Eyelids weightlifting -
Benching themselves.
Losing is easier than winning
When you're tired as hell.
-YB?
Monday, March 23, 2009
Pencil in Hand #17
THESIS OF GO.
The simplicity of GO is still jarring to concrete trapped minds. The idea itself, to them seems like gratuitous madness. Freedom of thoughts, still scares the jailed ones. I stand waiting for - opportunity. For the fucking guts to let GO. I see it. I know it exist. Will I believe and follow or wake up forever tomorrow?
-YB?
Friday, March 20, 2009
Pencil in Hand # 16
Winter in Australia
Ghastly gusts of wind gallop
With unrelenting reason,
Intermingled with drizzled rain,
"From sun to none" -
Oz beckons a new season.
-YB?
Ghastly gusts of wind gallop
With unrelenting reason,
Intermingled with drizzled rain,
"From sun to none" -
Oz beckons a new season.
-YB?
Pencil in Hand # 15
The Neglected Sonnet
Still, furiously fuelled by flimsy flames
While drooping in the drowning thoughts of;
(A haughty heart beckons once again) ;
The retreating beauty of fleeting love.
-YB?
Still, furiously fuelled by flimsy flames
While drooping in the drowning thoughts of;
(A haughty heart beckons once again) ;
The retreating beauty of fleeting love.
-YB?
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Pencil in Hand # 14
Beat.
I have walked the lonely streets many a nights with only the cherry on my cheap cigarette to guide me along the darkness buried below my feet. With wet concrete, I have blended as much as I have clashed with the downpours of rain. However, tonight there are only drizzles of cloud sweat that perpetrate my solemn thoughts.
From the moment my shift ended I knew that I'd rather walk home that become once again a constraint victim of subterranean metro madness. Upon leaving, a man that I had politicked over religion 30 minutes before, on my cigarette break, smiled and said "God bless you, man" I couldn't help but smile and pat my heart. He had tried with relentless and stuttering effort to make me see the light. Little did he know that my soul was etched through a carousel of darker means. I couldn't convince him that the Bible is a great work of fiction, much like he couldn't convince me that Jesus had helped him walk again from his fatal rock climbing accident. But at least he believed in something, which is a fuck more than I could proclaim about myself.
My instinct was to cross the street, and so I did. At this point I was no longer guiding my steps. The sounds of the streets took over. The infectious rhythm became my only agency. Under some urban night constructed spell I lost my sense of purpose only to devote my soul to correspond with the beat being expectorated by the means of plastic buckets, wooden drum sticks and a genius fortified by individual drive. Questlove would have felt this dude as much as I did. My earlier smile now grew to a content grin. I made eye contact with him and he reciprocated a certain understanding only to be shared by those "who get it", as Hunter himself so appropriately put it. I could have stopped and experienced a fuller moment. Nonetheless, the beauty of it lies in the fact that my motion was forward. Infused by the drums. As I crossed him, we clicked. He quit the buckets for a bit, smacked his sticks four resonant and tempestuous times, as if to acknowledge my own damn rhythm, and continued to bang on. I felt it, man. Can you dig it?
This genius remains unknown. Nevertheless, the streets will continue to acknowledge him much more than a public ever could.
-YB?
I have walked the lonely streets many a nights with only the cherry on my cheap cigarette to guide me along the darkness buried below my feet. With wet concrete, I have blended as much as I have clashed with the downpours of rain. However, tonight there are only drizzles of cloud sweat that perpetrate my solemn thoughts.
From the moment my shift ended I knew that I'd rather walk home that become once again a constraint victim of subterranean metro madness. Upon leaving, a man that I had politicked over religion 30 minutes before, on my cigarette break, smiled and said "God bless you, man" I couldn't help but smile and pat my heart. He had tried with relentless and stuttering effort to make me see the light. Little did he know that my soul was etched through a carousel of darker means. I couldn't convince him that the Bible is a great work of fiction, much like he couldn't convince me that Jesus had helped him walk again from his fatal rock climbing accident. But at least he believed in something, which is a fuck more than I could proclaim about myself.
My instinct was to cross the street, and so I did. At this point I was no longer guiding my steps. The sounds of the streets took over. The infectious rhythm became my only agency. Under some urban night constructed spell I lost my sense of purpose only to devote my soul to correspond with the beat being expectorated by the means of plastic buckets, wooden drum sticks and a genius fortified by individual drive. Questlove would have felt this dude as much as I did. My earlier smile now grew to a content grin. I made eye contact with him and he reciprocated a certain understanding only to be shared by those "who get it", as Hunter himself so appropriately put it. I could have stopped and experienced a fuller moment. Nonetheless, the beauty of it lies in the fact that my motion was forward. Infused by the drums. As I crossed him, we clicked. He quit the buckets for a bit, smacked his sticks four resonant and tempestuous times, as if to acknowledge my own damn rhythm, and continued to bang on. I felt it, man. Can you dig it?
This genius remains unknown. Nevertheless, the streets will continue to acknowledge him much more than a public ever could.
-YB?
