Oct20

Woman

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Woman

Working draft of one of my found poems. Due credit should be given to Katie
Makkai, Anis Mojgani, and Ani Difranco. Check em out — they’re fantastic.
Also, for reference: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Found_poetry


[ Will i be pretty? ] [ Will i be pretty? ]
[ Will i be wanted? ]

This is for You.

Fermented and distilled with a leanness of meaning

You, wallowing on bar stools
You, gym class wall flowers
are poetic specters so far gone
that You speak half-English
and half-God, but

prowl 30 stores in 6 malls for 1 dress to speak only when you are spoken to.

Both ends burnt. Countless crimes committed against yourself, for love.

[ Will i be pretty, with perfectly made dinners? ]

A shrill, fluorescent floodlight of worry for the hells
we have painted ourselves, retribution –
fingertips trembling between the setup and the
punch line — a young woman’s voice heavy
hushed, heart racing toward hyper-distillation

[ but will i be wanted ? ]

–

You, stung-stayed with insecurity, crest-fallen because
not enough strangers found you suitably fuckable

You
can shake eternity
without pretty.

Jun13

The Internet Will Always Win

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The Internet Will Always Win

Even in the wake of watching global heroes fall (we <3 you, The Pirate Bay and Wikileaks) and old white men fumble around dangerously with online piracy legislation, the Internet is still here in its multidimensional glory. (For most of us, anyway. Sorry China :( ). The average person doesn’t spend much time considering the gravity of this achievement; so long as Facebook loads and pictures of cats abound, they’re perfectly content with their Netflix subscription and seemingly-endless Gmail storage. And that’s totally cool: opening a browser, clicking a few buttons, and being sent off into the new frontier of finding everything ever, without having to leave the couch, is kind of what the Internet’s for. It’s awesome.

But what’s equally awesome, and far too underrated, is the inherent power we — the people — hold without intimately realizing it. I’m a nerd for culture and communication, so of course I get all hot and bothered thinking about the potential of a few hundred million people congregating on one utility just to say “sup?”, but this influence is truly, holistically, and applicably astounding. Technology is always touted as the forerunner of social innovation (by myself, too, when I’m lazy), but we must concede that the true forerunner is communication. Think about it: the sharing of ideas, knowledge, and opinion is what has taken us from the riotous life of the astralopithecus, to the well-groomed life of international video chat meetings from the local comfort of a pretentiously-hip coffee shop. Technological innovation doesn’t happen on its own: it happens via communicative ability.

And we are the ones who hold this communicative power. Every time we tweet, update our status, or share poorly-framed pictures of our attempt at cordon bleu on Instagram, we perpetuate the viability of this platform. We directly bolster the relevance of this technology, and contribute to the massive archive of 21st century life (even if you delete it, I promise it’s still out there). Ultimately, we create history.

No really, we do. Look:

The muse behind my pondering here is the phenomenal and eternally talented Matthew Inman. He recently received a letter notifying him that a competing website, FunnyJunk.com, was threatening to file a federal lawsuit against TheOatmeal.com for $20,000 worth of (unsubstantiated) damages. Rather than freak the f out (which is what I’ll probably do should I ever be caught for past torrenting), he pooled his creative aptitude and wtf are you serious knowledge of Internet law (Internet law?) and turned the entire situation into a facetious fundraiser that’s thus far raised over $157,000. (His goal was $20,000, and he accomplished that within 64 minutes of being posted on Reddit).

This is one of the most fantastic demonstrations I’ve ever witnessed pertaining to the power of the interwebz (and, specifically, the power of Redditors). I was impressed when social media users nearly single-handedly thwarted SOPA and PIPA; I was impressed (and highly amused) when Anonymous hacked into and took over the FBI and CIA’s websites; I am impressed every time 4chan takes down a criminal with nothing but a blurry picture from a security camera; but the collective ability to raise $157,000 in a matter of days, simply to exhibit the unanimity behind protecting a cultural icon, has certainly just won the Internet.

And the point here is that you did this. We and our social drive did this. Even if you didn’t directly spread the word, even if you’re just hearing about this for the first time here, even if your web experience ends at Pinterest and YouTube, you nonetheless contribute to the maintenance of something awesome that can spread the word. You nonetheless contribute to the shaping of an important tool that is mindbogglingly capable of harnessing collective strength. Perhaps without even realizing it, you — sir or madam — are getting sh*t done. I think I can speak for all of the Internet when I say this: ty bunches, and keep it up; but I think I can speak for all of humanity when I say this: just think about what you could do with a little forethought and intent. Just think about what we could all do with a little forethought and intent…

and then let’s go do it.

