05 November, 2005
Alexander I (II.III)
Mark is starting to wake now—the impatient yawns forcing his mouth open, and all he really wants to do is sleep a little longer. I can see that he slept well; his face is rumpled, but rested. These are some of the best moments from memories; loved ones at peace, floating in a heavenly temporary ignorance of the day and what it has to bring. I think one of the most dreaded disorders must be insomnia. Those who cannot sleep are plagued by a continual experience of the awoken reality—I suppose fatigue can become so heavy that the reality fades into a ambiguous splash, but even if it’s not quite the same reality that most people have when they’re awake, it certainly isn’t the same sort of thing that those who sleep can find. It lacks nothing. That’s right. Sleep has the capacity to bring us into a sort of nothingness. No light, no sound, no movement, no conscious thinking, no dreams, no emotions, no intellect—the sleeping human may be entirely functionless at a high level. Of course, one still breaths when one is asleep—but it is involuntary, it isn’t a part of the functions that characterize personhood. There is even one philosophical theory on abortion that seems to allow for the abortion of sleeping adults, because when asleep they lack all the necessary qualities of personhood. Now you mustn’t misunderstand me, the beauty of sleep is not in the negation of humanity; because I don’t believe humanity truly is negated by sleep. The idea of aborting sleeping adults is asinine, they’re not lacking personhood, they are just not fully functioning at a person’s active capacity. No, the beauty of sleep is entirely different. Sleep may remove many positive active functions, but it also may remove a host of negative functions. People don’t tell lies when they’re sleeping, they don’t carry out premeditated acts of violence, they don’t commit revenge. Of course, those reasons are not very good for sleep being wonderful either. People can fall asleep as they drive and kill themselves and others, people can lust in their sleep (is it really lust if it’s involuntary?! demands every red-faced teen boy)—sleep can be a terrible thing, if one isn’t supposed to be sleeping, if by sleeping one shirks their very real responsibilities. No the true place of sleep’s beauty is in the state of Rest. Roll the R gently off your tongue and whisper it softly: r—e-s-t. Rest speaks volumes about our identity. It prepares us for action by recognizing that continual action is impossible—ludicrous even. It refreshes us with a darkly vibrant sense of our mortality. It restores us to our grace-filed humility. And it turns our eyes to God himself, who neither slumbers nor sleeps, but who rested on the seventh day. And that is why I have good memories of watching Mark sleep.
04 November, 2005
Alexander I (II.II)
There is one morning that seems particularly significant when I think back upon it. I had woken earlier than what the day required and was laying contentedly on my side letting the fresh newness of the day envelop me. Mark was still asleep, breathing easily, scrunching his nose here and there. I almost always feel refreshed after a night’s sleep. I am perfectly aware that feeling refreshed on a regular basis is not a normal state of affairs for others. My boss is a prime example of this unfortunate majority. He always looks haggard and weary; as if his bed was the home of some primordial nightmare that feasted on his mind every night, while giving the allusion of rest. Perhaps that is why he is so fiercely tepid. He strolls the corridor with this dismal air about him—some are intimidated by it. It as if he is determined to take the power of his nightmares and pass them on to others. I must admit it does work around some people; poor things, so controlled by their own uneasiness that the least bit of fuel or confirmation of their worry is enough to topple their shaky self-confidence. I personally think the man is a fraction of an inch away from being irreparably absurd. No doubt, he is rather ludicrous as it is; but it is the sort of ludicrousness that instills sympathy (or fear, if you happen to be Mike the janitor), and I think he still has time to right himself. I’ve heard that he used to be an entirely different person—a hundred miles away from the tiresome particular nature that he bears now. I’ve thought about talking to him about it, but even I am not that bold yet. He doesn’t have a single picture in his office of himself or any friends or relations, come to think of it I don’t think any of the pictures are of the outdoors either—I’ll have to check next time I get a chance (that would be a curiosity). It is as if his entire life has been restructured—a sort of personal negative perestroika—to obliterate all traces of the past. He is like an old communist getting his wish to retract glasnost, like a man with a dirty secret. And yet, by all accounts the secret isn’t dirty at all, rather it is too clean. He does frustrate me sometimes, but I can’t but help to feel compassion towards him when I see his permanent scowl, his bloodshot, empty eyes, trying to stir up anger in whoever they look at. He’s probably the type of man who started tearing the wings off of butterflies as an adult rather than as a child—and he mainly does it out of a desire for contradiction, out of a desire to negate his youth.