Pencil in Hand # 13
Amongst the overarching gloom that hung about the wintry sky and the gentle breeze that caressed our souls, you could still see that something was on his mind. As he slowly made his way up the central steps, the ones gathered didn't notice or feel his exuding sadness. The world had chosen its anonymous victim. Fate, with unrelenting force, had made a decision. The perils to come for this young man were only beginning. With omnipotent intrusion I understood what he felt. I related to his confrontations with insurmountable obstacles. He stared back at me for what seemed like an eternity, silently confessing, hoping that I may shed some repressed tears instead of him. As if deliberately trying to transfer his load of woes into my foreign pool. He was introspectively admitting to me all of his secrets without uttering a single word. I understood him, better than anyone else in this world. And still, I was but a reflection of his torment. In me, he saw something that no one ever could. The truthful truth of his existence, his ambitions, his dreams, his fears, his reality, his all. He stared and stared until it was time to go. Relieved? Or perhaps even more confused than when he arrived, he left. And so did I. Until we meet again. Perhaps at that time, he'll let a minimal sigh of relief morph itself into a single smile fuelled by accomplishment.
-YB?
Pencil in Hand # 12
On my Head Top.
The clouds felt heavy. The sky looked dismal. An apocalyptic aroma lingered with perpetual persistence as the drops catapulted themselves on the pavement hard enough to bounce back and ricochet off others falling subsequently creating a mid-air explosion of raindrops. As if to allude to the possibility that this world was finally being consumed by its own rigorous force of the blue source. Days like this made the sun feel inferior. I couldn't help but associate my mood with the orange giant, the recluse ball of fire, as I walked home, drenched, but nonetheless smiling at the absurdity of it all. I slowed down and let my soul be refreshed...fuck it...getting wet was inevitable.
The clouds felt heavy. The sky looked dismal. An apocalyptic aroma lingered with perpetual persistence as the drops catapulted themselves on the pavement hard enough to bounce back and ricochet off others falling subsequently creating a mid-air explosion of raindrops. As if to allude to the possibility that this world was finally being consumed by its own rigorous force of the blue source. Days like this made the sun feel inferior. I couldn't help but associate my mood with the orange giant, the recluse ball of fire, as I walked home, drenched, but nonetheless smiling at the absurdity of it all. I slowed down and let my soul be refreshed...fuck it...getting wet was inevitable.
-YB?
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Pencil in Hand # 11
And even in times of surrounded solitude there seems to be an inapt attraction for personal poetry - watch as the poet fraud sits in a crowded and humid room contemplating whether his words will ever take flight from his notebook and grace the hoodwinked eyes of mass conformity. Years have passed - knowledge has grown through experience and a hunger to honor in following the poets - the dead poets of a past seemingly forgotten. He sits - restless as his blood boils - his eyes scarred with poems of moments lived and with each blink he erases and begins again - scribbling madness only for the self-indulgent joy of writing. For when he writes, he fades into the very page. Lost.
-YB?
-YB?
Pencil in Hand # 10
I've always yearned to be a pseudo-fictional character. A man of my own writings. A Kerouac. I'm interested in a re-emergence of a movement reminiscent of the Beats. My attraction lies in the idea of exposing the banality of life by expunging it. To be driven by experimental truth. To create non-linear fiction flooding with episodes . . . lived. To capture those moments which make life worth living. To bore you with reality while captivating you with its hidden gems. To deconstruct preconceived notions and imply a grimy street intellectual perspective. To tell you a story. To create new. To be a writer of my own accord.
-YB 2005
-YB 2005
Pencil in Hand # 9
MTL - Ma Ville.
Catapulted back to reality. Thoughts are now interspersed with fragmented memories of what once was, not so long ago. Comparitive statements are uttered to remind others that I have yet to forget what I've left - behind. However; there is this much to say. My city. With which I have shared many a moments of pain and joy, the same city that I observed with a new born's perpspective upon returning (I felt like a tourist for a day) as yet to let me down. Its streets breathe and subsequently exhale inspiration, creativity, life and art at every hour of every day. With you. Within your casual haze my days have once again taken purpose. My edge - now fully re-installed - with my grime, guides me through Montreal. The heat, the humidity, the beads of sweat that trickle down the tip of my nose even as I write these words - remind me that it's good to be back home." -YB? 2005
Catapulted back to reality. Thoughts are now interspersed with fragmented memories of what once was, not so long ago. Comparitive statements are uttered to remind others that I have yet to forget what I've left - behind. However; there is this much to say. My city. With which I have shared many a moments of pain and joy, the same city that I observed with a new born's perpspective upon returning (I felt like a tourist for a day) as yet to let me down. Its streets breathe and subsequently exhale inspiration, creativity, life and art at every hour of every day. With you. Within your casual haze my days have once again taken purpose. My edge - now fully re-installed - with my grime, guides me through Montreal. The heat, the humidity, the beads of sweat that trickle down the tip of my nose even as I write these words - remind me that it's good to be back home." -YB? 2005
Pencil in Hand # 8
The Line & Poetic Disturbance on the Strangest of Days.