Jun10

Just Make It Facebook Official Already

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Just Make It Facebook Official Already

Let me preface this with what should be obvious: this is entertaining opinion. Opinion is not science. Even when Christianity says opinion is science, opinion is still not science. Please don’t email me a cathartic and psychologically-projecting justification of why this doesn’t apply to you because of x, y, and z. Please don’t email me about your super progressive and polyamorous relationship that can’t be defined by “archaic and irrelevant things” like “words” and “society,” “man.” I don’t care. This is humor. I appreciate you as a human being, and thank you for reading this, but that still doesn’t make me care any more than zero percent. Please, however, feel free to email me about anything else that doesn’t suck. I like things that don’t suck. Especially non-sucky things involving cats.

I’ve heard it all. During girls nights and lunch dates and emotional rambling over nauseatingly pink cocktails, I’ve heard it all. Every convoluted and impressively creative reason why a female’s significant other is uncomfortable with the public declaration of their year-long relationship: I’ve heard it. I’ve listened, nodded, and held my tongue patiently instead of rolling my eyes and pushing them into the arms of the nearest eligible bachelor. I try to be supportive and understanding, nonjudgmental and respectful of their individual experience. I say insightful things like, “Mmhm,” and “Yes, sure.” I play the shut-up-and-be-a-friend role pretty well, resisting the urge to laugh out loud or equate their lover to men who wear gold chains and use winky-face emoticons.

But here’s the thing: give me a break. If the woman with whom you’ve been sleeping for the better part of Ned Stark’s redemption is still being left forever alone in her acknowledgment of your time together, you’re being an ahole.

A bold statement, I know, but if it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it’s a relationship. “Taking it slow” and “not ready to commit” and “eternally scarred by overly-attached ex-girlfriend” are all reasons I hear from males while trying to defend their single status on, say, Facebook. But let’s be honest… if you, as a man, are still presenting yourself as unattached, it looks blatantly like an attempt to appear available just in case something better comes along. It’s a relegation of girlfriend A to plan B, and a dishonest and detrimental stance that leaves me as a sounding board over appetizers and manicures while your lady friend tries to substantiate your dumb-guy intentions. Knock it off, bro.

It’s rude to be all <3 <3 <3 in private and then rigorously maintain an impenetrable perimeter in public so the sexy blonde nearby thinks that maybe you want her phone number. I mean, I get why you do it: the whole hard-wired longing to pollinate as many women as possible so your classy and desirable bud may be spread far and wide for generations to come. But it’s 2012 and the threat of human extinction is no threat at all. Survival of the fittest (the true meaning of the idea) was once necessary to ensure humans out-populated scary predators like lions and tigers and megalania. But we have cities now, and guns, and a plethora of ways to avoid being eaten in the night and wiped from the gene pool. We have decorum, and ethics, and your poor significant other would like you to at least pretend you’re not continuously fantasizing about Johnny Appleseeding the world.

If you want to be single then, by all means, be single. If you want to be all N*Sync “No Strings Attached,” then frost your tips and get to Justin Timberlaking. I’m certainly not saying all men should settle down behind a white picket fence; I’m just saying that trying to have your cake and eat it too hurts some of the mushy female emotions girls like to pretend they’re above. We women are incredibly sensitive to minute and trivial social cues; that’s our stupid hard-wiring.  And with stupid hard-wiring on both sides, this is how it works: we act like we don’t notice the adult websites in your browser’s history, and you act like we’re awesome and beautiful and the best thing ever at all times. It’s an even trade.

So guys, listen: I don’t hate you. I know you’re not actually dumb, and I’m not a crazy misandrist who prioritizes XX over XY. I tease, mostly, because I think you’re cute and funny and accidentally charming (is that condescending? I’m trying to be sincere…). But if you have good intentions — and I’d like to think that most of you do — swallow your pride and make it Facebook official already. You’ll make your gal’s day, and I’m sure she’ll reward you in whatever way’s best fitting to your relationship. Cherish the friend and connection you’re lucky to have, the love that makes for great Shakespearean sonnets and rather banal Vegas trips. It will make you look like Good Guy Greg, and keep me from having to play Dr. Phil when really I’d just like to enjoy a pint and speculate on the existential consequences of the coming nanobot apocalypse. For that, we will all be eternally grateful.