01 November, 2005
Alexander I (II.I)
Birds were singing outside Alex’s boarded up window—it sounded far too beautiful, though he knew that in reality their song was comparatively dismal. His nightmare had given way to some early morning vision of springtime and birds (which isn’t to say that the nightmare had ended, rather it was getting worse) and the metallic squawk had metamorphosed into a terribly beautiful call. Clear and cutting as it echoed through the boards. Alex shook his head groggily and tried to reassure himself that it was only a couple of scraggly thrushes too weak to fly anywhere else who were making this heavenly noise.
The covers came off, and Alex lumbered into the bathroom—reaching for the light and the faucet at the same time. For a moment, the creaking of the faucet and rush of brackish water drowned out the music of the birds. He splashed his face with water—and fumbled for soap, nearly knocking it onto the floor.
“Blast and damn,” muttered Alex, “and I wish those god-awful birds would shut up.”
The day would be a long one. Alex had fallen asleep with a worse feeling than normal and he had a faint suspicion that “things” were conspiring against him. It wasn’t supposed to be like that. Alex was the conspirator; he was the one who stood up out of the shadows and fulfilled the lingering sense of doom that hovered over the unfortunate (and “insignificant”) lives of others. He had practiced an ingratiating smile for years and knew how to make the corners of his lips turn just enough to satisfy and terrify anyone who happened to be in his power. And now he a victim of this feeling? Alex tried to look at himself resolutely in the mirror--shaking off doubt with the lukewarm beads of water, but it kept getting in his eyes.
The covers came off, and Alex lumbered into the bathroom—reaching for the light and the faucet at the same time. For a moment, the creaking of the faucet and rush of brackish water drowned out the music of the birds. He splashed his face with water—and fumbled for soap, nearly knocking it onto the floor.
“Blast and damn,” muttered Alex, “and I wish those god-awful birds would shut up.”
The day would be a long one. Alex had fallen asleep with a worse feeling than normal and he had a faint suspicion that “things” were conspiring against him. It wasn’t supposed to be like that. Alex was the conspirator; he was the one who stood up out of the shadows and fulfilled the lingering sense of doom that hovered over the unfortunate (and “insignificant”) lives of others. He had practiced an ingratiating smile for years and knew how to make the corners of his lips turn just enough to satisfy and terrify anyone who happened to be in his power. And now he a victim of this feeling? Alex tried to look at himself resolutely in the mirror--shaking off doubt with the lukewarm beads of water, but it kept getting in his eyes.
Alexander I
Alex looked at his watch. It was getting late; the sun was just disappearing behind a horizon he refused to look at any longer. Others were just beginning their period of activity, but darkness for him was a time of fearful, anxious rest.
"I've got to sleep," he mumbled softly, wondering if the dry feeling in his throat would cease after he brushed his teeth. Pulling his jacket a little closer (not because it was cold, but out of habit), he shuffled toward his flat. Pebbles clicked under heel. He thought about kicking them, perhaps even picking one up and tossing it in the direction of the pond he would pass at the end of the trail, but he was tired and apathy brings a strange comfort to the anxious. He craned his neck, more to stretch it than to look at anything in particular, and was surprised to see that the stars were actually visible. The stars. Groaning he remembered with embarrassment his old immature fascination with the sky. "Rubbish," he growled, "elusive treasures twinkling from on high like celestial fools." He kicked hard at a pebble only to stub his toe, "of course nature will take its own side."
