The news bordered on madness, but it always did. It was never a matter that it was insane. Just a matter of what we could swallow as "normal enough," to get through our days without asking questions. Disaster was everywhere. If you could have given it a face, it probably would've been me - the messenger.
Everyone wants the truth. But not really. Everyone wants reality delivered to their door. But not really. Given the privelage of knowledge, the idiots seek to bend it to suit their tastes, to clean their hands and to hide their responsibilities for what transpires every day. They want good news stories, so that they can be convinced that what they're doing is good. It's not, and I've seen that.
A century of books, billions of pages, thousands of paragraphs, hundreds of sentences, and one word. A population of 6.1 billion is standing at the precipice with ears cocked to hear this word. Some are covetous, and believe this word will give them what they seek. Some are powermongers, and believe the word is power. Some are hopeless romantics and think the word will heal broken hearts and pave roads with golden intentions.
It's none of these things. One word. It's the death groan of a world overburdoned. It's the last gasp of a suffocating child. It's the last hope for a future buried under generations of vileness.
And yet. It's the first star in the night. That first breeze of spring, the breath of life that so many have learned to live without. It's that burst of intellect that brought mankind upright and face to face with the bomb. May they never find the beam.
So in a sense, the word everyone is trying to hear is power, it is something to be coveted. It is something to, at the very end of everything, be heard.
Nobody knows what that word is, but all know that when they hear it they will both quail with unspeakable terror, and also breathe a death-rattling sigh of relief.
Words, as hollow as they are sometimes, are a very real force. If one word is a world, begun and ended, then each sentence is a history, every letter an epoch. Do you recall each one?
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Sunday, October 28, 2007
In Open Air: Part 1
It wouldn't matter if it was pouring rain, driving snow, or blistering heat. When the brush meets canvas, the sun itself would quail at the radiance put before it. The expression of the human soul is just that bright. And even so. When pen meets paper, reality itself would bend and break, drawn down into a yawning black abyss.
What black being would this be? None other than the same. Humanity holds within it a collective reservoir of stunning triumphs and broken dreams that we only vaguely draw upon during our lifetimes. And yet, at times, it's all too easy to open a window to this swirling morass, the collective legacy, memories, ideals, beliefs, successes, and ultimately, failures, of humankind.
The birds singing, the bright sunlight, the unending hum as thousands of cars and trucks rolled up and down the nearby highway; it was all an outside distraction. The Artist cared little for the world around her at this moment, for her entire reality was composed of a picture, hovering in her mind's eye. Instead of birds chirping, the colours and tones were her music, and each brush stroke was an ambiance akin to divinity.
Of course, these moments of bliss were just islands in an ever-increasing tide of chaos and stress.
Life itself was born into high aspirations marred by the harsh intrusions of reality and its henchmen, as if Lucifer himself was given leave to regularly rob heaven of its comforts. But, in these moments of suffering and defeat, there is a small measure of justice. Inspiration, the fickle and stormy some-times cohort of love itself, was born on a scorched battlefield between all the good and bad things in life. On that silver lining, all of art was born, and through it, humanity finds itself now at a crossroads.
Whether at the best of times or the worst of times, art flourishes. But as the Artist now demonstrates, pragmatism has struck art through the heart, and she feels the pain acutely.
Her brush hovers, poised mere hair-breadth from the canvas. But the motions do not come. The sounds of traffic intrude on her sublime existence.
Something is happening...
What black being would this be? None other than the same. Humanity holds within it a collective reservoir of stunning triumphs and broken dreams that we only vaguely draw upon during our lifetimes. And yet, at times, it's all too easy to open a window to this swirling morass, the collective legacy, memories, ideals, beliefs, successes, and ultimately, failures, of humankind.
The birds singing, the bright sunlight, the unending hum as thousands of cars and trucks rolled up and down the nearby highway; it was all an outside distraction. The Artist cared little for the world around her at this moment, for her entire reality was composed of a picture, hovering in her mind's eye. Instead of birds chirping, the colours and tones were her music, and each brush stroke was an ambiance akin to divinity.
Of course, these moments of bliss were just islands in an ever-increasing tide of chaos and stress.
