years ago. It's fucking sickening that that trend has caught on. I guess Apatow took the GNR album "Use your Illusion" to mean allusion and then ran away with it.
But I guess that's what happens when you create mega-grossing comedies that can compete with other summer blockbusters. You create funny for everyone else. Because if you make money, then you're "money." And you're funny. and all the girls will love you. We both know it's true that bitches love money and hoes love laughter. Or maybe not. We know something's true though. There's always truth. It's obvious to all of mankind We suffer and that's true. There is no such thing as no death. And if there was, there could still only be one Highlander. And that'd be a lonely existence.
With that Highlander reference I just realized that maybe what became popular of Apatow comedies was what simply came natural to him. Referencing esoteric shit has always been fun. Maybe i'm just bitter because I don't understand some or all of the references even though I watch a lot of movies and know of a lot of movies I should see. Maybe it just incites a small flame of rage at myself and that's why I hate it.
that'ss probably what it was.
A lot to write about but nothing to write about.
All of it is only half-congealed thoughts--embryos not quite fetuses not quite babies not quite dissenting teens or twenty-somethings. Yes, I know I left out infancy, but fuck you and whatever.
I guess I'll just sinkk--
Words spilling like boiling mold wine out of a pot to stain your floors since you never seem to clean anything up. You should work on that. Work on being independent but not work on being any different of a person. Fine enough as it goes how it goes how do you do that thing with you tongue that coincides with your hands? I think it was when you stabbed me and told me nothings and then sweetly grabbed my hair and drove the shiv into my lower stomach, releasing at once all the urine I contained because I hadn't pissed. I'd rather be with you than relieve myself.
I have no idea what I'm speaking of. I've never been stabbed and no one has metaphorically stabbed me lately. This is ridiculous. My mind is ridiculous. Isn't that ever enough--to be a little crazy? I can't find it but I know it's there. Like my early modern TB case of carpal tunneling down into the bottomless sea o abysmal masochism like that shit we once knew once made once procured and contemplated if only to throw it back into the ocean to make it late late late for a very important date date date .I know your allusions too well because they're all trite and imperfect and overused.
That's why I'm mad at the Apatow produced comedies and all this YouTube bullshit. I realized this wile watching Juno tonight. It's become way too cool to mention esoteric, bad, shit that came out twenty years ago and only dorks dweebs and nerds understand it. Apatow did it when he called someone Dave Caruso in Jade or Serpico from Knocked Up. Come on, it can only go so far before it feels pretentious. I love Knocked up and superbad and the 40 Year Old Virgin. But they've started something horrible. Mentioning horrible things. Suddenly it's cool to toss out names of characters and actors that were in second rate shit twenty years ago. It's fucking sickening that that trend has caught on. I guess Apatow took the GNR album "Use your Illusion" to mean allusion and then ran away with it.
But I guess that's what happens when you create mega-grossing comedies that can compete with other summer blockbusters. You create funny for everyone else. Because if you make money, then you're "money." And you're funny. and all the girls will love you. We both know it's true that bitches love money and hoes love laughter. Or maybe not. We know something's true though. There's always truth. It's obvious to all of mankind We suffer and that's true. There is no such thing as no death. And if there was, there could still only be one Highlander. And that'd be a lonely existence.
With that Highlander reference I just realized that maybe what became popular of Apatow comedies was what simply came natural to him. Referencing esoteric shit has always been fun. Maybe i'm just bitter because I don't understand some or all of the references even though I watch a lot of movies and know of a lot of movies I should see. Maybe it just incites a small flame of rage at myself and that's why I hate it.
that'ss probably what it was.
Friday, December 21, 2007
And when the cops closed the fair, I cut my long baby hair and stole me a dog eared map.
Thinking. Thought. Breaking down the barriers and constantly thinking about breaking things down. Crazy Socialist bitch. I'm among the masses yet alone no more.
I can't seem to bring myself to write about loneliness anymore. I wonder why. Probably because I'm no longer lonely. Things have been brought and I am satisfied. I am the King. She is my Queen. Maybe I'm begun to say too much. Maybe I should let things flow out so easily among the plastic tapping rush of keys. that once was the metal pounding of keys that was once the feather scratching the parchment. I blame Gutenberg for the computer. He started with the bible, then probably moved on to printing erotica. Pornography is the mover of the world. It's why the internet was invented. Why the photograph was invented.