I am disturbed by my actions ... or action, rather. Perhaps it was the overwhelming beauty of the scenic day or perhaps the first hints of my soon to be discovered penchant for random and unexplainable behaviour had decided to surface without warning. Regardless, for a brief moment my self no longer knew itself. Overtaken by impulses of minor malice; distraught by thoughts enticing yet intrusive and expository ... never mind. Fuck it, for the next thing I knew I had already done it. I had come - to a climaxing conclusion and in doing so, had introduced a split moment of spontaneous madness (which I now grin about) to my day of solitude.
I didn't have to work today.
"Take a moment. Stop thinking thus forcing the poem which lies before you in all its exposed splendour. Take a moment. To breathe it before you adapt it.”
Look at the line.
Dividing a world in half with two magical shades of blue. In the distance, the unfathomable distance ...(what?). The bottom half, with its dark tone of mystery continuously flowing without interruption. Its posture is firm and fluent. Almost at ease with its insuperable force. Confident, strong and silent. All the while made more ferocious due to its instigating and inviting texture. So easy to enter the wavy abyss yet easier to wallow in its pending deception of secure lodging.
Look at the line.
Dividing a world in half with two magical shades of blue. In the distance, the unreachable distance ...(what?). The top half, made tender by its brotherly undertone, blows a subdued sense of comfort. Its character reeks of supreme wisdom yet untapped. Beckoning a soft welcome to all willing to undertake the utmost sacrifice of leaving and never returning. Camouflaged by the appearance of enticing intrigue thus bearing the impressionable softness of truth, answers and eternal peace. All the while forever undiscovered. So easy to enter the cloudy abyss yet easier to wallow in its pending illusion of secure lodging.
In comparison, my now meaningless action had lost all meaning and weight. Bulimic importance. And so, with a few newly mentally imprinted words of knowledge by Henry Miller;
"Man is not at home in the universe, despite all the efforts of philosophers and metaphysicians to provide a soothing syrup. Thought is still a narcotic. The deepest question is why. And it is a forbidden one. The very asking is in the nature of cosmic sabotage."
my day had morphed itself into a journey of self/soul exploration. Heavily addicted to my own thoughts, I rode a wave of thoughtless observation. Breathing in a new continent from the rocks above.
-YB? 02/02/05
I am disturbed by my actions ... or action, rather. Perhaps it was the overwhelming beauty of the scenic day or perhaps the first hints of my soon to be discovered penchant for random and unexplainable behaviour had decided to surface without warning. Regardless, for a brief moment my self no longer knew itself. Overtaken by impulses of minor malice; distraught by thoughts enticing yet intrusive and expository ... never mind. Fuck it, for the next thing I knew I had already done it. I had come - to a climaxing conclusion and in doing so, had introduced a split moment of spontaneous madness (which I now grin about) to my day of solitude.
I didn't have to work today.
"Take a moment. Stop thinking thus forcing the poem which lies before you in all its exposed splendour. Take a moment. To breathe it before you adapt it.”
Look at the line.
Dividing a world in half with two magical shades of blue. In the distance, the unfathomable distance ...(what?). The bottom half, with its dark tone of mystery continuously flowing without interruption. Its posture is firm and fluent. Almost at ease with its insuperable force. Confident, strong and silent. All the while made more ferocious due to its instigating and inviting texture. So easy to enter the wavy abyss yet easier to wallow in its pending deception of secure lodging.
Look at the line.
Dividing a world in half with two magical shades of blue. In the distance, the unreachable distance ...(what?). The top half, made tender by its brotherly undertone, blows a subdued sense of comfort. Its character reeks of supreme wisdom yet untapped. Beckoning a soft welcome to all willing to undertake the utmost sacrifice of leaving and never returning. Camouflaged by the appearance of enticing intrigue thus bearing the impressionable softness of truth, answers and eternal peace. All the while forever undiscovered. So easy to enter the cloudy abyss yet easier to wallow in its pending illusion of secure lodging.
In comparison, my now meaningless action had lost all meaning and weight. Bulimic importance. And so, with a few newly mentally imprinted words of knowledge by Henry Miller;
"Man is not at home in the universe, despite all the efforts of philosophers and metaphysicians to provide a soothing syrup. Thought is still a narcotic. The deepest question is why. And it is a forbidden one. The very asking is in the nature of cosmic sabotage."
my day had morphed itself into a journey of self/soul exploration. Heavily addicted to my own thoughts, I rode a wave of thoughtless observation. Breathing in a new continent from the rocks above.
-YB? 02/02/05
Pencil in Hand # 7
Exploring Mundane Madness in Times of Trifled Transition.
When such madness as that of the unexpected; the sour sort which tends to tease and test character; befalls upon you, the struggle bares close resemblance to resisting the insurmountable muscle of the crashing wave. One can either desperately fight with all his might a losing battle or drift his thoughts to times serene, waiting to be washed up upon the shore. As I sit with my feet apprehensively dangling over the ocean, my thoughts now morph to meditation. Meditation loosely based on exposing the falsehoods creeping in every shadows of moments past, present and to come.
