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.

In Your World my Feet are Out of Step

So okay. This one's about God. He hasn't come up in awhile and that saddens me. Mostly because I haven't had any revelatory thought involving him for almost two years--until last night.

The lead singer of the band MewithoutYou was giving a sermon at Cornerstone 2005 () and in it he mentioned concerning the word God--that the G- Ah and the Duh are merely sounds that are the truest humanizing of a God we cannot understand. For in those three letters, there is no subtext, pretext or context that is wide enough, deep enough, tall enough, to describe who..what..why God is. And God is our greatest attempt for the word invokes revelry in something bigger. It invokes the thought that we aren't alone, that God is there. This is why I've come to the conclusion that the only true swear word is God for utilizing it incorrectly blasphemes all that it meagerly represents. The truth, though, is that no word however long or short can describe God in a box. We can say God is great, yes. But the truth is that God is. He just is. God is___. I mean, the word God enough is evocative enough to left the sentence a fragment, the tail end grammatically skinned away for trial and error in our seeking for what's beyond the is and inside the God.

John 6: 53 Jesus said to them, "I tell you the truth, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you.'" Think about this. The Catholics take this literally with the Eucharist and that whole ministry which those not Confirmed cannot take part in (right? I could be wrong and that's okay too.) and the Christians do with occasional communion. However, think of the bread--his flesh. Jesus (Another word unable to fathom the God of man of God) is within us all and we are all within him. The terror is that the bread, the flesh, is made of wheat, that which we are, crushed and risen--much as in life we crushed, having tragedy and demise and morose sorrow carve out a hole for Joy and the joy of Christ God to fill. We are crushed and risen together, in heat and fire, and then given to be broken again in remembrance of just who God is. Dust to dust.
And the grapes, just as that, we are each one grape to be crushed underfoot in order to leave the juices--his blood--to ferment in waiting for us to become exactly what the blood of Christ is--his lifeline. We are to eat his flesh and drink his blood--eat each other in camaraderie, as one in the body of Christ, and drink each other as in camaraderie against all things sectionalized.

This brings us to the bureaucracy of Christ--the sects, the hierarchy of churches--and how it has pushed us away from the truth of God. John 9 is the story of a man born blind and made to see by Christ. The Pharisees, in this story, are the antagonists, the bad guys. However, in their day, they were revered as those that knew the most, thought the most, had their shit most together. However, this beggar, born blind into a leper's life of melancholy, is now the greatest witness to his friends about the power of God, the power of the Son of Man.
The leaders, those in suits and screaming at television cameras and congregations of thousands, reaching out and "healing" have created this bureaucracy, this rift, in God, forcing them to a life in Christ with the sole purpose of bringing others to the Cause--though our ultimate purpose is first to love God and second to love others, the rest should fall into place--and suddenly, we wonder why this world is torn.
Sometimes, it's those that don't have their shit together, their clothes on straight, they hair done nicely and their bible written upon, that have their shit together... For outer image does not reflect that which is inside. As MTV's show "Diary" states, "You think you know. But you have no idea." You got that right.

Monotheists and Polytheists alike should not be torn, but brought together in the true thought that God is so unfathomable that you may be right, I may be right, they might be right, we might be right. God is so inherently beyond our comprehension that perhaps it is that each philosophy of East, West, and Central is merely another interpretation, another side of the stratagem that is God. For no one is left out.

--
I am blind.

Blood on the Median like a Boat Without Oars

The detriment and sacrament of the Septuagint and the vile Torah! Torah! cry of the sweet graey skies of the lesser tomorrow.

With 13 days of High School left, I have to wonder whether or not I'm sad to be leaving or sad to be going... I wonder if I am afraid of life and what it holds for me and how I have to find a job and all that shit... I want to just write but I know that just writing will find me as a failure in the eyes of everyone--a hobo that lives with his parents and doesn't work. Appeasement, that's what it is--and oh how I've learned of that term!--and how I have to practice is to get anywhere in this facade we call Life and all its virulent consequential denials. To make money, you gotta have money. Vicious cycle.

Speaking of my writing, I've been re-formatting and retitling The Purple Calligrapher's Angeles Step in an attempt to get it ready for the next step which is to self-publish and mass produce. The new service I'll be using allows for my book to be sold at Barnes and Noble and Amazon and Borders et al, giving it an ISBN number and perhaps a chance for everyone who says they're going to buy my book to actually buy my book (except for you Max, you rule. And you'll get a free copy of the remade version for buying my book the first, albeit shitty, time around...)