Life itself was born into high aspirations marred by the harsh intrusions of reality and its henchmen, as if Lucifer himself was given leave to regularly rob heaven of its comforts. But, in these moments of suffering and defeat, there is a small measure of justice. Inspiration, the fickle and stormy some-times cohort of love itself, was born on a scorched battlefield between all the good and bad things in life. On that silver lining, all of art was born, and through it, humanity finds itself now at a crossroads.
Whether at the best of times or the worst of times, art flourishes. But as the Artist now demonstrates, pragmatism has struck art through the heart, and she feels the pain acutely.
Her brush hovers, poised mere hair-breadth from the canvas. But the motions do not come. The sounds of traffic intrude on her sublime existence.
Something is happening...
Friday, October 26, 2007
A robot heart
For a robot boy, who dreamed he was a lion.
Our lives in these empty spaces...
Also:
Give them blood and they'll love you for it.
Our lives in these empty spaces...
Also:
Give them blood and they'll love you for it.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
In My Eyes
Some of you should be checking your inboxes this afternoon.
I did a little bit of recording yesterday, and while I' m greatly annoyed at the poor quality of the recordings, the end result wasn't too bad.
Other than that, I have little else to report. It's been a rather strange week, but then really... what week isn't?
I did a little bit of recording yesterday, and while I' m greatly annoyed at the poor quality of the recordings, the end result wasn't too bad.
Other than that, I have little else to report. It's been a rather strange week, but then really... what week isn't?
Monday, October 22, 2007
A fine spectacle
It's like a black hole. Every time I look at it, I'm amazed at the destruction that was wrought. I wouldn't wish it on anyone, and yet here I am. Looking at myself in the mirror, wondering if in fact that's what is going to end up happening.
I really don't know what I'm saying. Not anymore. Not for a long time. Any kind of certainty I had in myself is faltering at best, but I suppose that's not something interesting, so I won't write about that.
Instead, I'll write about trees. At an art exhibition today, I saw many paintings and pictures of trees.
I thought to myself, why trees?
Trees. Of all things. Maybe it's a record of what they look like, so when they're all gone, we can still imagine, and pretend we see them through our foggy goggles and musty breathing masks. They'll be like old story book pictures that we were shown as kids, when our grandparents told us "look, this is the dodo."
And we would gawk, and imagine a bird so stupid that it would let itself go extinct. Perhaps that's the tree. Perhaps our children or grandchildren will look at paintings of trees and say "stupid trees. Went extinct because they were stupid." Oh, because of our morbid fascination with armoirs and designer architecture and heated hardwood flooring. The trees went extinct because they didn't know to get out of our way when we wanted houses.
It's not hard to imagine that when the trees are gone, we will hang pictures of them on the walls of our houses, when instead of wood, the walls will be made of bone. Animal bone at first. Then human bone, as it becomes realized that it's more abundant. That way, you'll always have a little piece of grandpa to hang his picture from when he's gone.
Would that creep people out, knowing that their house is made from the skeletal remains of other people? Most could be pragmatic about it. Some would think there's something seriously wrong with building a house of bones. Say nothing of the fact that a house of wood is just as macabre and dead. Except wood was stupid, and evolved with the rich, warm, woody tones that we learned to adore.
In a sense, it'd be even more disturbing to hang a picture of a tree from a wooden wall. This is just my rambling, and some have no compunctions about living or dead things, provided they're not human. Just a silly double standard. When a tree falls on man, it is a tragedy. When a man fells a tree, it is profit.
So trees. And bones. And kibbles and bits. And bits and bits and bits.
Yeah, I've rambled enough.
I really don't know what I'm saying. Not anymore. Not for a long time. Any kind of certainty I had in myself is faltering at best, but I suppose that's not something interesting, so I won't write about that.
Instead, I'll write about trees. At an art exhibition today, I saw many paintings and pictures of trees.
I thought to myself, why trees?
Trees. Of all things. Maybe it's a record of what they look like, so when they're all gone, we can still imagine, and pretend we see them through our foggy goggles and musty breathing masks. They'll be like old story book pictures that we were shown as kids, when our grandparents told us "look, this is the dodo."
And we would gawk, and imagine a bird so stupid that it would let itself go extinct. Perhaps that's the tree. Perhaps our children or grandchildren will look at paintings of trees and say "stupid trees. Went extinct because they were stupid." Oh, because of our morbid fascination with armoirs and designer architecture and heated hardwood flooring. The trees went extinct because they didn't know to get out of our way when we wanted houses.
