on sound

An amazing bar scene, plush with purple and geometric shapes. Hanging chandeliers of pearlescent globs. It shifts to a warehouse club. It shifts again to the beach in very early morning. Damien looks with wonder. It's hard to recall which is which. Jared was always close by. Sometimes close to him, sometimes not.

“Dumb motherfucker. Why you acting all stupid. He don't care about you.”

He can't shut up. Damien shoved him hard against the plush purple walls. It's the only way to do it.

That agent should have cared about him. Damien's exactly what he represents. What did he find wrong? He starting making out with Jared. Middle of the Dancefloor. Yes, it shifted. Middle of the Dancefloor. Seemed like the go-go's joined. Seemed a dance routine broke out in the middle. Seemed a circle formed in the middle while they were working out. A gigantic beam of light in the center. Everybody was looking. But they kept making out. They were that kind of couple. Except they weren't a couple.

“Look, Jared, you just don't know how long I've been like this. I hear things and it doesn't reach me. My eyes blink, it doesn't register.”

“It's because you only think about the negative. Only that seems to register. That's your fucking problem.”

“Whatever dude. Whatever. Not even that registers.”

“Then what does motherfucker?”

“It's when people say nothing, that's what registers”

The ocean was saying a lot. It was saying, jesus christ we came a long way to hit the shores before fuckin homos arguing about nothing that's important. To them of course it sounded like the ocean how it usually does. It was pretty. Like a sea shell. Which have we heard first, the shell or the ocean?

Jared didn't say anything for a while.

On things I want part 1

I want someone that I can have good AND bad sex with.

I want humanitarians to know that when it comes to Africa, specifically the congo, or the aborigines as another example, they really don't care as much as subjected muslim women, haiti, rape victims in america, or putting pressure on chinese government's poor human rights practices and I want them to admit it.

I want to talk to someone that is inspiring and not boring.

I want to talk to someone who, when going off about shit and is completely snorefest boring about it, is someone who I can say you are boring me to tears and they don't get offended and instead start saying things more interesting.

I want to take a shower with just a candle and the unnatural blue light of my ipod speakers and the crack of the door showing light of the day outside as a vertical line. Again.

I want to know what exactly is causing these massive horrible headaches I have; is it because I didn't eat enough, because I didn't produce enough melatonin last night, because I jack off too much, blood loss from an internal wound I don't know about, sinusitis(as it usually is and to which I'm powerless), or because of stress? Because, for instance, if I knew it was a brain tumor I could now live my life without having to think about what I'll have to do when I'm 50. In fact i'll just have to think about the next 3 years max, and that would actually give me great peace.

I want to be black and asian so that when I hear someone say they're not into blacks and asians, I can whip out my ginormous black asian uncut cock, make them suck on it for an hour, then fuck them super hard, no matter where we're at: target, at a bar, a nice restaurant... In fact, i'd be a super hero so that every time I hear I'm not into blacks and asians I can come out of no where like a bat outta hell and fuck the living daylights outta of these people, male or female. And when the cops come I'd fuck all their racist asses too, even the latino ones. And they'll each like it, even love it and want more, and when they beg for more I'll say I thought you didn't like blacks or asians.

I want someone to tell me I'm ok being black and asian, that I'm an ok guy. And give me a hug. (even though I'm not black and asian)

I want to be with a someone black and asian, except he wouldn't have a ginormous cock. It would be average size. I like average size dicks.

I want to tell people it's completely ok to give up, that in fact sometimes it's completely necessary.

I want to meet mariko mori and zhang huan, even though they probably don't even like each other's work, and tell them they're entirely amazing but entirely insane and how I love that and how I am too and how we need to become a threesome, to which they will decline respectfully, although I know it's because i'm not good enough for them, to whom I'll reply, it's ok, and it's because I know that if I live longer than the next few years (ie not have a brain tumor) I'll become even more significant than they in my artistic practice, with smaller budgets.

I want an ipad, to show up at one of my lovers place who was of the first I know to get one, and say fuck you.