So it takes money to make money and henceforth I need a motherfucking job.

nothing ever changes
except your scenery arrangements
in the affectionate hands of horsepower assault
you best keep your pants on, boy
behind the armor of fault
homeless makeshift triggers
you'll never walk again, you'll never walk again
-At the Drive-in - Shaking Hand Incision

I suppose we make plans in order to give us some sort of truth in our life, make it seems not so trivial or meaningless... We make plans to break plans, we are birthed to die. We are we Are. I believe that things are changing and will change, dear Brethren, and at the helm will be great new thoughts and ideas create by you and they and me and we. So strike forth and live with vigor!

Trashing Days

There's no such thing as proper grammar. There's no such thing as proper art. Books that tell you how to write are fallacies that try and homogenize vision, try and create a western block novel, trudging from plot point to climax to anti-climax, so as to dredge the human mind of all creativity.

We've all used MS Word, right? The little squiggly green lines. "Verb Usage" Fragment, consider revising." All those bullshit remarks that make it seem like you've made a mistake. Maybe they'd be correct if it were an academic paper, for then I can understand some sort of homogeny since you want a good grade.

The red lines tell you that you've spelled something incorrectly. So what if I make up words? Religiousity, Humanal, absurdism are all non-words that need to be words to me because they work better. Bending rules for art is not a sin, it's merely creating your own voice in a crowded world of shouting children so malnourished.

I'm so small, I can barely be seen! how can this great love be inside of me?

I don't need, I want.

I have all I need, dear friends and children of the God above, minions of the devil below. I have the food and water and clothing and warmth and all that necessitates.

I want, now. I want better food and water and clothing and warmth. I want the brand names and the Dasanis and the delicacies, the warmth that fires my bones. I want a passionate love. I want to become all that I am. I want to be as gritty as possible. I seek and evagelize for this Great God Above, the King of Kings who hath created both reverent and contemporary, created all living things both trees and cities--both living wars and living peaces.

I want I want I want. And to suppress this want in shameless humility, to hide my face naught from those that cower at the thought of not showering on the day-to-day in order to save water, to save energy, to save this good earth; to hide my thoughts naught from those that cower away from guilt and humanistic abysmal thought that is so so so intrinsic. I want to save the world since I need no longer. Birds of the air do not worry and we mustn't either. To worry about our Graces and whether we are dubutantes of society will kill all that is worth living for, all the bedrock which we live upon.

I have no great call nor commission--I have nothing save my wants above my needs. My head above my knees which can't seem to make it past my ankles...

One step inside

Materialism is the plight of the masses--the apotheosis of Americana. We as First World Children are bred to consume and to have two cars in every garage and be able to have water flowing through our pipes and electricity flowing through our houses. What some villages have in the ones and twosies we have by the millions.

I first realized this when I read The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver, where a missionary family moves to the Congo and their American lifestyle and the American things they brought dissipate. We are gifted by profit and chain stores and cursed by the same sword. Our consumerism seems to have a takehold on us, and it has since Post-WWII. It seems as if we cannot remedy this since it is so engrained in our thinking. The hippies tried to fight it and I am trying to fight it now. One less shirt I buy is one more statement--one less brand I wear is one more statement. Maybe this is why I felt so ashamed when I got my new car--since I knew there were others out there who had no such luck, no such mind for such a thing.
For some aberrant reason, this may sound pious, or condescending, but it's the truth... For America to prosper it needs to regress, allow for clothes to fade and assimilate to our bodies. Allow for our materialism and our Television and our technology to not sink into our thinking or allow us to stop thinking... To not allow their plights and their spelling and grammar checks to be superimposed upon our writings... we as a nation, as a generation, as friends, must rise up against that which makes us American--that which makes us inhuman.

Prelude to Postscript

I hate people--at least now. Judgemental and vile , at least I only have one more month. I'm going to become a hermit, a recluse because I can't stand a lot of things. The drinking? Oh Christ, make them afraid. The gossip?

Frankly, I was expecting to come unto this creator and be blessed by the muse of God but I have been torn towards virulence. An opiate to satiate the copulation--you've broken my heart.

I want God. I want fear. I want life. I want stability. I'm funny and loud, yes, but the ballast has been offset and my boat is tipping aft.

I'll leave it to Bob Dylan:

All these people that you mention
Yes, I know them, they're quite lame
I had to rearrange their faces
And give them all another name

I just want away. To swim away.