That's maybe a bit cynical. I'd say so. No faith in man. Maybe they just wanted to do something good. But that's something I doubt. Sex sells and technology is no different.
Belief. Believe. Believability. I'm one among the masses. But at least I have the queen and at least I have the white space to keep me company in this my small little tiny fucking universe so grandiose yet so minute because I always consistently have trouble meeting people though that may be hypochondria. Move into the words one at a time until they're blindingly fastly comingly out of the words of plastic sheets qwerty keyboard aren't we all out among the masses where the silence is reckoning and beckoning and crying out for shame amongst our ancestor's names and thoughts and plastic toys and action figurines and paratroopers there was no end to the start I know this to be true and I know you're listening to me maybe I should spell check because I know how much you like perfect grammar but don't ever listen to me because your eyes are always closed because you're afraid of the blindly comingly light.
Rain cometh and I am the bringer A little bit of fog that sinks and sinks and sits and sits and pees. As if we're the water cycle's toilet. The clouds squat low and we get drenched. Then we collect it to use in our bathrooms. Brilliant. Cyclical. I love that idea. Of cycles and the beginning being nothing but another end and so on and so forth won't someone stop the madness and monsters of the second timely coming? I think I know what you mean when you say what you meant. I know that everything is a relative aspect of blinding petrification. Bring the bodies to me and I will have them examined for portals and plastics and benign tumors. I know that's what you want.
And all I want is to caress your skin, run my fingers down you back and across your face and tell you that I love with all my heart and mind and mouth and soul and ears and toes and eyes and nose and cheeks (all four). Yep.
I can't seem to bring myself to write about loneliness anymore. I wonder why. Probably because I'm no longer lonely. Things have been brought and I am satisfied. I am the King. She is my Queen. Maybe I'm begun to say too much. Maybe I should let things flow out so easily among the plastic tapping rush of keys. that once was the metal pounding of keys that was once the feather scratching the parchment. I blame Gutenberg for the computer. He started with the bible, then probably moved on to printing erotica. Pornography is the mover of the world. It's why the internet was invented. Why the photograph was invented.
That's maybe a bit cynical. I'd say so. No faith in man. Maybe they just wanted to do something good. But that's something I doubt. Sex sells and technology is no different.
Belief. Believe. Believability. I'm one among the masses. But at least I have the queen and at least I have the white space to keep me company in this my small little tiny fucking universe so grandiose yet so minute because I always consistently have trouble meeting people though that may be hypochondria. Move into the words one at a time until they're blindingly fastly comingly out of the words of plastic sheets qwerty keyboard aren't we all out among the masses where the silence is reckoning and beckoning and crying out for shame amongst our ancestor's names and thoughts and plastic toys and action figurines and paratroopers there was no end to the start I know this to be true and I know you're listening to me maybe I should spell check because I know how much you like perfect grammar but don't ever listen to me because your eyes are always closed because you're afraid of the blindly comingly light.
Rain cometh and I am the bringer A little bit of fog that sinks and sinks and sits and sits and pees. As if we're the water cycle's toilet. The clouds squat low and we get drenched. Then we collect it to use in our bathrooms. Brilliant. Cyclical. I love that idea. Of cycles and the beginning being nothing but another end and so on and so forth won't someone stop the madness and monsters of the second timely coming? I think I know what you mean when you say what you meant. I know that everything is a relative aspect of blinding petrification. Bring the bodies to me and I will have them examined for portals and plastics and benign tumors. I know that's what you want.
And all I want is to caress your skin, run my fingers down you back and across your face and tell you that I love with all my heart and mind and mouth and soul and ears and toes and eyes and nose and cheeks (all four). Yep.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Hold me Now.
Breaking broken bronzed and beleaguered. I am awakening to the cold spot where you used to lay.
Where is the story.
Watch George Romero's "Dead" trilogy. There's a reason it's part of the cinematic canon: it kicks ass. Zombies are scary. But these are an impending doom type of scary.
Everything will fall into place and we'll beaway some day.
I only work at Quiznos for nine more days. I'm excited. There's something about that job I don't like. I think it's the lack of creativity. Whatevs.
Where is the story.