I want to be able to get that beautiful, tall, muscular, top, late 20's/early 30's white boy who is both all american looking yet edgy with tattoos who will be crazy about me and want to fuck me all the time and when I allow him it'll be passionate and lovingly and dirty all at the same time and i'll somehow be ok with liking what everyone else wants in this instance.

I want to watch Der Ring, preferably with a harshly minimalist set and costume design that employs high power special effects where things are swirling magnificently which is what I think goes well with Wagner.

I want to have the patience and intelligence to be able to watch Der Ring the whole way through without falling asleep.

I want to be able to sing immeasurably well with a 5 octave range in pure tones.

I want to sleep deeply and dream about being among that which truly loves me and be flying with them somewhere, like high mountains that meet the clouds and have gushing waterfalls throughout them.

I want someone to finally tell me I'm crazy and selfish and self-absorbed and think too much and melodramatic and pointlessly useless and going no where and idiotic and careless and douchey and talentless and not great looking and just want attention and hopeless and lazy and unlovable all at once so I can say fuck off you're wrong because if you were right (about any 5 or all) I'd be a lot better off.

on lasting

I've taken time to realize
that the current state of affairs
is the dream of anarchy.

This is not your family
they are a self-imposed extension
of your ego
and i want to kill them all...

not exactly.

But I wouldn't mind if they saw
that the sun and the rain
bear down on all of us.

I don't care about returning to the earth
many things are inevitable.

If the world affords me things
How can I not take?

If I want more
how can I be happy with what I have?

You disappoint me.

How are you to know
I can save you?
I have answers
that you don't want to use.
I have love for you
that you do not understand

A corrupted world
means integrity must mean something.

The last vestige for peace
is always a dream of the future.

[9/4/08]

On New Years 2010

Another year finished and another year in the making. I meander in my thoughts of my past this time of year, for obvious reasons, and as I've been (finally) getting older, it's amazing to me how much I've forgotten. Years I was in a long term relationship, traveling to distant lands with him, and I barely remember what we did, where we went, who we talked to, how we made love, or when we argued what we argued about. I only remember images of fields extending into mountains, architecture over bridges and streets, and people walking around me always, culturally different yet somehow all seeming the same and sometimes I remember feelings. But I traveled some after that relationship ended, were some of these images from those trips?

If a lifetime can be measured by lovers, it seems a blur of moments with them in city streets, in bedrooms, in hotels, in apartment complexes, spaces of lush color and liquid scenarios. If a lifetime can be measured in accomplishments, I have no idea what I've accomplished for how many years to this eve of another coming, as I'm at an all time low. Perhaps, there are better things to measure the years with. Like how many times you've seen the ocean.

If someone would tell me, after I say something of my life to them, that I've been through a lot- and maybe I have- it would be hard to discern in my face, as when I look in the mirror I see someone 10 yrs younger, rough nonetheless, but not through the gentle severity of age, but of madness, an ageless kind of rough underlying in the skin of someone who's large eyes are that of an animal in its prime, free and wild.

I know that when I'm serving how many strangers their champagne as the ball drops, drunk and silly, I'll be thinking about playing video games with my brothers, or firecrackers in the street high in the mountains, or being strung out and in a spanish styled town with movement towards Mexico. Some of my past new years, but I can't remember all of them. I can't remember all of them. I try, but can't. You should never have to try too hard. I can't remember all of them.

I remember last new year's eve, being too drunk to drive home, no friends to drive me, and laying in my car in a stupor, eventually resting, until the sun rose on new years day.

on the lasting impressions of break downs

While he was going down I me, I started reminiscing on a trip I had to Santa Barbara. I'm not sure why. My car broke down in front of these amazing redwoods making waiting for triple A not too bad.

If you haven't been, it's really like those stupid New Moon Movies. It's worth going.

Instead of getting soft, which normally happens when I start thinking of other things- which can happen a lot this days while engaged in activities like that, I was only getting harder. Which I thought was kinda funny.

