On saying all the wrong things and none of the right things

I can tell you a million unimportant yet perhaps mildly amusing anecdotes. I can tell you some really funny ones, maybe, too; at least once in a while. I can say an infinite number of things about an infinite number of unimportant subjects: The kinds of things that are easy to speculate about because no assertion one way or the other with regard to these subjects will really shock or offend anyone. No one will raise an eyebrow. Someone might chuckle, but he or she will not remember what was said in a day or a month or a year. I can make a dozen jokes and several dozen silly or even witty puns, and a million or more out-of-place sound-effects. I can say something under my breath just to myself that is entirely inaudible, and laugh for hours about it. Speaking is easy, and I say so, so many things. The kinds of things that can be said, and the ways in which these things might be uttered, are so numerous. Despite this, I get tired of talking, because it's the things I don't say that are the most important.

Why is it that I choke on my words when I want to say something that actually means something to me? Many words might have little effect on the world around me, but there are some things that could really effect something or someone. By way of uttering these certain words, I might actually change the course of my life in one way or another; but these are the words I just can't stutter my way through. I might say a million seemingly unrelated things in an attempt to enclose the topic and by way of framing it somehow get my point across, but the result will be something of a spider-web of sentiment, and will likely result in confusion rather than clarity.

The words that I want to shout from mountaintops are the same words that I can't even bring myself to force out in a whisper. The things I'm most sure of are the things I'm most hesitant to say. I'm perfectly willing to say a number of things that I'm unsure of, and to present these ideas as postulations, but when I know something to be true for me, I keep it to myself and hold it close as if it could do no good in the world outside of my own mind. I truly want to say these things, because I feel that I often keep myself from expressing my most sincere or meaningful thoughts.

When I find that I really believe in something, or care about something or someone, I become so sure of it that I fear I wouldn't be able to handle the pain of presenting it to the world - that thing that I so adamantly believe in - and having the world snuff it out or throw stones at it or walk away from me as soon as they see it.

I'm caged in by my own awareness of the potential for negative repercussions that might result from things that I say that have actual weight to them. I'm tired of saying so many things that don't mean much to me, and yet not saying anything that truly means something to me. I'd rather say nothing at all than say anything other than what matters the most. I can't expect people to read my mind, and yet I find myself feeling disappointed when they don't.

Speaking a million truths that mean nothing to me feels almost the same as telling a million little lies. And the more I refrain from saying the things that I most believe in and most care about, the more I care about those things and the more I treasure them, and the more I fear that they will be ruined once they are expressed to the world. I've tried to remedy this by just confronting my fears head-on and saying what I mean whenever I want to, but the result is this: I end up saying a lot of things in an attempt to express those things which matter the most, but I never quite hit the nail on the head and so I just end up doing a lot of talking, and saying a lot of things that don't quite do justice to the way I feel.

My heart feels about full to a bursting-point, so I'm going to have to find some way to express the love and conviction and passion and wonder and awe that I feel. Most importantly, I have to find some way to express these things in a way that doesn't request anything of the listener, and doesn't apologize for itself, and doesn't undermine or belittle itself, and doesn't dismiss itself even in that moment in which it is uttered. I don't know how to do this. I admire those who say nothing, because at least they are saying fewer unimportant things than the rest of us.

On Grumps and Recluses

For whatever reason, I think a lot about time spent alone. Perhaps it's because I've done a lot of it in my time. I'm not sure. It's comfortable for me. I guess it makes sense that it would be, given that I had divorced parents and went from one house to another every three days. When there's no one point on a map that constitutes home at a given point in time, and when one is always surrounded by different people, one learns to be chameleon-like, and flexible. I don't know if this is good - and wish sometimes that I could be more set in my ways, or have my "ways" be less numerous, or even be more clear on what my "ways" are - but it has its applications.

Living in multiple places makes one aware of his or her ability to be happy in different conditions, and around different people, and in different environments. This makes life easier, because one realizes that he or she will never really be unable to cope with whatever environment happens to exist around the self at the moment; but it also makes certain things harder. When one option seems as doable as another option, in terms of career or location or surroundings, the act of deciding proves difficult. I feel like I've learned to look at situations from all angles, but the problem is that I think I can find merit in just about anything, and that means that I want to devote adequate time to a number of things; and, of course, if I devote time to a number of things, none of this time will be in any way at all adequate.

Perhaps this is why it feels so good to indiscriminately get rid of stuff and rule out options just for the sake of simplification. I take great pleasure in selling records that I don't listen to anymore, just because of the space it creates in my room. I take pleasure in realizing that I prioritize one thing over another thing, just because it is so often the case that I can't do this, and will instead talk myself into pursuing multiple avenues at once. I'd rather do nothing than do too many things half-assedly; and i certainly don't want to wind up doing nothing. Ruling out options means committing to doing something more wholly and less half-assedly, and I consider this a good thing.