May31

Love to Hate: Social Media Experts are the new Hipsters

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Love to Hate: Social Media Experts are the new Hipsters

Here’s the thing about paradigms: they’re inconveniently resistant to shifting. Even in the face of obvious dissolution, we habitually perpetuate current belief as a way to maintain stability, to protect the realm in which we’ve built our self-identity. Tighter than Kanye to his ego, we cling to the status quo and relegate all who step outside of it to positions of inferiority. “Damn hippies,” we always hear. “Damn hipsters,” we’re hearing more. “Damn (insert name of cultural group that is not the Baby Boomers),” and on and on and on.

This is normal, or at least expected. Paradigm-challenging concepts are uncomfortable. Foreign. Inherently untrustworthy. I get why this happens, but in an ever-quickening realm of social, cultural, and technological progress, I can’t help but think it’s a little.. well, antediluvian. Childish, if nothing else.

Which is why – in my eternal search for a rewarding and influential job – I’ve been absolutely flabbergasted by the raw hatred many marketing veterans have for those who identify as professionals in social media. “Raw hatred” may even be an understatement, considering last year Peter Shankman announced that “‘Social Media Experts’ Need To Go Die In A Fire’” (for the uninformed: he’s the CEO of Help A Reporter Out, a company that connects journalists to subject-matter experts and claims on their Facebook, “Everyone’s an expert at something” — lol wait, wut?), and I see this sentiment echoed regularly in the comments sections of the plethora of tech journals/blogs I peruse. Essentially, what was once a somewhat exclusive position that necessitated filling by a Gen-Y candidate is now vehemently chastised as superfluous and moronic, all because our parents figured out how to use Facebook.

Okay, so maybe I’m making this too much about age, but let’s look at it this way: social media isn’t going anywhere, and it’s an extraordinarily beneficial tool in a company’s marketing arsenal. I don’t want to negate the proven success of traditional marketing methods – they work. Our consumerist society proves that they work, and I agree with Shankman in his argument that marketing is about making money. But what of Red Bull’s rampant success with their social media-fueled approach? What of Old Spice’s? Social media can and is being used to make money. It’s being used as a platform for direct interaction with consumers. It gets people’s attention through a regularly- (if not obsessively-) used modality, which is the most monumental step of any marketing campaign. And who better to consult on the effective use of these modalities than the 23 to 35-year-olds that understand it best?

To dismiss the social media knowledge inherent to younger generations – yes, those who may not have much professional experience simply because of their age - is detrimental to the ultimate and fundamental goal of profit. Even I, at the comparatively young age of 25, gaze warily at the ridiculous communicative ability of those born in the 90′s. There are 10-year-olds with larger Twitter followings than mine, simply because they understand more intimately the connectivity of technological progress; they’ve never known anything else.

So in the burgeoning war against “Social Media Experts,” I have to ask my opponents this: what, exactly, are you fighting? I understand the condescension toward those viewed as professional amateurs, but it has to be recognized that the majority of people claiming to be gurus in this realm possess a skill set and cultural awareness achieved only by lifelong submersion in the field. It has to be recognized that, although we may not have the fleshed-out resumes, we have the networks. We didn’t invent the Internet, but we’ve shaped it.

And yes, this is surely a controversial stance to take. I can feel the inevitable eye-rolling of those who dismiss my work as superfluous and moronic, simply because of my age. But our culture is one of connection; the fact you’re reading this right now demonstrates that. Rather than eschew the destined, why not embrace it? We learn much from our predecessors, but to think we cannot learn from our successors is a perspective no longer relevant to the process of society. Detest the challenge to the status quo, feel uncertain about the wavering foundation of a comfortable reality, but don’t dismiss the potential; because here’s the thing about paradigms: they’re inconveniently resistant to shifting, but they ultimately shift nonetheless.

May30

Standardized Tests Tell Me I’m Doing It Wrong

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Standardized Tests Tell Me I’m Doing It Wrong

I’m hopped up on caffeine today, so bear with me.