I love guys that love to suck dick. Particularly those that love to suck my dick. You can tell when a guy just loves to suck dick, any dick. Usually it's bad dick sucking. It's because they somehow don't realize that every dick is different. But as soon as you realize it, you realize every dick isn't worth loving. Just my dick. I'm just joking. Really, it's not about the dick. It's about who someone is. The dick is the extension of who someone is. When someone has your dick in your mouth, really they have you entirely in their mouth. People think it's the dicksucker that's the submissive one. But really it's you who is in them and at their whim. But the game between you who's dick is getting suck and feeling like he's the one in control and the the one's sucking your dick assuming the submissive role but really being in control... this is the power play of identity which makes the whole thing interesting.
–

“Have you ever been to Vermont in fall?” he said to me once while we were taking a walk to a diner to grab some food.

“No, I haven't”

“It's the most beautiful thing.”

Then he kicked a crushed can that was on the sidewalk into the street upon which a speeding car ran over and spun on for a little bit. The car nearly crashed, I thought with my eyebrows raised. Looking back at him at what he done, I saw his face untouched by any incident. I smiled.

“I don't know why but I can't get the thought of those falling orange leaves out of my mind when I'm around you.”

I innocently reached for his hand.

on hope 1

You think that after something horrible happens, and life just can't go on, that something must happen, something must save you. You start crying, you grow hysterical, you pray (although you don't even know what you're praying to eventually), everything around you breaks down. The only thing that matters is the question of what could possibly happen next. In this mess, there is somehow hope. Something in you somehow proposes that you deserve something better, to be reconciled, to be saved. Whether this situation was your fault or not, suddenly you're thinking about all the suffering you've ever gone through, and you think it's either I die right now, or something must save me. A subtle imperative grows that impresses the idea that now life must do this for you now, and if it doesn't, then the meaning of your whole life is lost or worse it means that you don't really deserve anything better, it means that it was all your fault the whole time, it means life is pointless. Something must save you right now.

But in fact, nothing happens and nothing saves you. You wake up and in fact all meaning becomes questionable, self worth becomes questionable, purpose in life becomes questionable. You get angry. All we ever need is hope, they say. And yet here there was nothing ever to really hope for, even though you hoped. Is hope too pointless, or is it only that you do not deserve to be saved?

This is where religion inserts itself. If a believer is saved, then it is because of divine will. If believer is not then they can continue on, go through how much more suffering, how much more failings, with the hope that one day they will be saved. Either way, the believer continues in terms of their hope, regardless of empirical evidence. On the other hand, if one is a believer and is not saved, then there could be where the lasting impression that they were not to be saved by divine will, that they were purposefully denied saving. All is lost. But the all that is lost was never located in the empirical reality

But being a believer when it comes to hope doesn't just refer to the religious. Even those that simply believe in fate, that ambiguous thing that is perhaps of the easiest of the ignorant (of which even the most educated and well-intentioned of us fall to become) to relie on reveals our tendency towards the irrationality of the terms of hope. Hope is traumatic. The symbolic imperative, the meaning of it almost always separates us inside. If you are saved, you not only feel the relief, but your very being is affirmed, legitimated. When you are not, your very meaning becomes suspect, and nothing makes sense, you confront pointlessness directly, or worse you see yourself unworthy of beauty, of goodness, of a future with happiness. It separates us from very meanings of our being, our soul, and our empirical actual real selves.
–

Things either happen or they don't. Does it ultimately matter if we think positively, if we hope? Does it ultimately make a difference if we are pessimistic, negative, self-destructive? Even rationalists or empiricists may not have it right. Doing all you can may not amount to much, conditions and climate considered. Sometimes the things that are “your fault” may have little to do with your predicament or getting out of it.

Whether rejected once again from a possible job prospect, and it's been years, find that we are so broke that we may not have a home, learn that the one guy we feel we could ever love, and it's been years, will never love us back the same way, or find that we have a disease or illness and have just a matter of months to live... it is difficult to accept that the predicament is due to a long set of painful coincidences. It is also difficult to accept that the only thing that can save you is yourself...