What of tomorrow? I ask myself, when today holds the stench of corruption. When today already seems to be a foreshadow of what is to come. Glimmers of sham hope always bring comfort to a prevailing escape never consumed. Extracting self from a present state is a sickness yet cured. With attitudes reflecting the absurd notion that everything will be better soon, one removes any sense of reality. Consequently, engulfing all expectations of virtue into foreign intangible grounds. Bearing resemblance all too closely to the visions of the madman prophet patiently awaiting the end that will in turn thrust forth a glorious beginning.
But what of Now? A concept ravished and branching on the limits of becoming obsolete. In obliterating any responsibility owed to today, one becomes a slave to a distorted past, memories of yesterday and anticipations for future prospects more enticing and promising. This kingdom of dumb day dreaming poisons motivation and beckons procrastination.
Carpe Diem for fucks sake.
I expose this vice for having myself, all too often, wallowed in a drifting mind assuring me that with Time the resolution to any problem will surface. That through a pathetic notion of destiny, a little dwarf will glide in realms humanly inconceivable with the chief purpose of fixing my personal problems, to render right, so that I may continue to exude confidence when in fact I know nothing. This monotonous specimen is madness. Instead of losing one's mind one decides to live in it until all is reset to an acceptable reality. One then over leaps any transition; however minute, by complying to fantasy.
Through hard Times character works on its calluses. In transition, one begins to grow through acknowledged and accepted understanding.
When such madness as that of the unexpected; the sour sort which tends to tease and test character; befalls upon you, the struggle bares close resemblance to resisting the insurmountable muscle of the crashing wave. One can either desperately fight with all his might a losing battle or drift his thoughts to times serene, waiting to be washed up upon the shore. As I sit with my feet apprehensively dangling over the ocean, my thoughts now morph to meditation. Meditation loosely based on exposing the falsehoods creeping in every shadows of moments past, present and to come.
What of tomorrow? I ask myself, when today holds the stench of corruption. When today already seems to be a foreshadow of what is to come. Glimmers of sham hope always bring comfort to a prevailing escape never consumed. Extracting self from a present state is a sickness yet cured. With attitudes reflecting the absurd notion that everything will be better soon, one removes any sense of reality. Consequently, engulfing all expectations of virtue into foreign intangible grounds. Bearing resemblance all too closely to the visions of the madman prophet patiently awaiting the end that will in turn thrust forth a glorious beginning.
But what of Now? A concept ravished and branching on the limits of becoming obsolete. In obliterating any responsibility owed to today, one becomes a slave to a distorted past, memories of yesterday and anticipations for future prospects more enticing and promising. This kingdom of dumb day dreaming poisons motivation and beckons procrastination.
Carpe Diem for fucks sake.
I expose this vice for having myself, all too often, wallowed in a drifting mind assuring me that with Time the resolution to any problem will surface. That through a pathetic notion of destiny, a little dwarf will glide in realms humanly inconceivable with the chief purpose of fixing my personal problems, to render right, so that I may continue to exude confidence when in fact I know nothing. This monotonous specimen is madness. Instead of losing one's mind one decides to live in it until all is reset to an acceptable reality. One then over leaps any transition; however minute, by complying to fantasy.
Through hard Times character works on its calluses. In transition, one begins to grow through acknowledged and accepted understanding.
Pencil in Hand # 6
A night with Charlene.
Languidly, I strolled through the clouded streets with only the thought of you on my mind. Yesterday, as I left your place, I remember whispering to myself, loud enough for you to hear, that I had finally found something worth living for. I bet that you remember hearing me too but you'll never admit to it. We'll just keep that secret between the both of us, underneath the cool of our individual pillows. Nothing quite like this could have been expected. Matter of fact, nothing quite like this should have ever happened. I mean, what are the odds? The way it happened remains as mysterious as the way it will unfold. I've never felt so accompanied as when I walk the streets alone thinking about you. Yeah, it's a funny type of thing that way. Call it a lover's paradox. I remember my buddy, Jackson, telling me about it once. He said, in his own unique way of saying things, that you'll never feel more in the presence of something divine then when you're in love. Mind you, these words come from that same man that told me once to run if I even smelt the faint odour of love around the corner. But, I was never one to run away, anywhere. Except perhaps in your case I can make an exception and run right into your arms. That is, if they'll be so kind as to welcome me one more time. Within a couple of days, my and hopefully your life as changed for the better. Shit, tell me one thing. What the hell where you doing there anyway? I mean, I know what it is that you were doing there but tell me something – what was you doing there, anyway? You dig? It ain't everyday that I make my way into one of those establishments. I'm a lonely man, lonely enough to keep to myself and forgo any attempts at establishing superficial contact with the outside world. My dog and me have lived a happy life together up, until now. I go to work, I come home, he acts surprised every time I walk through my front door, in turn giving me the love I, with all honesty, expected from him when I got him. But you know what's so damn great about it...he means it. I see his tail wagging and knowing that it wags for me, well shit, that's enough to make any lonely man feel a little less lonely. You dig? But you, you ain't got no tail to wag around. However, you do have that contagious smile that brightens the very core of my heart. Makes me feel appreciated. As if, I mean something more than just pushing certain designated buttons in this world. I see you sometimes and I have to take a moment in order to fully understand that moment. You dig? Matter of fact, sometimes I think to myself that we ought to quit this thing right now so as to not spoil it. 