It's not hard to imagine that when the trees are gone, we will hang pictures of them on the walls of our houses, when instead of wood, the walls will be made of bone. Animal bone at first. Then human bone, as it becomes realized that it's more abundant. That way, you'll always have a little piece of grandpa to hang his picture from when he's gone.
Would that creep people out, knowing that their house is made from the skeletal remains of other people? Most could be pragmatic about it. Some would think there's something seriously wrong with building a house of bones. Say nothing of the fact that a house of wood is just as macabre and dead. Except wood was stupid, and evolved with the rich, warm, woody tones that we learned to adore.
In a sense, it'd be even more disturbing to hang a picture of a tree from a wooden wall. This is just my rambling, and some have no compunctions about living or dead things, provided they're not human. Just a silly double standard. When a tree falls on man, it is a tragedy. When a man fells a tree, it is profit.
So trees. And bones. And kibbles and bits. And bits and bits and bits.
Yeah, I've rambled enough.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
21
Today I turned 21 at 10:06 a.m.
I don't feel any older.
I don't feel any younger.
In fact, the only thing I feel is a tad bit ill. Probably from all the alcohol last night.
Anyway folks, very little to report at this time. In the grand scheme of things, this, the 20th October, is a day like any other in the year, and will only be made famous by infamy.
Lets hope it stays plain.
I don't feel any older.
I don't feel any younger.
In fact, the only thing I feel is a tad bit ill. Probably from all the alcohol last night.
Anyway folks, very little to report at this time. In the grand scheme of things, this, the 20th October, is a day like any other in the year, and will only be made famous by infamy.
Lets hope it stays plain.
Saturday, October 06, 2007
Glue Glue Glue
I finished Hey, Nostradamus while sitting in the waiting area for my flight between 11 p.m. and 1 a.m. this morning... yesterday morning. I haven't slept at all since two days ago. Flying on that jet and attempting to sleep was like attempting to sleep in a metal coffin strapped to rocket boosters as I hurtled through the umbra. I've flown many times, but I've always been uneasy in aircraft, as a passenger.
Airplanes are the safest means of travel in the world, but the margin for survival in the face of that seemingly infinitesimal chance of something bad happening is almost zero. After reading a story that showed how death can create such ripples and dysfunction, I just couldn't sleep. Instead, I spent my entire flight watching television -- probably more TV in one sitting than I've watched all year.
Mostly, I just sat and thought about the book I had just read, how it, in its sublime ways, illustrated so many thoughts of my own that I've been grappling with for the last few years, and how even like it's subject material, the book breaks formula, and spits on any kind of equation that would, in theory, bring closure to the reader. It was a story within a story, and even then, though it's fiction, it weaves outwards too.
It gets you to thinking about your own dysfuctions, and about the things that broke you or made you better. It puts into perspective the dramas of our lives, and shows that even the most crooked people have their reasons for appearing so.
The book was inspiring, but on the same note, it got me to thinking about how futile my own craft has become. I can write words, great tales, and accurate recountings of events. But lately, it seems that I'm just not able to write about what I'm thinking or feeling, at least not without the urge to clip certain parts or crop the truth, or add dramatic flourishes to emphasize certain points.
I don't feel comfortable writing about penetrating matters anymore. It always invites the wrong type of criticism, and to be frank, I'm not interested in having anyone else cross-examine my flaws as a human being. I'm already painfully aware of each and every one down to microscopic fucking detail. Instead, I'd... just once, like to be able to write something honest and clean and true, and feel that weight come off my conscience like it used to.
Maybe each night while I'm out here, I'll write about something. Like I used to.
Airplanes are the safest means of travel in the world, but the margin for survival in the face of that seemingly infinitesimal chance of something bad happening is almost zero. After reading a story that showed how death can create such ripples and dysfunction, I just couldn't sleep. Instead, I spent my entire flight watching television -- probably more TV in one sitting than I've watched all year.
Mostly, I just sat and thought about the book I had just read, how it, in its sublime ways, illustrated so many thoughts of my own that I've been grappling with for the last few years, and how even like it's subject material, the book breaks formula, and spits on any kind of equation that would, in theory, bring closure to the reader. It was a story within a story, and even then, though it's fiction, it weaves outwards too.