Yet somehow the platitude of “life goes on” becomes what is worth reflecting, particularly in that this platitude may not be necessarily referring to your own life going on. It could be every other life but your own. In other words it may mean that regardless your life will go on despite the traumatic event, or that every other life with sweep around your mess slowing eroding it away till you vanish into the very world culture adage of the river of life, yours being but a drop in this vast body of motion... either way, it renders the very significance of the traumatic event as insignificant.

Whereas despair has been considered the very antithesis to hope, it proves itself to really be hope itself in its inverse: despair is structured as hope in its negation. Where hope can be loosely described simply as a desire for the becoming of something finite, despair is in negation a fear of a becoming of something finite. This platitude of “life goes on” reveals itself as the true antithesis to hope. It identifies indefinite movement, “going on” as truth. Through this, hope then reveals itself as an excess of significance, an overload of meaning that in its excess dislocates any idea of truth, rendering any significance completely meaningless.
–

I rather like the idea of pointlessness, and not because of its usual annihialistic guise as really despair. Pointlessness, like the absolute pointlessness of “life going on” ( where is it going? Can life actually not go on? Even death isn't really an end? Et al.), isn't essentially a lack of meaning as it is a setting free of meaning. It's not that if you didn't get the job, then you freely can find positive meaning in that perhaps it was “meant to be” and therefore it could potentially mean that it isnt the “right” job for you and the better one is right around the corner... in pointlessness, getting the job or not getting the job are both pointless. Or rather, on the other side of the coin: both getting the job and not getting the job have point to it. So either way is rendered equal, as equal as whether or not you actually get to brushing your teeth tonite or not or whether it will be rain tomorrow or not. This is why in due part after some traumatic situation happens we can move on, because we have the ability to switch gears in order to find (create) meaning in the undesired outcome and render it having a point anyway. (Not that everyone excercies that ability.) Pointlessness actually assumes in a most positive stance that things, happenings, choices, all exist: that all thing ultimately all things have point, in-the-end. i.e.:

“When my relationship ended, I thought it was the end of the world, but thereafter I learned to take care of myself, I got to explore other lovers. In the end, it was one of the best things that ever happened to me...”

Or in what's really going on... whether you get what you want or not, being pointless, either becomes in one way or another the same in causing joy or suffering... and equally so anything we feel has point to it can just the same cause joy and suffering. Either way whatever happens, however life goes on, becomes the single truth itself. We can only either roll with it or not.
–

I cannot trust hope these days because I've known far to many that have hoped their hearts out and still not gotten what they have hoped for. Meanwhile, it is always to be questioned whether people should even be getting what they hope for. Afterall, do we really know what's better for ourselves? In the true concerns of epistemology is where perhaps God and religion most properly inserts itself in our being...
–

There's really no one who can argue against the fact that life does go on regardless. When asked. Yet, when it comes down to wondering whether life will end, it comes down to nothing more than arguments upon arguments on hopes as well as dreams and beliefs.

elegy for the disenchanted

The contradiction shows itself only briefly.

You may have kissed him for what seemed like eons, but your fate is sealed. You'll feel it in your body forever and it drives you crazy when you no longer can kiss him again. Sex cannot compare to this kiss. Good conversation cannot compare to this kiss. No amount of self-progression can compare to this kiss.

It is as if the only thing that mattered was that single moment of an embrace with another that could never be you, never be with you, and you knew the circumstances, and you continued to kiss him anyway.

Yet when you think of him, there is only a hollowness, a vaguenesss to any sort of mutual recognition of the event. You could call him, but you can never reach him. He's dead already, and no clairvoyant can get him to confess. So you have no proof to this horrible crime that has taken your life. So you must go through your days wounded without ever knowing true trauma.

Until years go by and you stumble upon pictures of yourself. You know it's you, but you know he's not. You realize that you yourself have been dead. And you see the world with full compassion for life. And somehow you have failed to come about heaven nor hell, just this waking dream of memories strung together as a future that makes no sense. And it is you who has never confessed, and can never be reached. There is a hollow, transparent wall between you and the rest of the world. And you're not sad, nor numb. You swear you even feel more. You in fact do.

It's always the same when you realize you were wrong. But this time it's different.