'Cause I've seen what can happen. Lovers begin with love only to shape that love into a hateful contract. Resentment, bitterness, hostility, lies, abandonment and the list goes on. Is that what I've got to look forward to? Because if so, I'd rather end this thing right now. Nip it in the bud so that I can save myself a heartache that I never intended on getting in the first place. I don't mean to sprinkle some pessimistic reality on our hot dish but sometimes a little spice burns for a reason. You dig? Man, what made you look at me that way? Was it pity? Because if it was, don’t you worry, I’m all to familiar with that look. I think that's the first look my old man gave me when I popped out of my momma's oven. Doctor said “It's a boy” and my Pops' only answer was, “I guess”. You might wonder how I know that. Well, it's simple enough, he told me that story until the day I finally decided to get the hell out of that house. I said to him, “Pops I'm going and probably never coming back. I might see you around then. Bye, Pops.” His only reply was, “I guess”. Didn't even make sense in the context of what I was trying to tell him but at that point he knew just how much I hated hearing those words that he'd just say them to me as another way of saying “fuck off”. Yeah well, I guess that's enough for the warming family stories. Just how did you and I become you and I? Shit, I'm sorry, are we even you and I? Or, am I just putting you with I before I know you want to be with I? Man, sometimes I'd just be better off keeping thoughts like that to myself and I. Well, I'll be dreaming of you tonight. Dreaming about our first dance. Mind you, you did most, if not all, of the dancing, but I'll pretend that we were somewhere else than at your place of work. I'll imagine us in a forest somewhere dancing to the sound of a soft wind caressing the orange, yellow, and red autumn leaves. You dig? Just let me know how much I owe and I'll come by tomorrow to pay you. Take it easy, Charlene.
Languidly, I strolled through the clouded streets with only the thought of you on my mind. Yesterday, as I left your place, I remember whispering to myself, loud enough for you to hear, that I had finally found something worth living for. I bet that you remember hearing me too but you'll never admit to it. We'll just keep that secret between the both of us, underneath the cool of our individual pillows. Nothing quite like this could have been expected. Matter of fact, nothing quite like this should have ever happened. I mean, what are the odds? The way it happened remains as mysterious as the way it will unfold. I've never felt so accompanied as when I walk the streets alone thinking about you. Yeah, it's a funny type of thing that way. Call it a lover's paradox. I remember my buddy, Jackson, telling me about it once. He said, in his own unique way of saying things, that you'll never feel more in the presence of something divine then when you're in love. Mind you, these words come from that same man that told me once to run if I even smelt the faint odour of love around the corner. But, I was never one to run away, anywhere. Except perhaps in your case I can make an exception and run right into your arms. That is, if they'll be so kind as to welcome me one more time. Within a couple of days, my and hopefully your life as changed for the better. Shit, tell me one thing. What the hell where you doing there anyway? I mean, I know what it is that you were doing there but tell me something – what was you doing there, anyway? You dig? It ain't everyday that I make my way into one of those establishments. I'm a lonely man, lonely enough to keep to myself and forgo any attempts at establishing superficial contact with the outside world. My dog and me have lived a happy life together up, until now. I go to work, I come home, he acts surprised every time I walk through my front door, in turn giving me the love I, with all honesty, expected from him when I got him. But you know what's so damn great about it...he means it. I see his tail wagging and knowing that it wags for me, well shit, that's enough to make any lonely man feel a little less lonely. You dig? But you, you ain't got no tail to wag around. However, you do have that contagious smile that brightens the very core of my heart. Makes me feel appreciated. As if, I mean something more than just pushing certain designated buttons in this world. I see you sometimes and I have to take a moment in order to fully understand that moment. You dig? Matter of fact, sometimes I think to myself that we ought to quit this thing right now so as to not spoil it. 'Cause I've seen what can happen. Lovers begin with love only to shape that love into a hateful contract. Resentment, bitterness, hostility, lies, abandonment and the list goes on. Is that what I've got to look forward to? Because if so, I'd rather end this thing right now. Nip it in the bud so that I can save myself a heartache that I never intended on getting in the first place. I don't mean to sprinkle some pessimistic reality on our hot dish but sometimes a little spice burns for a reason. You dig? Man, what made you look at me that way? Was it pity? Because if it was, don’t you worry, I’m all to familiar with that look. I think that's the first look my old man gave me when I popped out of my momma's oven. Doctor said “It's a boy” and my Pops' only answer was, “I guess”. You might wonder how I know that. Well, it's simple enough, he told me that story until the day I finally decided to get the hell out of that house. I said to him, “Pops I'm going and probably never coming back. I might see you around then. Bye, Pops.” His only reply was, “I guess”. Didn't even make sense in the context of what I was trying to tell him but at that point he knew just how much I hated hearing those words that he'd just say them to me as another way of saying “fuck off”. Yeah well, I guess that's enough for the warming family stories. Just how did you and I become you and I? Shit, I'm sorry, are we even you and I? Or, am I just putting you with I before I know you want to be with I? Man, sometimes I'd just be better off keeping thoughts like that to myself and I. Well, I'll be dreaming of you tonight. Dreaming about our first dance. Mind you, you did most, if not all, of the dancing, but I'll pretend that we were somewhere else than at your place of work. I'll imagine us in a forest somewhere dancing to the sound of a soft wind caressing the orange, yellow, and red autumn leaves. You dig? Just let me know how much I owe and I'll come by tomorrow to pay you. Take it easy, Charlene.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Pencil in Hand # 5
The oblivious waking.