***
Once an old memory has been pricked awake, the mind can be hard pressed to change the subject. It is as if the subconscious activity has increased to such a degree that it drowns out actual reality and reigns, either bringing comfort or despair. It occurred to Alex as he walked that the stars and the pebble had ganged up on him. He kept remembering his old fascinations and loves, the hundreds of hours spent in delighting in something he now could barely stomach.
The wind was blowing softly now and as the evening air blew through his hair he cursed it for its dark freshness. The stars were the problem. They were too alive, too bright, too unchanging, too inaccessible. Alex hated them for being everything that he wasn't, everything that he felt he could never be. His rich knowledge of constellations and nebulas had never faltered, but now the resplendent truths that had slaked his thirst seemed to have turned into a sort of brackish salt water. The stars hadn't changed, he had.
***
With a start Alex lowered his head and stared hard at the ground. The wind had died down and the distinct clicking of the pebbles had become more muted. The sun had disappeared--everything was back to normal, he could finally shut the stars out all together and get on with what really mattered to him now. The factory had a problem. The rest of the journey home would be spent as it should be: thinking how the problem would be solved. Alex was a superb manager; he knew how to quell minor problems before they got too big. He was recognized, and if he only knew, feared, for this very thing. The very first part of Monday would be spent talking with the problem. "Nip it in the bud," he said out loud as he unlocked his flat. "No agitators under my watch." Pushing the door closed he threw his jacket onto the sofa and wandered into the bathroom. Alex gargled his customary half glass of salt water, brushed his teeth, and then crawled into bed grumbling. His throat was still dry.
II.
"That really was an excellent shot my dear, but I do think you've under estimated me a bit."
"Is that so? I do believe you'll have to prove it."
"Naturally, watch closely so you don't miss a thing."
"Watching."
I don't remember what I said after that, but I made the shot (perhaps I was so excited the rest of our conversation was a blur?). Mark was quite good at darts--but I had been practicing; I usually got home a half hour or so before him from work, and after putting on the water for dinner (or starting the oven, depending on what we were having) I usually spent a few minutes in the study. Of course, my "training" would come to good use in our next contest. He usually won--with a good natured smile of course--but I wanted to surprise him; give him the beautiful unexpected gift of defeat.
***
I'll never forget the day I met Mark. It was at the movie theatre, which is sort of odd I suppose. I was going through one of those phases; the phase of the moment was an anti-movie phase. In retrospect maybe I'd say that one of the key factors of anti-movie phasation (is that a word?) was my attention span, but at the time my abstention from cinema was for a purely philosophical reason--a reason that is still valid. But of course the predominant reason that ruled at the time is not the only factor; isn't that how all absolutes tend to break down, the admission of more data? But I digress. My biggest problem with entertainment in general (particularly cinematic entertainment) was (is) that it presents a world generally null and void of consequences. It is a world built around an ideal. And lots of the time there is nothing wrong with conveying ideals, but the ideal of no consequences is a corrupt ideal--it is patently false; the message of "freedom from consequences" is so attractive, so innocently seductive (or not so innocently), that it can't help but to woe the observer (any genuine participant quickly realizes that there really are consequences) to thinking, and then acting, as if there really weren't any consequences. The thing about movies and other forms of entertainment is the fact that most of the time they exercise their charm on observers. The static voyeur: perfect target of the false ideal, all too easily manipulated into believing that there are no consequences.
***
There are many rooms in my house, or home, as my wife prefers to call it. Some of them are loud because they are constantly occupied by loud people. The neighbor's children playing with the cat, my friends laughing too hard at an old joke, the television blaring over the ambient roar of the dishwasher in the next room over. I feel sorry for the walls sometimes in knowing that they cannot escape. They must stand there stolidly and take in every sonic nuance; plaster eavesdroppers in eternal bondage. Of course it's not a wholly tortuous occupation. Sounds can be heavenly just as they can be terrible (and sometimes they can be both). Generations of laughter lie buried in those walls; passionate whispers of love and devotion have helped those rooms age gracefully; exposure to soft, anxious prayers in the middle of the night makes the gentle corners reverberate with a spiritual glow that seems most evident just before dawn, before the pans start rattling in the kitchen.