I love words. I’ve always loved words. I distinctly remember the excitement of learning new letters in kindergarten each week, being versed enough in 1st grade literature to write short stories and poems about men eating their mittens, tracing loopy cursive in 2nd grade so I no longer had to print like a little kid. My mom was always very articulate with me, never dumbing down her language for my three- or five- or seven-year-old mind. “Don’t be so sarcastic, ” she’d say. “Stop manipulating  your brother.” I loved these too-mature words. I’d absorb them, digest their context, and push them back off my tongue in the most inappropriate and defiant ways: “You’ah  being sahcastic,  mom. Stop manipulating  ME.”  (All with my childhood speech impediment that severely neglected r’s).

• • • • • •

You see it seemed natural, then – when I boarded a plane at 18-years-old to tackle the collegiate world in Rome – to define myself eternally as an English major, an artiste,  a philosopher of all things creative and ethereal, fedora-donner and espresso-sipper alike. I was a writer. I’d been a writer since I first learned to play Reading Rainbow cassette tapes on my own and felt I could restructure the lessons with more games, less learning. I was born to conquer the verbal world, to rewrite all history pertaining to language, to lull even the most hostile soldiers into tranquility and peace with my poesy and cadence…

Academia seemed to agree. I did extraordinarily well in my literature, writing, and English courses (barring one Shakespeare class wherein I experienced my first and thoroughly-devastating C because my very-British professor detested my use of American Midwestern slang, or because I think Shakespearean plays are particularly superfluous. either/or.), and even did well in non-English courses that involved an ample amount of critical thought and written argument. I was ecstatic, once upon a time, thinking I may just be gifted enough to carve my niche in an otherwise difficult and exclusive area.

but
there’s no high on the crest if you know the trough
no Heaven above if you know Hell
only frenzy, and the idea that
the stars you wish on
are already dead.

• • • • • •

Okay, so it isn’t that dramatic. I’m just in a poetic mood today and saw the opportunity for a little shameless self-promotion. Check out my poem “rigid, tasting of saline” in the Walkabout Creative Arts Journal.  (sorry.)

But anyway, I’m a writer, and – despite my wavering valor – it’s taken me awhile to find comfort in announcing this to the world as an intended profession. In fact, it took me nearly 23 years, a college degree, and a whole slew of positive reinforcement to wield confidence enough to say, “Hey, I’m Ashton. I write.” But nonetheless, once I did, this newfound confidence blossomed – perhaps, at times, bordering cocky-wink-and-point behavior – and I began looking forward to graduate school all arrogant-like. I thought, you know, I’m good.  Piece of cake.  I thought I would surely be accepted into an MA, JD, or MBA program, with the only obstacle remaining being the also piece of cake  GRE, LSAT, or GMAT. Because I was the Jim Morrison of English, man.

ETA: (Jim Morrison was really the Jim Morrison of English. Like I said, sometimes cocky-wink-and-point behavior.) (Whatevz.)

So I began to study for all exams at once, high on arrogance and enthusiasm, taking practice tests religiously, strewing note cards across the living room floor to remind myself that chicanery is trickery and malefactors are male  (don’t take that personally; where’s Freud when you need him?), joking playfully about the ridiculousness of it all while simultaneously thinking nbd bro I GOT this.

But, alas, arrogance and enthusiasm are unfortunate traits…

• • • • • •

Here’s what happened: despite my passion, despite my perceived talent, despite years spent scribbling poetry and prose on the back of probably-important bills, the plethora of practice tests through Princeton Review and Kaplan knocked me off my fancy-pants throne into an alternate reality by telling me this:

1) Law: You, Ashton, kick ass at the LSAT, and it’s unfortunate that you don’t actually  want to be a lawyer. (why thankya!)
2) Verbal GRE/GMAT: lolol you will not be the next William Faulkner. (wait…)
3) Quantitative GRE/GMAT: We’re pretty sure you’re Isaac Newton. (WUT?)

In fact, I sat for the real  GRE, the one where you go into a testing center, breathe rapidly in front of a godforsaken computer, bleed pent-up knowledge one question at a time RIGHT NOW GIVE ME THE CORRECT ANSWER THIS IS YOUR ONLY CHANCE NO SECOND GUESSING BECAUSE YOU CAN’T GO BACK AND LOOK OVER YOUR WORK HAHAHAHAHA.

It told me the same thing.

So now, here I am, a straight-A English student with a writing degree summa cum laude – possessing a vast portfolio of theses and essays, published poetry and articles – applying to grad school in writing and rhetoric and communications with tests score that trollingly tell the departmental heads I’m actually a mathematician and don’t believe a word I say otherwise.

Ah. Heavy is the head who wears the crown.

Wait, that doesn’t make sense.