Caught in between a kung-fu yawn and a metaphoric stretch, I awoke. My eyes, like rusted shutters, took a full minute and a half to fully open. Upon doing so, I noticed once again that I had fallen asleep fully dressed not on but besides my child size bed. This non-sense had to come to a stop. A grown man could not be expected to wake up every morning only to realize that he had never actually made it to his restful lodging the night before. To my surprise, there came a voice from outside my bedroom door. It, with impeccable resemblance to my dear old mother's voice, asked me how I wanted my eggs. I responded over easy only to stop myself mid "easy" to recall that I lived alone. Had I come home with someone last night? That possibility was impossible however, considering the fact that I hadn't left my apartment in over a week. Who was this stranger who with such kindness in their voice dared to ask me about eggs? I concluded that I must be dreaming, still. This was the only reasonable explanation. Or, perhaps my television set was still on and it just so happened that someone on TV had asked someone else on TV how they wanted their eggs and I had interrupted the Televised conversation only to believe that the question was somehow directed at me. Strange feelings of meta theatrics began to brood within my secluded sphere of uncompromising loneliness. Was I alone? I must be, my solitude like Batman's was chief to my existence. I closed my eyes.
"Well, are you getting up? You have a big day ahead of you, sweety! Come on now, come and get your eggs while their hot."
I ignored the voice. I kept my eyes closed as tight as virgin legs. My sanity depended on it. I had to be dreaming. The fan above my head continued to spin with restless persistence. I thought of turning it off but then I remembered. I, maybe, wasn't alone. A kind female sounding stranger had perhaps made their way into my cocoon with the intent to free me from its self-induced restraints. For a moment, everything went quiet.
"Well? Aren't we mister lazy pants this morning! Come on, enough goofing off."
"Lazy pants?" Who dared to judge me in my own house. I felt a resolute anger creeping into my frontal lobe. It was one thing to break and enter into my house and cook me breakfast but to tease me with innocent kindness was something else. An attack on my manhood. I for one was not ready to accept this female intrusion any longer. With one swift shift of my body, I rolled over and put my pillow over my head. Enough distractions already. This method was sure to prevent any further interruption from the gentle voice begging me to come out. It was 9:00 in the morning. An ungodly hour for anyone with a sense of nonconformist dignity to get up. I would not compromise. Ever since I was twenty, I had made a solid pact with myself and a friend of mine who soon afterwards rejected the agreement, to never leave the comfort of my bed, or in this case the floor besides my bed, for anything or anyone, expect to pee, before 10:30 am. I still had an hour and a half to go and this intruder, whomever she or he may be, would not make me break the waking pact. Soon enough, I told myself, this early morning intruder would get the point and leave me alone.
"Don't make me come in there and get you mister sleepy head."
Beads of sweat began to surface on my forehead. The fan, which still continued to rotate, appeared now to slow down and consequently not provide enough needed oxygen in my room. Everything went stale. I gripped the corners of my pillow, pulling at them with childish force, pleading with whatever god that could hear me to rid me of this incessant voice that had nested outside my bedroom door. I could and would not give up the fight. This after all was my battle, my home. A breach on Zeus' sacred code of Xenia was taking place and I could not for the life of me figure out who was in the wrong. Should I wake and receive this unwelcome hospitality in my own house or should I like Odysseus slaughter the intrusive presence. Finally, with a resilient tone I uttered my first words to the voice.
"Leave! Now! I mean it, get the fuck out of my house. You're seductive proclamations creep me out."
"Now, now. That's no way to speak to me. After all I am your-"
The voice stopped mid sentence before revealing its identity.
"My what?" I inquired with nonchalant curiosity. "My what,uh? Answer me stranger. Reveal yourself and I will spare you. Reveal yourself, I say."
A dreadful yet soothing silence echoed throughout my ears. It was gone or at least it was being suspiciously quiet. "Hello?" I shouted. No response. The voice had gone but its unwelcome presence lingered. I waited five minutes. It was now 9:37 am. I couldn't smell the eggs. My thoughts drifted and I followed them into my own subconscious.
I dreamt of a monster made out of scrambled eggs chasing me. I conquered him by eating him only to have his harpy sisters chase me. They were Over and Easy and they kept piercing their own yokes trying to spray me with it. I ran into a Mr. Toast and we defeated them. At 10:43 I awoke, smelling the faint aroma of bacon and eggs in the air. With a horsed voice I asked, "Is anyone here cooking me breakfast?"