Watch George Romero's "Dead" trilogy. There's a reason it's part of the cinematic canon: it kicks ass. Zombies are scary. But these are an impending doom type of scary.
Everything will fall into place and we'll beaway some day.
I only work at Quiznos for nine more days. I'm excited. There's something about that job I don't like. I think it's the lack of creativity. Whatevs.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Conversations with Whitespace
I love music that has a conversation within it. Between the instruments and out into the ears. From the accents and drive of the drums to the melody and push and emotion of the guitar or the drive and rumble of the bassline there should be a conversation going on that accents the lyrics.
I'll give you an example. In the song "On Your Wings" by Iron and Wine, we have the consistent refrain of "God..." lines and in the background we hear a growing instrumentation, starting simply with a palm-muted guitar line and a slide-guitar. Then voice. Then maracas. Then the muted, ill-sounding tones of the Children's Xylophone and then, finally, the thunder of the storm (i'll get to the explanation) comes with two bass drum hits, two bass drum hits--beat beat beat driving towards the end of the song. And underneath it all, you hear the faint, slow, creak of an old chair as someone shuffles into it.
It all adds up to something that talks within itself--the xylophone telling the maracas that there's gold hidden deep in the ground. The guitar calling them out from the underground just as the narrator is calling out fragments of prayers he's uttered after he's creaked and shuffled into the old chair.
The thunder and the lines not starting with "God..." are His responses, His omnipresence. I can imagine a man sitting in his chair, uttering prayers about the futility of life and how's there's gold hidden in the ground but nothing seems to bring up and how we're all withering in the shade because of it. Things are withering, the crops aren't growing. Then the storm comes with the booming bass of the thunder. The flood gates open and there's a new guitar melody, a full drum beat and the listless palm-mutes are drowned into the background until they re-emerge from beneath, singing a different, more hopeful tune because the rain has come.
And, the most telling part of this song is that, after the storm, there are no more lyrics. This narrator has no reason to call upon God anymore. He's gotten what he wants and the ennui has subsided. The main crux of Christianity is that we only call upon God when we need him.
And God gives and gives and gives then takes and takes and takes to remind us that we fucking need Him--we must fucking call upon Him.
Sam Beam's an agnostic but I see so much of God in his songs that it's completely unfathomable for him not to be leaning towards the "God Exists" side of the spectrum.
--
I think that this is why I don't enjoy minimalist music. I think this is why I don't like Joy Division. All of their music feels like a single voice-wall yelling out one track underneath Curtis' voice. There's nothing beneath to compliment the above. The capstone is larger than the cornerstone. It's top heavy. Like having 20 clarinets and 1 tuba.
And this is also, I think, why I'm drawn to duos like the Black Keys and Lightning Bolt and the White Stripes--their conversations are so immediate and so intimate because we've only got one or three voices speaking their tune.
Lightning Bolt, especially. The drums and the bass are constantly warring with each other. And every song tells of how their marriage is ready to completely fall apart at any moment--the drums are tearing their hair out because the bass can't stop masturbating. And the voice is so muted and screamed that it transcends all of that into simple accoutrement to the cacophony. It's beautiful in the most ugly way.
--
This whole conversation is seen most in poetry. It's the marriage of words and white space--of light allowing words. What the poem cannot say, the whitespace woven throughout says instead. Silence can be the most powerful weapon for any artist. Invisible castles. Broken dreams. Boweries of divinity.
Talk to me, artists. Tell me what you mean to say.
I'm listening to every part of you. Feet, hands, toes, mouth, white and black and gray and back.
I'll give you an example. In the song "On Your Wings" by Iron and Wine, we have the consistent refrain of "God..." lines and in the background we hear a growing instrumentation, starting simply with a palm-muted guitar line and a slide-guitar. Then voice. Then maracas. Then the muted, ill-sounding tones of the Children's Xylophone and then, finally, the thunder of the storm (i'll get to the explanation) comes with two bass drum hits, two bass drum hits--beat beat beat driving towards the end of the song. And underneath it all, you hear the faint, slow, creak of an old chair as someone shuffles into it.
It all adds up to something that talks within itself--the xylophone telling the maracas that there's gold hidden deep in the ground. The guitar calling them out from the underground just as the narrator is calling out fragments of prayers he's uttered after he's creaked and shuffled into the old chair.