• • • • • •

Anyway, this is the point in the story where it’d be appropriate to rant about the inadequacies of standardized testing, the inappropriate rigidity of boxing intellect into multiple choice questions, the woe of proving your academic potential via timed responses and a glitchy Windows XP OS, but I scored a 34 on the ACT in highschool and can’t bash the system too much for fear of negating the pride of that once-awesome and intimately-entwined accomplishment. So I’ll just sigh.

Ultimately, this is nothing more than the consequence of our world trying to quantitate creativity, right? Although I’d be lying if I said it hasn’t knocked me sidesaddle on my high horse. I’m no longer a fearless Word Warrior, because – for once – I’ve kinda failed at something relevant. And if we get into the discussion of my inability to find an actual job  as a writer, I’ll end up fetal position beneath my high horse, shielding myself from the sh*tstorm that is post-undergrad life. But that’s no good, and never very healthy for the soul.

I guess I’ve learned that I need to take the high road with institutions I respect, and the comedic road with institutions that don’t respect me. Or don’t understand me. Or try to shatter my poetic aspirations just because I’m pretty good at solving for x. Because – in a whirlwind of hipster-level irony – Reagan went on to be President, and Snooki is a New York Times best-selling author (LOL). This world isn’t black and white, verbal and quantitative. It’s multidimensional, chaotic, and a vast opportunity to follow your passion, discover artistry, pursue that which makes souls sing and rainbows appear in eyeballs. So this is my plan, pithy and keen:

I will henceforth toss guidelines aside, turn my back on fear and disappointment, find that grey area and – no matter the internal and/or external obstacles – paint that sh*t gold.

The end.

May16

My God’s In the Ascent

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My God’s In the Ascent

Inner and outer discovery are among the most fundamental human instincts. When someone asks me over a shared pint at the local pub – spirits high on hops and good company and the pleasant drone of conversation – what I do, I tell them this: I search.

I’ve spent my whole life oscillating between the extremes of movement and stillness. The hanging, middle moments of the slow motion pendulum-swing are, to me, nothing but opportunities for collection, for refueling. Life occurs in these moments, as it does in all moments, but I’ve yet to find fulfillment here. During these times, auto-pilot’s enacted: I eat, I sleep, I work for the financial capacity to return, once more, to the poles.

I hike, run, snowboard and ski, practice yoga and meditation to remind myself that I am human, remind myself that I am alive. To break from the monotony of socioeconomic necessity, I push myself physically, mentally, emotionally to the brink of action, to the dark recesses of quiet in search of beyond. I’ve walked, foot before foot, up steep mountain ascents to get their good tidings; I’ve spent days in downward dog, searching for answers to the “Who?” and “Why?”; I’ve waded through pools at the bottom of wind-and-water-carved canyons in contemplation of everything that is and all that will never be; but I was still hungry.

And then, at the urging of good friends, I decided to try taking hand and foot to stone, flesh to granite, adrenaline-fueled capillaries to high-rockface air… and here, I’m beginning to find understanding.

It’s difficult to describe that moment, soaring above the worry of civilization, sweat coalescing into droplets on sunburned skin and brow, searching for a way to pull yourself once more into a secure foothold, secure grip, secure anything. Those who’ve climbed longer, harder, higher than I have know this truth: in that moment, nothing exists but breath and clarity. Nothing exists but heartbeat and muscular exhaustion, the endless will to conquer, survive. The mind zooms in, the world, out; color’s seen for the first time, lost ancestral strength is rediscovered, and one more pull with bleeding hands, push with trembling legs, breaks you through to what can only be described as eternity.

I know that Buddhism teaches that eternity abounds. It’s there, in your coffee. It’s there, reflecting minuscule fractals of truth in the suds of an emptying shower drain. It’s there, always, but so difficult sometimes to recognize because of the noise inherent to refueling, inherent to need, inherent to the in between. I don’t mean to discount this, and deeply admire all who find God’s smile in a batch of freshly-washed laundry.

I hope to learn that bliss, and think I may have finally discovered my path.

After years of exploration, years of sitting quietly with my breath, years of consuming literature and philosophy and cultural context, I’ve found rock. Pushing myself through to the clarity of exhaustion, the clarity of uncertainty and, ultimately, the clarity of self-trust, has led me to a route toward God. And although each path is unique, each person their own guide, if you’ve gone to the ends of earth and back looking for reassurance that this Universe is alive, if you’ve studied the candle’s flame with intent and focus and still haven’t found what you’re looking for, I humbly suggest this: climb.