All these people that you mention
Yes, I know them, they're quite lame
I had to rearrange their faces
And give them all another name

"If you paddle away you know we'll find, and put, you back in this vesicle colony of mute vernacular. No dramatic means of fencing against this solitary sickness as it precipitates gun flare shots firing into the armpit of this mecharest home. Because when it rains, you know it poors." -The Mongrel Tarants

Watch the Sunrise from the bottom of the Sea

So, okay, I just watched the movie Crash. So, obviously, this post is going to be about racism.

I don't understand the tension, seriously. I don't understand the stereotypes, the lies that supposedly ring true to a lot of people. For instance, that black people don't like country. Sure, I've never met one but I really do not doubt there are those out there who do. Our Asians that can drive. I am the living antithesis of this statement. I can't drive, I must be Asian. It's such bullshit that we have to suffer through. No one likes no one. And tension can become hyperbolic on screen, but the truth is that everyone hates everyone. We all have those intrinsic biases, don't we? I mean, think about it. What is the first thing when I say "immigrant?" Korean? Thai? Chinese? Fillipino? No. You, me, we, think Mexican. Because that's more prominent. And all Mexicans, then, must be immigrants. 11-12 million of them are illegal. Grant them amnesty! The race of Honkies that settled upon this land so long ago were illegal immigrants. And what did the Native Americans do? They taught us how to grow corn. So what did we do? We killed them. And then put the purpetrator on our $20 bill. What the fuck? And we say we have any right to keep these people out? They have every right to take on this land as we did then.

Oh but Evan the times have changed. Have they really? The World's a Little Warmer but no one ever changes. Nothing ever changes except for scenery arrangements. It took a war to gain this land from the Mexicans and I'm supposed to say no to them trying to reclaim the land that once was theres?

This is why I am a racist. Because white people suck. I am racist against the white people that think the Confederate flag is a symbol of Heritage. I am racist against the pseudo-all-American that will "never forget" and is thus hating upon those that are even remotely Arab. "Since when did Persian become Arab?"

It's absurd.

I understand that Racism is a touchy subject, but I know that I'm a cracker. I know that I'm a honky. I know that we are human. I know that we all have introspective lenses. So look within yourself and wonder what you've done to create this problem. And what you can do to fix it. Paul Haggis made a movie. What are you going to do about it?

Ripening Fruit Descending Quick

So, okay. Last night, while trying to heal writer's block, I started looking through the Old Testament of the Bible for straight-up odd shit God's done or has commissioned or told Moses to write down. First off, was Genesis 19, Sodom and Gomorrah. The basic plot is an angel of God comes to Lot and the Sodomites are all, "Bring him out for the anal rape!" and Lot was like, "No, here, take my virgin daughters... You'll like that more. They have a butthole too, y'know." There's evidence, in verse three that Lot saw this a'comin' since the angels were going to sleep in the town square... like Hobos of God. But Lot was like, "Dude, sleep here. We've got Sodomy all over." So anyway, God gets pissed and says for Lot to get out because he's going to destroy the city. Sure, God, kill the Faggots and save the man who offered up his engaged and virgin daughters. So God smites the city, turns Lot's wife into a pillar salt for looking back upon the homos. Lot's children grow up, get pregnant by their Dad and live a happy life.

So, okay. I know that, then, women were treated like slaves and dirt and baby-machines. However, why couldn't Lot have offered himself up to these people who obviously had a fetish for Twink meat (just look that up). Really, men of God don't like their daughters. This same type of thing happened in Judges 19. Same exact scenario. Homos and then the father saying, "Here, take my virgin daughter." but they don't get all sulphur'd and salted.

In Leviticus 18, it says the the penalty for both homosexuality and beastiality is death. This is evidence of the Homosexuality and death thing. Maybe God's sent the AIDS epidemic just to say, "dammit, I'm vengeful and Old School still. I've still got it!" But what about rape and sacrificing your virgin daughters? All God says about women is that they're unclean for seven days after their period then have to sacrifice birds in atonement. If you're on your period, I can't sit where you sit. Jesus didn't clear that one up... So, uh, let me know so I don't get all unclean.

There are fissures in the Christian faith, the Jewish faith, the Islamic faith, and Faith faith. Perhaps each fissure is filled by the others' knowledge? The bible mentions Ishmael, the father of Islam, as the bastard child of Abram who is a wild donkey of a man. The Jews use half of the Christian bible, the Old School god half. And, without the Lamb of God, I definitely would wear a battle helmet over a yarmulkah. However, isn't faith simply believing against the fissures?