The thunder and the lines not starting with "God..." are His responses, His omnipresence. I can imagine a man sitting in his chair, uttering prayers about the futility of life and how's there's gold hidden in the ground but nothing seems to bring up and how we're all withering in the shade because of it. Things are withering, the crops aren't growing. Then the storm comes with the booming bass of the thunder. The flood gates open and there's a new guitar melody, a full drum beat and the listless palm-mutes are drowned into the background until they re-emerge from beneath, singing a different, more hopeful tune because the rain has come.
And, the most telling part of this song is that, after the storm, there are no more lyrics. This narrator has no reason to call upon God anymore. He's gotten what he wants and the ennui has subsided. The main crux of Christianity is that we only call upon God when we need him.
And God gives and gives and gives then takes and takes and takes to remind us that we fucking need Him--we must fucking call upon Him.
Sam Beam's an agnostic but I see so much of God in his songs that it's completely unfathomable for him not to be leaning towards the "God Exists" side of the spectrum.
--
I think that this is why I don't enjoy minimalist music. I think this is why I don't like Joy Division. All of their music feels like a single voice-wall yelling out one track underneath Curtis' voice. There's nothing beneath to compliment the above. The capstone is larger than the cornerstone. It's top heavy. Like having 20 clarinets and 1 tuba.
And this is also, I think, why I'm drawn to duos like the Black Keys and Lightning Bolt and the White Stripes--their conversations are so immediate and so intimate because we've only got one or three voices speaking their tune.
Lightning Bolt, especially. The drums and the bass are constantly warring with each other. And every song tells of how their marriage is ready to completely fall apart at any moment--the drums are tearing their hair out because the bass can't stop masturbating. And the voice is so muted and screamed that it transcends all of that into simple accoutrement to the cacophony. It's beautiful in the most ugly way.
--
This whole conversation is seen most in poetry. It's the marriage of words and white space--of light allowing words. What the poem cannot say, the whitespace woven throughout says instead. Silence can be the most powerful weapon for any artist. Invisible castles. Broken dreams. Boweries of divinity.
Talk to me, artists. Tell me what you mean to say.
I'm listening to every part of you. Feet, hands, toes, mouth, white and black and gray and back.
Friday, December 07, 2007
All cheap and debonnaire
So over the past seven days I've been doing two things: losing sleep and gorging out on movies. Not really, but it seems like it because I can't seem to start one until 11 PM or later.
Movies I've seen, and a scale rating 1-10 after them:
The 40-Year-Old-Virgin (9--the unrated scenes actually add something, unlike many movies where it's just a fucking ploy)
Dazed and Confused (4--fuck you Richard Linklater. Your high school experience was like this? Well, then, you're an asshole.)
Wild at Heart (8--Fuck you David Lynch. You scare me. You're the Freddy Kreuger of directors. I can't sleep after watching ANY of your films.)
Animal House (5--John Belushi. That's the only reason it got a five.)
The Squid and the Whale (8--the most depressing fucking movie you will ever watch. Yes, even more depressing than Requiem for a Dream and American History X. And no one even fucking dies in this movie. Or loses an arm. Nothing like that. But goddam. I just finished it and I am so damned depressed.)
Bottle Rocket (6--Wes Anderson's start. It's only okay and a mere shadow of his better later films. As an aside: fuck you critics who think that the Darjeeling Limited was a self-parodying mess.)
Yea, see? Not too many movies in reflection. Finals fucking suck. My job fucking sucks. I don't wanna fucking leave my girlfriend. But apparently Humboldt will be the best thing for me.
My psych book told me I'm having a major life crisis. Maybe I should do something about it. Oh, right, I brought it upon myself. Okay.
This rain is windier than last time. All the douche-asses on the Weather Channel were talking about how great all the fresh powder was so that they could ride their 4,000 dollar skiis down a fucking slope only to ride back up again and do it all over again. I hope they Sonny Bono.
Fuck the rich. Fuck politics. Fuck fuck fuck. I'm so pissed off right now at Jeff Daniels' character in the Squid and the Whale. He's a pretentious-ass-fucking cunt who says shit that doesn't even mean anything. And his sons take after him. That's when a movie's good: when it's resounding so hard in your mind that you're straight-up-fucking-pissed-the-hell-off.