Apr4

I’m an Apologist & I’m Sorry

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I’m an Apologist & I’m Sorry

Okay, so being an “Apologist” has little to do with actually apologizing, unless you count the situations wherein people apologize profusely to themselves for having to deal with the majority of people who couldn’t care less about their Apologetic stance, but wordplay in spite of logic sells (see: Lil Wayne). In fact, Apologetics is fundamentally a branch of theology pursued in defense of Christianity, but is modernly extended to all branches of whatever that involve defending a controversial point of view, systematically, with information. Consequently, it now also pertains to a defensive method of argument, even if that argument defends the ridiculous beheading of Lord Stark by, His Grace, Joffrey Baratheon/Lannister (that bastard). Cry out in defense of something, in the face of controversy, via the dissemination of whatever information’s at hand, and BOOM — you’re an Apologist. Makes you feel important, right?

As I continue the hunt for a company who’ll accept an offer to trade my impressive capacity for the English language for their impressive capacity to pay my rent, I have to consider whether or not my very public defensive approach (rhetorically and social-media speaking) to almost everything is to blame for my inability to find le job that pays more than $10/hr. Am I considered a liability because I readily share the random opinions that float wildly through my head every time I watch a questionable Presidential candidate tout the future of America through euphemism and doublespeak, rather than keep my mouth shut while facepalming? Well, maybe.

It was so much easier two decades ago, what with a lack of social media to immediately defame your otherwise hard-earned academic and professional reputation. Google and Facebook didn’t exist, and potential employers had to rely on resumes and the good word of acquaintances when deciding whether or not you were employable. But now – with Internet access, a search engine, and a few clicks – prospective employers can spend hours questioning your character from the easily-accessible photos of you drinking a yard-stick-sized beverage in Vegas that one and only time you ventured to Sin City to – mostly, really – bear witness to an extravagant Cirque du Soleil unavailable in your town of residence, population 10,000.

There are now apps, and a plethora of start-ups, that specialize in making you look like a raging alcoholic, based solely on that one bachelor party, that one baby shower where the host went to extensive lengths to make the non-alcoholic drinks appear to be straight ethanol and male-stripper blood, and that one time in Cabo in 2006 that you’d really rather forget because it was genuinely a bad idea.

The information is out there. Your life, in digital format, is accessible. And there are some people who might use this information to strip you of everything for which you’ve worked exhaustively throughout your entire life.

But is this fair?

What we seem to forget, when judging someone by their online presence, is that online presence cannot always be contextually trusted. It may be an extension of our face-to-face life, but – inane-Twitter-trend participants aside – few people behave with the decorum online (or lack thereof) that they would in a face-to-face setting. Our online environment is a release from daily obligation, an experience that allows us to tap into our social being, to connect with other humans, worlds away, via textual thought, opinion, and articulated belief. It’s casual. We don’t wear a suit and tie to log into Facebook.

Shouldn’t we, then, come to some agreement that all people are people,and that casual life – while potentially influential – more often than not bares no influence on professional and/or academic life?

I’m not speaking of those who parade illegal drug use around Instagram like it’s their only redeeming quality in life; I’m speaking of those who work hard, even when not explicitly rewarded, to make their lives and the lives of others better… who stay late on a Friday night to finish up a report for their boss that could be finished on Monday, but want to help their work environment run smoother, more efficiently, nonetheless.

We are all humans, perhaps overly-excited by the most influential technology of all time, who really just want to contribute to the accelerating pace of global success. At least I am. One tweet at a time.

That said, I just can’t come to terms with censorship in the face of difficult economic times. My opinions are mine and mine alone, and I’ll hold them whether or not they’re publicized to a handful of people who actually care. Shouldn’t we celebrate individual thought? Creativity? Awareness enough of the surrounding world to participate in national, global discourse?

I say yes. But if you say no, that’s okay. And I apologize.

Mar12

Happy Birthday, Jack

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Happy Birthday, Jack

The thing is that I knew better than to throw myself head over heels back into a lifestyle too turbulent for the frailty of my soul, but there’s that lurking anxiety to do everything and all things at once. That too-quick pace that sends you spinning into the bathroom on a Saturday night because you tried to keep up with others who, no matter your own power, have a strength that you do not. What of time to stop and think about this whirl-winded life? to lay and watch tree branches scratch the bottom of the sky without the anguish of knowing there’s no success in laying, watching branches? It’s a lot, you see, to rectify the ancient pace of wonderment with the ever-chaotic movement of our forward-leaning world, and the fear of mounting debt and unmet obligations keeps a fire lit beneath us that no longer excites. It burns.