So, let's sum this up: Women are property and their rape isn't as bad as homosexuality, There are fissures in faith but there is faith in fissures. Women are unclean for half of every month and they should sacrifice birds when they are finally clean.

And that is that. I'll leave you with a cartoon...



--

Postscript: I'm a thinker, not a blasphemer.

Bend over and suck his Knees!

What a faction. Nobody wants to see Martha Stewart out of the kitchen. She has that morning show, right, where she cooks and teaches you how to do this or that with a sprig of rosemary and parchment paper. Then, then, she gets out of prison and now she has a daytime talk show. In the same goddam kitchen. I think that sums up my thesis.
Martha Stewart is not furthering women's rights or women's equality in any way. She's confining herself into the kitchen. She tried doing the Apprentice, too, remember? She wasn't in the kitchen, but instead in the office, acting like a DonaldTrumpWithoutTheCombOver--a working woman. That show bombed after less than one season. What does that say? We want Martha in that goddam kitchen. I swear that's gotta say something about the intrinsic way we treat women no matter how much we try to make them equal.
They make less for the same work, they're harassed in the workplace. Guys, all we have to do is clench our cheeks and pray we don't have a homosexual predator for a boss, which is rare. Girls, you've got it bad. You're repressed, you're harassed, you're told how to look and where to look and why to look. Honestly, do you really like wearing boots with a mini-skirt? It's ugly, dammit. So stop it. Just wear jeans, just be comfortable.
Why do we repress women? Because us guys are horny. That may be a simple summation but, it's true. We. are. Horny. Eve was created when Adam got lonely. Makes me wonder if Adam had genitalia before woman. Hmm... I wonder... King Kong doesn't have balls. But that's beside the point.

However, women do run this world because guys are horny. We think with our penises. If the penises' lovers don't put out then we are powerless. Laura Bush probably has the President pussy-whipped. Laura Bush probably calls on the shots. I don't believe the bullshit about war once a month. If a woman actually came to the forefront, it'd be the same as it ever was--just with the penis on the wayside--which'd make us flacid. Terrible. It's the penis, it's the ego, that keep Martha in the kitchen.

Rise up against the misogyny, my sisters.

Take your Psycho little Dogs

I finished reading Ham on Rye by Charles Bukowski today while I was home sick. It's his pseudo-memoir about growing up poor in LA. It was pretty good... The general theme was knowing you're down socially, so why not drink your sorrows away.

Bukowski knew he'd never amount to much because of his peasant bloodline of drunks and good-for-nothings, and because of that, he never tries to attain what those he went to High School with had.

The two biggest points in the novel are when he's introduced to masturbation and to alcohol. Suddenly, he doesn't feel so empty. These are his bread and butter, his wife and his children. The protagonist looks upon the corporate, cubicle, married, world as if they're as lowly as him, so why even try?

That's what true literature is about: Why bother if it's all insignificant shit to make yourself feel good? Gatsby tried the opposite--get outta the slums and become great and that just led to his greater demise.

I do recommend this book, though it is rather graphic in its sexual depictions and other things...



Hell yes. Oh, and the boy on the right is Bukowski himself. Not much of a looker...

Torrid Alliance

I have nothing to write about because everything is fodder. I really haven't felt inspired ever since yesterday a whole posting got deleted when I tried to add a funny picture, this one:



It truly had nothing to do with the post. The post was actually about the folly of advertisement and how it runs our lives more than the Bible. Just look up at the banner ads, down on your shirt, on the walls of stadiums and billboards and factories. Do we really need to be bombarded like we are? Can't we think for ourselves? Who wants to? I do, but I know damn well I'm influenced by the corporations of this country, who run this country. It's all a farce, it's all a conglomeration of lies that really and truly digs at the heart of us to be emotive (adopt a child commercials and beer commercials make us laugh). I would want you to think for yourself but it's truly impossible. Just please be discerning.

Donde estan las maracas?

Narrowmindedness will make you Dead.

Do you really think Dan Brown wanted anything but to make money? He used to Hollywood formula of "take an old story and make it newer" with the Da Vinci Code--which is my epitome of Pop Novel Trash. Sure, it's a gay romp through the land of Illuminati and fictitious bullshit, but so is National Treasure. I'd much rather waste two and a half hours of my life watching Nicholas Cage battle for the Declaration of Independence, than spend three days with the protagonist of the Da Vinci Code. No, I have not read the book. So what? With all the hype it's getting, and the fact that a movie was made of it a little over a year later says that its job as a novel was completed; but it's job as a work of literature was not.