"I've got to sleep," he mumbled softly, wondering if the dry feeling in his throat would cease after he brushed his teeth. Pulling his jacket a little closer (not because it was cold, but out of habit), he shuffled toward his flat. Pebbles clicked under heel. He thought about kicking them, perhaps even picking one up and tossing it in the direction of the pond he would pass at the end of the trail, but he was tired and apathy brings a strange comfort to the anxious. He craned his neck, more to stretch it than to look at anything in particular, and was surprised to see that the stars were actually visible. The stars. Groaning he remembered with embarrassment his old immature fascination with the sky. "Rubbish," he growled, "elusive treasures twinkling from on high like celestial fools." He kicked hard at a pebble only to stub his toe, "of course nature will take its own side."
***
Once an old memory has been pricked awake, the mind can be hard pressed to change the subject. It is as if the subconscious activity has increased to such a degree that it drowns out actual reality and reigns, either bringing comfort or despair. It occurred to Alex as he walked that the stars and the pebble had ganged up on him. He kept remembering his old fascinations and loves, the hundreds of hours spent in delighting in something he now could barely stomach.
The wind was blowing softly now and as the evening air blew through his hair he cursed it for its dark freshness. The stars were the problem. They were too alive, too bright, too unchanging, too inaccessible. Alex hated them for being everything that he wasn't, everything that he felt he could never be. His rich knowledge of constellations and nebulas had never faltered, but now the resplendent truths that had slaked his thirst seemed to have turned into a sort of brackish salt water. The stars hadn't changed, he had.
***
With a start Alex lowered his head and stared hard at the ground. The wind had died down and the distinct clicking of the pebbles had become more muted. The sun had disappeared--everything was back to normal, he could finally shut the stars out all together and get on with what really mattered to him now. The factory had a problem. The rest of the journey home would be spent as it should be: thinking how the problem would be solved. Alex was a superb manager; he knew how to quell minor problems before they got too big. He was recognized, and if he only knew, feared, for this very thing. The very first part of Monday would be spent talking with the problem. "Nip it in the bud," he said out loud as he unlocked his flat. "No agitators under my watch." Pushing the door closed he threw his jacket onto the sofa and wandered into the bathroom. Alex gargled his customary half glass of salt water, brushed his teeth, and then crawled into bed grumbling. His throat was still dry.
II.
"That really was an excellent shot my dear, but I do think you've under estimated me a bit."
"Is that so? I do believe you'll have to prove it."
"Naturally, watch closely so you don't miss a thing."
"Watching."
I don't remember what I said after that, but I made the shot (perhaps I was so excited the rest of our conversation was a blur?). Mark was quite good at darts--but I had been practicing; I usually got home a half hour or so before him from work, and after putting on the water for dinner (or starting the oven, depending on what we were having) I usually spent a few minutes in the study. Of course, my "training" would come to good use in our next contest. He usually won--with a good natured smile of course--but I wanted to surprise him; give him the beautiful unexpected gift of defeat.
***
I'll never forget the day I met Mark. It was at the movie theatre, which is sort of odd I suppose. I was going through one of those phases; the phase of the moment was an anti-movie phase. In retrospect maybe I'd say that one of the key factors of anti-movie phasation (is that a word?) was my attention span, but at the time my abstention from cinema was for a purely philosophical reason--a reason that is still valid. But of course the predominant reason that ruled at the time is not the only factor; isn't that how all absolutes tend to break down, the admission of more data? But I digress. My biggest problem with entertainment in general (particularly cinematic entertainment) was (is) that it presents a world generally null and void of consequences. It is a world built around an ideal. And lots of the time there is nothing wrong with conveying ideals, but the ideal of no consequences is a corrupt ideal--it is patently false; the message of "freedom from consequences" is so attractive, so innocently seductive (or not so innocently), that it can't help but to woe the observer (any genuine participant quickly realizes that there really are consequences) to thinking, and then acting, as if there really weren't any consequences. The thing about movies and other forms of entertainment is the fact that most of the time they exercise their charm on observers. The static voyeur: perfect target of the false ideal, all too easily manipulated into believing that there are no consequences.