And I wonder, now, while watching kindred spirits spiral wildly out of control, what’s left for those of us who want to live rather than move. What room is there for us who need to pause in the midst of this stampede, to breathe for a moment the invigorating scent of existence? It’s an arbitrary and anti-climactic pace whose momentum thrusts to the bottom of uncertainty and confusion all who find value in aesthetics, philosophy, the quiet contemplation of springtime air through leaves. There is beauty in progress, beauty in discovering at a maddening pace the secrets of our universe, but beauty also in the ethereal being of unknowing. We have our politics and our economy, our science and our business, a telecommunicative ability that surpasses everything predecessors knew, but we have also a bureaucratic nightmare, a crisis of the soul, spawned from the replacing of imagination with quantitative result.

And even still, it’s a useless cry. There’s no escaping machination or, my god, we would. There’s only occasional respite found in shutting out the drone, with alcohol and substance, with retreat and forgetting, for one long second, the inadequacies of believing there’s something more.

This is all mental masturbation, I know. Self-indulgent and futile because the individual perspective is no longer valued. This will make no money, revolutionize no process, contribute nothing to the sociocultural hierarchy of one-upmanship and outdoing the Joneses, but it’s still here, in its own right, as a voice among many. It’s a contribution, small as it may be, wrought from perception and heart and a smoldering desire to unearth meaning..

I don’t mean to be cynical. I don’t mean
to be the glass-is-half-empty girl, captious,
postmodern-passé, but sometimes, you know
because light travels at a finite speed
the star you wish on is already dead.

Feb11

Sleeping foothills

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Sleeping foothills

I oscillate wildly between optimism and uncertainty. I understand that life is inherently unpredictable, and that trying to control everything around me often ends with my undernourished body on the apartment floor, eyes shut against the world, overwhelmed by a crushing sense of forced relinquishment. I’m not really sure what I expect from myself, why I constantly force my mind to the brink of madness as though the human soul can readily survive on caffeinated overdrive and the fleeting reinforcement of external success. Where am I even trying to go, anyway?

I’m doing well, in the cultural sense of the idea. I’m back in school, achieving the best grades I physically can, and I find the topics I’m studying generally interesting. But on solitary nights, when everything slows enough for reflection to set in, and I realize that I’m – in all truth – nonetheless an unemployed 25-year-old, I can’t help but feel like I’ve failed somewhere along the way.

There’s the memetic temptation to blame “the economy,” to blame the era into which I emerged with my credentials, but I can’t accept that. Releasing personal responsibility to outside circumstance is the easy way out, and a general paradigm with which I disagree. So I keep on, putting one foot in front of the other, working my way up this seemingly endless stairway to an undefined end, pacifying myself with the promise that I will — someday — meet grandeur.

And even this, this little bit of catharsis, is nothing more than self-indulgent drivel. There’s no monumental offering here, save perhaps a voice to which someone else can relate. My spark is fizzling; my enthusiasm is growing tired beneath the weight of a brawny and relentless stress. But I have to keep hoping. And maybe there’s something to be said for the quiet determination that pulls me bleary-eyed from bed each morning to challenge, once more, this chaotic wake of life-passing-quickly. Perhaps there’s something to be said for the strength required to pick myself up from the frighteningly-comfortable notion of settling and – even if apprehensively – keep going. Perhaps, in general, there’s something to be said for human resolve, something beautiful about the inner capacity to overcome, and something intricately fantastic about wanting to live up to one’s full potential…


Or perhaps it’s all for naught.

In times like these, I really wish I could just RTFM. 

Feb9

Denial of solid ground

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Denial of solid ground

Gasped breath turned stale in the back of my throat, sour,
a metallic regurgitation of past heartbreak tossing
my innards into knots, certainty into denial of solid ground
all over again. The sun through half-closed blinds intruded
— as I, too, had so clearly intruded
upon your unlit secret. Your rawest deceit.
I could no longer remember how to stand, and you
couldn’t find the words because there weren’t any.
So I collapsed
and
into the cruelty of circumstance,
as hundreds of passersby
pretended not to notice,
I howled.