With that ideal I propose a ban on Pop Novel Trash. Buy not, borrow not, rent not, steal not novels from authors like Danielle Steel, Stephen King, Dean Koontz, the author of Artemis Fowl or the Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants (They're CHILDRENS novels), all of the Romance Section, all of the Mystery Section, all of the Graphic Novel Section, all of the Science Fiction section. Focus yourself on finding yourself in Literature. This may seem radical, this may seem harsh, but, really, do you want to waste your time on a book then say, "Well, that was fun" or do you want to say, "That book changed my life." I like the latter.
As a blanket, don't buy books at Grocery Stores, Targets, or Walmarts but rather at Borders or Barnes and Nobles or, better yet, online where they're cheaper and there's a better selection. Border's pisses me off with their small Philosophy section. And the fact a whole shelf of it is devoted to the Philosophy of Buffy and Harry Potter and The Lord of the Rings.
The books you read in class are literature. Gatsby, Grapes of Wrath--Fitzgerald, Steinbeck, Kerouac, Thoureau, Bronte, O'Brien (loosely), Rand, Eliot, Hughes, Frost (even though I don't like his poetry, you may). These are novelists who had something to fucking say, not money to be made. And we teenagers hate them for it. I swear to God, we're one ignorant bunch of adolescents. I hope we grow out of it.

To be frank, Oprah's book club is a good reference point for good books. So the hell what if James Frey is a liar? He's an author. We stretch. But East of Eden and Night and the other books. Good jumping points.

Read Pop Novel Trash as a mental catalyst, but don't dwell in the shitfields for too long because you will gain nothing but lost time. At this point in our lives, dear brethren, we should be reading true novels to inspire us, to make us think. We need to think in our TV age and computer age. We need to live in our TV age and computer age. Novels offer up such a multi-faceted, universal knowledge that is so relative to the reader. Watch an episode of the Mythbusters of the Discovery channel and you'll get the same message: blowing stuff up kicks ass. Read "Portrait of a Lady" by T.S. Eliot and you'll come out with different interpretations of what the symbolism means to you.
I'm writing this as a commission since we are the writers of tomorrow. Sure, the writers of today severely fucked up--but we can change that. We are the future, you know. And the future isn't as bleak as some would think. There will be books and they will be written by us.
So for Christ's sake, write something worth reading; write something that's more than a story. It's like Jack Kerouac said, "I want to work in revelations, not just spin silly tales for money. I want to fish as deep down as possible into my own subconscious in the belief that once that far down, everyone will understand because they are the same that far down." We are all the same. So fish down as deep as you can and spin the greatest tales of Universiality that you can. Put your biases not aside but on paper. Put your prejudice not aside but on paper. Put your thoughts not aside and into a couch or unto a television but on paper.

This is my commission to you, my brothers, sisters, lovers, liars, sinners, failures, losers, users, undyingly faithful, tirelessly hopeful. It's up to you to bring literature back unto the forefront of culture. Write something. Make something. Start something. It's like Smalls' mom said in the Sandlot, "Scrape your knees, get dirty, get into trouble for crying out loud!"

Syphilitic Ramblings--A Different Pace

Usually, I don't post poetry on here because, well, that's just cheap and retarded because I know far too many "MySpace Poets" that crank out three word phrases, tie them together in stanzas, post them, and then post a bulletin saying, "New Poem! Read it and I won't cut myself anymore!"

They're all liars. So this is a one time thing. It's an experiment in rhythm, dictional rhythm, since it starts as "Verb Verb Verb Verb Noun Noun Verb Verb Verb Verb Verb." The second half turns, becoming an extended haiku as four lines of five syllables (instead of one), two lines of seven (instead of one), ending with two lines of pentameter, one more heptameter, and a tercet. Neo-poetry.

So, here goes.

Rhetoric and Ambition, Baby
I
Imprint vile serums,
Strongarm guillotine suffixes;
Release upon labor day
(cauterize upon MLK day)
Chemical Virulance.

Oh the Plight of cyncs,
plight of the lover's love
With tulips in the fall in a bowl in a room on a table

Kindle
Dwindle
Swindle
Launder my propository antithesis,
Anti-Genius
Generate Chernobyl acts of sedition.
Venerate
Iterate the guillotine contrappasto tourettes.

II
In the midday sun
She howls at the moon
Crying for Mary
the Virgin Birth and
Virgin Death--the want
How she wants Virginity--
How she needs Sanity.
Forward on the move
The soldier's insane
Though so is the
Soldier's tireless love
who howls at the moon in the
midday sun.