I have my last final at CSUSB in seven hours. I should've gotten drunk tonight so I could sleep through it.
I hate myself.
Movies I've seen, and a scale rating 1-10 after them:
The 40-Year-Old-Virgin (9--the unrated scenes actually add something, unlike many movies where it's just a fucking ploy)
Dazed and Confused (4--fuck you Richard Linklater. Your high school experience was like this? Well, then, you're an asshole.)
Wild at Heart (8--Fuck you David Lynch. You scare me. You're the Freddy Kreuger of directors. I can't sleep after watching ANY of your films.)
Animal House (5--John Belushi. That's the only reason it got a five.)
The Squid and the Whale (8--the most depressing fucking movie you will ever watch. Yes, even more depressing than Requiem for a Dream and American History X. And no one even fucking dies in this movie. Or loses an arm. Nothing like that. But goddam. I just finished it and I am so damned depressed.)
Bottle Rocket (6--Wes Anderson's start. It's only okay and a mere shadow of his better later films. As an aside: fuck you critics who think that the Darjeeling Limited was a self-parodying mess.)
Yea, see? Not too many movies in reflection. Finals fucking suck. My job fucking sucks. I don't wanna fucking leave my girlfriend. But apparently Humboldt will be the best thing for me.
My psych book told me I'm having a major life crisis. Maybe I should do something about it. Oh, right, I brought it upon myself. Okay.
This rain is windier than last time. All the douche-asses on the Weather Channel were talking about how great all the fresh powder was so that they could ride their 4,000 dollar skiis down a fucking slope only to ride back up again and do it all over again. I hope they Sonny Bono.
Fuck the rich. Fuck politics. Fuck fuck fuck. I'm so pissed off right now at Jeff Daniels' character in the Squid and the Whale. He's a pretentious-ass-fucking cunt who says shit that doesn't even mean anything. And his sons take after him. That's when a movie's good: when it's resounding so hard in your mind that you're straight-up-fucking-pissed-the-hell-off.
I have my last final at CSUSB in seven hours. I should've gotten drunk tonight so I could sleep through it.
I hate myself.
Saturday, December 01, 2007
It's just got to be
I think I realized why I'm so scared of going away to HSU. And it's a sissy-ass-fucking-queer-bait-fucking reason:
I've never been that far away from my parents. I mean, the farthest I've ever been away from them was either summer camp up at Hume Lake or visiting JP earlier this month in SLO. Fuckin' a. Something to cope with, I guess. My faggoty ass can handle it, I think. Getting away from them will be a good experience.
--
What if we were all away in the meanest sense? I wish to want to know your touch. We can become alone and one. My feet are cold. Take me home. I don't want to be here. Why are we here? this is the ghetto. This food tastes funny. Everything seems to be in slower slowing swallowing my motion. We're driving on glass. Slow down it's raining. When the day is grey and the road is wet, it looks like you're driving in the clouds--except for the bright fucking yellow line of the carpool lane that you can't enter. That dotted yellow double fucking line that reminds you that your companion and your friends and your lovers are elsewhere not with you left needing them. How beautiful and irrational. I want to be where you are cuddling and falling asleep with my head on your back with your arms around me and us under a blanket dreaming about each other caught in still life. I am yours for the taking.
I've never been that far away from my parents. I mean, the farthest I've ever been away from them was either summer camp up at Hume Lake or visiting JP earlier this month in SLO. Fuckin' a. Something to cope with, I guess. My faggoty ass can handle it, I think. Getting away from them will be a good experience.
--
What if we were all away in the meanest sense? I wish to want to know your touch. We can become alone and one. My feet are cold. Take me home. I don't want to be here. Why are we here? this is the ghetto. This food tastes funny. Everything seems to be in slower slowing swallowing my motion. We're driving on glass. Slow down it's raining. When the day is grey and the road is wet, it looks like you're driving in the clouds--except for the bright fucking yellow line of the carpool lane that you can't enter. That dotted yellow double fucking line that reminds you that your companion and your friends and your lovers are elsewhere not with you left needing them. How beautiful and irrational. I want to be where you are cuddling and falling asleep with my head on your back with your arms around me and us under a blanket dreaming about each other caught in still life. I am yours for the taking.
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