"No."
Caught in between a kung-fu yawn and a metaphoric stretch, I awoke. My eyes, like rusted shutters, took a full minute and a half to fully open. Upon doing so, I noticed once again that I had fallen asleep fully dressed not on but besides my child size bed. This non-sense had to come to a stop. A grown man could not be expected to wake up every morning only to realize that he had never actually made it to his restful lodging the night before. To my surprise, there came a voice from outside my bedroom door. It, with impeccable resemblance to my dear old mother's voice, asked me how I wanted my eggs. I responded over easy only to stop myself mid "easy" to recall that I lived alone. Had I come home with someone last night? That possibility was impossible however, considering the fact that I hadn't left my apartment in over a week. Who was this stranger who with such kindness in their voice dared to ask me about eggs? I concluded that I must be dreaming, still. This was the only reasonable explanation. Or, perhaps my television set was still on and it just so happened that someone on TV had asked someone else on TV how they wanted their eggs and I had interrupted the Televised conversation only to believe that the question was somehow directed at me. Strange feelings of meta theatrics began to brood within my secluded sphere of uncompromising loneliness. Was I alone? I must be, my solitude like Batman's was chief to my existence. I closed my eyes.
"Well, are you getting up? You have a big day ahead of you, sweety! Come on now, come and get your eggs while their hot."
I ignored the voice. I kept my eyes closed as tight as virgin legs. My sanity depended on it. I had to be dreaming. The fan above my head continued to spin with restless persistence. I thought of turning it off but then I remembered. I, maybe, wasn't alone. A kind female sounding stranger had perhaps made their way into my cocoon with the intent to free me from its self-induced restraints. For a moment, everything went quiet.
"Well? Aren't we mister lazy pants this morning! Come on, enough goofing off."
"Lazy pants?" Who dared to judge me in my own house. I felt a resolute anger creeping into my frontal lobe. It was one thing to break and enter into my house and cook me breakfast but to tease me with innocent kindness was something else. An attack on my manhood. I for one was not ready to accept this female intrusion any longer. With one swift shift of my body, I rolled over and put my pillow over my head. Enough distractions already. This method was sure to prevent any further interruption from the gentle voice begging me to come out. It was 9:00 in the morning. An ungodly hour for anyone with a sense of nonconformist dignity to get up. I would not compromise. Ever since I was twenty, I had made a solid pact with myself and a friend of mine who soon afterwards rejected the agreement, to never leave the comfort of my bed, or in this case the floor besides my bed, for anything or anyone, expect to pee, before 10:30 am. I still had an hour and a half to go and this intruder, whomever she or he may be, would not make me break the waking pact. Soon enough, I told myself, this early morning intruder would get the point and leave me alone.
"Don't make me come in there and get you mister sleepy head."
Beads of sweat began to surface on my forehead. The fan, which still continued to rotate, appeared now to slow down and consequently not provide enough needed oxygen in my room. Everything went stale. I gripped the corners of my pillow, pulling at them with childish force, pleading with whatever god that could hear me to rid me of this incessant voice that had nested outside my bedroom door. I could and would not give up the fight. This after all was my battle, my home. A breach on Zeus' sacred code of Xenia was taking place and I could not for the life of me figure out who was in the wrong. Should I wake and receive this unwelcome hospitality in my own house or should I like Odysseus slaughter the intrusive presence. Finally, with a resilient tone I uttered my first words to the voice.
"Leave! Now! I mean it, get the fuck out of my house. You're seductive proclamations creep me out."
"Now, now. That's no way to speak to me. After all I am your-"
The voice stopped mid sentence before revealing its identity.
"My what?" I inquired with nonchalant curiosity. "My what,uh? Answer me stranger. Reveal yourself and I will spare you. Reveal yourself, I say."
A dreadful yet soothing silence echoed throughout my ears. It was gone or at least it was being suspiciously quiet. "Hello?" I shouted. No response. The voice had gone but its unwelcome presence lingered. I waited five minutes. It was now 9:37 am. I couldn't smell the eggs. My thoughts drifted and I followed them into my own subconscious.
I dreamt of a monster made out of scrambled eggs chasing me. I conquered him by eating him only to have his harpy sisters chase me. They were Over and Easy and they kept piercing their own yokes trying to spray me with it. I ran into a Mr. Toast and we defeated them. At 10:43 I awoke, smelling the faint aroma of bacon and eggs in the air. With a horsed voice I asked, "Is anyone here cooking me breakfast?"
"No."
Pencil in Hand # 4
INDIVIDUO VAGO
Opposing the current
Current of conformity
(The flagrant falsehoods)
With a Natural Resistance
Reminiscent of 2 magnets
Pushing away from kindred
P---U---L---L---S.
- YB?
Opposing the current
Current of conformity
(The flagrant falsehoods)
With a Natural Resistance
Reminiscent of 2 magnets
Pushing away from kindred
P---U---L---L---S.
- YB?
Pencil in Hand # 3
Contrary to popular beliefs -
Casualties of Corruption continue to increase.
At a dollar a piece,
Souls deflate as inflation depletes.