It gets you to thinking about your own dysfuctions, and about the things that broke you or made you better. It puts into perspective the dramas of our lives, and shows that even the most crooked people have their reasons for appearing so.
The book was inspiring, but on the same note, it got me to thinking about how futile my own craft has become. I can write words, great tales, and accurate recountings of events. But lately, it seems that I'm just not able to write about what I'm thinking or feeling, at least not without the urge to clip certain parts or crop the truth, or add dramatic flourishes to emphasize certain points.
I don't feel comfortable writing about penetrating matters anymore. It always invites the wrong type of criticism, and to be frank, I'm not interested in having anyone else cross-examine my flaws as a human being. I'm already painfully aware of each and every one down to microscopic fucking detail. Instead, I'd... just once, like to be able to write something honest and clean and true, and feel that weight come off my conscience like it used to.
Maybe each night while I'm out here, I'll write about something. Like I used to.
Friday, October 05, 2007
Hey Nostradamus, thanks a lot
I apologize for not updating in such a long time. Actually, that's a lie, as I'm not sorry at all. In fact, I've been asleep for most of the last week. When I wasn't asleep, I was at assorted doctors and specialists, who proceeded to poke and prod me to determine what damage the last year has caused.
As it turned out, I'm still in relatively good health, although I'm still getting used to seeing myself in the mirror without huge dark circles under my eyes. Doc said my blood pressure is still normal, and whatever weight I've gained in my year away isn't so much that I should be overly concerned -- provided I get to exercising.
The novelty of having me back home has already worn off, and in my boredom, I've spent money I should be saving on books. Lots of books. First on the list was Doug Coupland's Hey, Nostradamus!, followed by a copy of Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse 5. On bringing these books home, I elicited a strange look from my mom. Picking up Slaughterhouse 5, she shot me a weird expression and asked if I'd ever read it before. I haven't, hence why I bought it, but she was under the impression that we would've read it in our time at school.
I had to bite my tongue to remind her that school is where they sent us to read drivel posing as literature, and besides, I've been in a stasis lock for the last year. A lot of stuff that I would otherwise be aware of has passed under my radar. As such: funny story. My doctor, as he's got me hooked up to several apparati, begins to berate me for not knowing several blues personalities.
No, I don't know the king of blues. I'm vaguely aware of Eric Clapton. What's that? Doctor, I'm feeling a little light headed, could you ease the pressure on my artery? Doctor?
Fun times. So in essence, the last week or so has been a marathon of sleep, doctors, books, and strangely enough, new clothes, as much of what I took to Drayton has fallen to tatters thanks to the abuse I put them through.
Looking at the clothes, I can only imagine that I must've looked about as beaten up when I got home. Let's hope I'm not destined for the same garbage bin.
As it turned out, I'm still in relatively good health, although I'm still getting used to seeing myself in the mirror without huge dark circles under my eyes. Doc said my blood pressure is still normal, and whatever weight I've gained in my year away isn't so much that I should be overly concerned -- provided I get to exercising.
The novelty of having me back home has already worn off, and in my boredom, I've spent money I should be saving on books. Lots of books. First on the list was Doug Coupland's Hey, Nostradamus!, followed by a copy of Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse 5. On bringing these books home, I elicited a strange look from my mom. Picking up Slaughterhouse 5, she shot me a weird expression and asked if I'd ever read it before. I haven't, hence why I bought it, but she was under the impression that we would've read it in our time at school.
I had to bite my tongue to remind her that school is where they sent us to read drivel posing as literature, and besides, I've been in a stasis lock for the last year. A lot of stuff that I would otherwise be aware of has passed under my radar. As such: funny story. My doctor, as he's got me hooked up to several apparati, begins to berate me for not knowing several blues personalities.
No, I don't know the king of blues. I'm vaguely aware of Eric Clapton. What's that? Doctor, I'm feeling a little light headed, could you ease the pressure on my artery? Doctor?
Fun times. So in essence, the last week or so has been a marathon of sleep, doctors, books, and strangely enough, new clothes, as much of what I took to Drayton has fallen to tatters thanks to the abuse I put them through.
Looking at the clothes, I can only imagine that I must've looked about as beaten up when I got home. Let's hope I'm not destined for the same garbage bin.
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