***
There are many rooms in my house, or home, as my wife prefers to call it. Some of them are loud because they are constantly occupied by loud people. The neighbor's children playing with the cat, my friends laughing too hard at an old joke, the television blaring over the ambient roar of the dishwasher in the next room over. I feel sorry for the walls sometimes in knowing that they cannot escape. They must stand there stolidly and take in every sonic nuance; plaster eavesdroppers in eternal bondage. Of course it's not a wholly tortuous occupation. Sounds can be heavenly just as they can be terrible (and sometimes they can be both). Generations of laughter lie buried in those walls; passionate whispers of love and devotion have helped those rooms age gracefully; exposure to soft, anxious prayers in the middle of the night makes the gentle corners reverberate with a spiritual glow that seems most evident just before dawn, before the pans start rattling in the kitchen.
10 May, 2005
Two Poems, an Epitaph Perhaps?
The Realists, W.B. Yeats
Hope that you may understand!
What can books of men that wive
In a dragon-guarded land,
Paintings of the dolphin-drawn
Sea-nymphs in their pearly wagons
Do, but awake a hope to live
That had gone
With the dragons?
Reality Check, T. Poindexter
Just because it’s floating
In the ether of my eye
Doesn’t negate its bearing
Or give it status as a lie
Just because it’s burning
Deep within my heart
Doesn’t mean it’s failing
At being really vibrant art
On the contrary darling, there’s nothing you can really see
Or feel, that hasn’t at its beginning its being in the ether
Of the eye or the burning of the heart.
Yes, everything’s invisible
At the very start.
Hope that you may understand!
What can books of men that wive
In a dragon-guarded land,
Paintings of the dolphin-drawn
Sea-nymphs in their pearly wagons
Do, but awake a hope to live
That had gone
With the dragons?
Reality Check, T. Poindexter
Just because it’s floating
In the ether of my eye
Doesn’t negate its bearing
Or give it status as a lie
Just because it’s burning
Deep within my heart
Doesn’t mean it’s failing
At being really vibrant art
On the contrary darling, there’s nothing you can really see
Or feel, that hasn’t at its beginning its being in the ether
Of the eye or the burning of the heart.
Yes, everything’s invisible
At the very start.
09 May, 2005
Scene 1
Scene 1
(digging in trash, other bums to the side)
Intro Banter (jesse) before Discovery
…
Daniel: what? what’s this? (wiping trash away)
Philmon(?): look at ol’ Dan, he must be dreamin’ again—that dumpster’s never had any food.
Hobo 2: It’s a wonder he hasn’t been hit by a car yet.
Daniel: (murmuring) This is quite an interesting bit of rubbish; carvings all over it, peculiar yet magnificent wood, and a strange sort of iron; I’ve never seen its like, this was the cane of Imhotep himself.
Philmon: Hey! What have you got there, a twisted old stick? You can’t eat that.
(digging in trash, other bums to the side)
Intro Banter (jesse) before Discovery
…
Daniel: what? what’s this? (wiping trash away)
Philmon(?): look at ol’ Dan, he must be dreamin’ again—that dumpster’s never had any food.
Hobo 2: It’s a wonder he hasn’t been hit by a car yet.
Daniel: (murmuring) This is quite an interesting bit of rubbish; carvings all over it, peculiar yet magnificent wood, and a strange sort of iron; I’ve never seen its like, this was the cane of Imhotep himself.
Philmon: Hey! What have you got there, a twisted old stick? You can’t eat that.
Haikus from Saturday Night (OG)
1
A glass lies broken
It’s not my fault I swear
Look, he seems guilty
2
One cut with a fork
Bleeding marinara sauce
Is it what you think?
A glass lies broken
It’s not my fault I swear
Look, he seems guilty
2
One cut with a fork
Bleeding marinara sauce
Is it what you think?
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