Individuals conform
As packs dictates the norms.
Sworn to an alleged allegiance
Some pledge in ignorance.
Casualties of Corruption continue to increase.
At a dollar a piece,
Souls deflate as inflation depletes.
Individuals conform
As packs dictates the norms.
Sworn to an alleged allegiance
Some pledge in ignorance.
Pencil in Hand # 2
One phenomena of human nature that continues to perplex me : Why is it that we feel embarrassment first and pain second when we fall or take a tumble in public places?
Perhaps it is just me but whenever I slip on some ice or trip on a bizarrely sized sidewalk, I always try and pretend like it did not actually happen. Rather, my first reaction will be one of sheer embarrassment. As if I was truly ashamed of my unfortunate mis-step. It might be that falling or tripping just isn't that cool. It essentially reduces one to a clownish state, a spectacle of sorts for others to laugh at. More importantly; however, is the fact that in most cases this sudden rush of embarrassment supersedes the feeling of pain. I realize that if one was to fall and fracture their femur in 2 different places of slip and crack their tailbone, the pain would conquer all other states and reign supreme. Nevertheless, these extreme cases are not the one's that I am interested in. My chief focus resides in the everyday human stumbles that result in little to somewhat bearable pain. Unless you are talking about egos, obviously.
Take this as a prime example : Yesterday in a safe attempt to avoid a puddle of brown slush I decided to jump over it only to land directly on some patch of black ice. Consequently, I ended up falling and banging my knee on some hard winter concrete. My initial reaction was not to verify if my knee was alright. Instead, I impulsively jumped back onto my feet and hurried away from the scene and into my friend's awaiting car. Once in the car, I lifted my jeans above the injured knee and discovered that I was hurt. Yet, at the time of impact I had felt no pain, only foolish embarrassment. I now wear a brace on my left knee when I play basket-ball.
Perhaps it is just me but whenever I slip on some ice or trip on a bizarrely sized sidewalk, I always try and pretend like it did not actually happen. Rather, my first reaction will be one of sheer embarrassment. As if I was truly ashamed of my unfortunate mis-step. It might be that falling or tripping just isn't that cool. It essentially reduces one to a clownish state, a spectacle of sorts for others to laugh at. More importantly; however, is the fact that in most cases this sudden rush of embarrassment supersedes the feeling of pain. I realize that if one was to fall and fracture their femur in 2 different places of slip and crack their tailbone, the pain would conquer all other states and reign supreme. Nevertheless, these extreme cases are not the one's that I am interested in. My chief focus resides in the everyday human stumbles that result in little to somewhat bearable pain. Unless you are talking about egos, obviously.
Take this as a prime example : Yesterday in a safe attempt to avoid a puddle of brown slush I decided to jump over it only to land directly on some patch of black ice. Consequently, I ended up falling and banging my knee on some hard winter concrete. My initial reaction was not to verify if my knee was alright. Instead, I impulsively jumped back onto my feet and hurried away from the scene and into my friend's awaiting car. Once in the car, I lifted my jeans above the injured knee and discovered that I was hurt. Yet, at the time of impact I had felt no pain, only foolish embarrassment. I now wear a brace on my left knee when I play basket-ball.
Pencil in Hand # 1
As I stand,a spectator to the souls that surround me, I can't help but wonder whether my individualistic tendencies are simply indulgent acts of reversed conformity. I am no more special or unique than the slightly chubby girl with a red streak gracing the back of her head. What separates me from her? Different aspirations, views, hopes, goals, and gender perspectives; I suppose. Still, as any of us do, she as well must arbor ambitions of greatness. Or, does she? Perhaps mundane satisfaction is enough to appease her daily needs. Maybe there is nothing more to it. In actuality, she may never even have considered the possibility that she can make a difference in the way this universe unfolds. Behind a veil of ignorance, would we not want the same things? A quarter pounder of truth.
I am curious to know if my delusions are precisely that - delusions - or if they are in fact - drives in proposed excellence.
As a robust man runs past me to chase his beautiful girlfriend, I contemplate our similarities, or lack their of. Do we share any unqualified inherent properties that might make us kindred to one another? Or, do we simply have nothing in common except the primitively masculine impulse to get laid? I, by my cherished wife, and he, by any random callet willing to make a one hit wonder.
My replacement Spanish teacher; a man who has had to take over one of his close friend's class after his unexpected and recent death; what about him? Our cultural differences are apparent, but what if I had been born in Peru? Would I then seem closer to his existence?
I am curious to know if my delusions are precisely that - delusions - or if they are in fact - drives in proposed excellence.
As a robust man runs past me to chase his beautiful girlfriend, I contemplate our similarities, or lack their of. Do we share any unqualified inherent properties that might make us kindred to one another? Or, do we simply have nothing in common except the primitively masculine impulse to get laid? I, by my cherished wife, and he, by any random callet willing to make a one hit wonder.
My replacement Spanish teacher; a man who has had to take over one of his close friend's class after his unexpected and recent death; what about him? Our cultural differences are apparent, but what if I had been born in Peru? Would I then seem closer to his existence?
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