I've digressed. Something occurred to me while I was on my bike the other day. The sun was going down, and the sky was past the point of sunset and in the midst of that weird interim phase where it looks almost grey. This is irrelevant, but I can picture the color of it, so it seems worth writing down. Here's what occurred to me: Society seems to frequently perceive the recluse as somebody who has shunned society - someone who dislikes human interaction and has given up on it. But it seems that this might be a huge misconception in some cases. At times, I seek solitude, and there is something that always holds true about these particular times: They are times in which I consider human interaction to be something extremely important, yet in which I feel that I should avoid it for some reason. The reason is never anything like me deciding to write of friendships, or me having become so fed up with socialization that I have decided that I am better off alone. Usually it's something else: Perhaps I will feel that I have become spread too thin, and want to take time out to refuel so that I feel I have more to offer to my friends when I do see them; or perhaps I have been hugely effected by some social interaction, and want to fully understand it and mentally digest it before moving on with my social life, such as one might do after a break up; or perhaps I feel the need to work on things in my own life so that I'm not placing the burden of my own happiness on other people, as I think one tends to do when one spends too much time being social and not enough time on oneself. Additionally, I think it's good to be alone once in a while to remind oneself that one can be happy alone, because then social interactions take on the quality of being a bonus - the icing on the cake - rather than something necessary. I'd rather treat the people around me as wonderful additions to my life, rather than necessary ingredients, because it protects their autonomy and lets them trust in my motives when it comes to why I am their friend. None of these reasons for solitude are in any way indicative of a dislike for company or companionship or the social world in general, but they are testaments to just how valuable all of the aforementioned are to the individual, and they are indicative of a desire to have utmost respect for others by way of having respect for the self and not holding others responsible for this respect. In this way, one is able to better appreciate others.

I wonder if all of the Scrooges of the world just had hearts bigger than they knew what to do with - hearts of sizes so big that the only possible culprit could be a love for humanity itself... Maybe a love for humanity so great that the awareness of how difficult it could be to reconcile that kind if an idealism with the real world would just be too much to bear. Grumpiness seems often an indicator of some underlying sensitivity and vulnerability. That's where benefit-of-the-doubt comes in; and forgiveness. Some people don't deal with people well, but I don't think it always means that they don't care. In fact, I'd be willing to bet that more often than not it's the opposite. I'm a big fan of spending time alone, and I'm a big fan of benefit-of-the-doubt. I'm a fan of grumps, too.

Annoying: Groups of people acting way too excited about mundane shit.

"How are you guys doing tonight?"
"GREAT!!!!!!!!!"

"Is everybody already on the mailing list?"
"NOT YET, BUT WE WILL BE!"

It's like a giant fake orgasm. I'm not sure which is a more frightening prospect: That these people are actually that enthused about signing a mailing list, or that these people are so eager to play the role of good audience member. Reexamine your priorities and think for yourselves, people. The nazi party was composed of a bunch of really good audience members.

I'm all for excitement, but I think it should be reserved for things that are actually exciting. If you react like this to the prospect of signing up to be pummeled with spam, how are you going to react when you win the lottery?

"I dunno, man... He really didn't deserve to win. He didn't even seem very happy about it."
"I thought he looked happy. He was pumping his fist and grinning from ear to ear, while tears streamed down his face."
"Yeah, well, I dunno. He's always like that. He acted that way when my grandmother showed him her thimble collection."

...Seriously?

I have a hard time believing that this kind of exuberance benefits the self in any way. But then who is it for? The performer/ person on stage/ other audience members? What happened to people being desirous of sincerity, even if it meant a bit of apathy?

On Things That Remain the Same

Sometimes it seems that nothing has changed since I was a kid in the way that I view the world, and in the way that things effect me. My reactions remain pretty consistent. My ability to predict these reactions, perhaps, gets better - which results in my avoidance of certain situations - but the reactions themselves are pretty much the same.

I find myself recreating situations of comfort that were existent when I was a kid without my having to create them. For instance, I find myself taking great comfort in breakfasting with a group of people and talking for hours after, and I find myself fantasizing about hosting large breakfast parties on Sunday mornings. This seems like an emulation of what my Grandparents used to do out in the country. Of course, the original event itself can never be recreated, but the desire to do so seems to be an attempt to ensure that there is some sort of a constant in my life that ties the present to the past. When location and company is constantly changing, there are few links of this sort, and many of them involve tradition. Family is another.

My natural surroundings seem to be another constant that I return to for comfort. They, too, are always changing; but unlike the changing nature of circumstance or friendship or location, there is something really serene and beautiful about this kind of change, at least when it involves the changing of the seasons and not the unnatural changes brought on by human beings. I worry that the comforting nature of - well, nature itself - will be disrupted by human nature. This is selfish, and really my worries concerning our effect on nature are broader, but since in this context I'm discussing my own relationship to nature, perhaps I will be understood.

Another comfort to me throughout the years that has remained effective since I was a young child is just solitude itself. This - especially when coupled with time spent in natural surroundings - keeps me grounded and helps me to reevaluate my priorities and limits. There's a clarity of thought that can be found when alone that doesn't even compare to the hyperactive series of tangents that I experience when in good company. Both are equally important and rewarding, yet each serves a very different purpose. There's something to be said for withdrawing, too, because the reality that manifests itself is one in which those friends who remain through these periods of withdrawal and in spite of these periods of withdrawal are those who truly seem to understand me - and when they don't, they give me the benefit of the doubt. I appreciate this.

The two other comforts that most readily come to mind are more distractions than constants. The impetuses for these two things remain constant, yet the things themselves are erratic and by nature spontaneous and disruptive. In a positive way that reinforces my appreciation for all of the aforementioned. These two things are art (and by this I mean listening to music, making music, reading literature, writing, drawing, looking at art, watching films, etc.) and the act of being stir-crazy. The first of these two is rich and multi-faceted and worthy of an entire entry devoted to each part of it, so I'll leave it be for now. The latter is probably at first look difficult to understand, but just as valuable. By "stir-crazy" I mean discontent with just remaining stagnant and instead craving movement and adventure and progress. It is this constant feeling of a desire to do something and go somewhere and travel on in a forward motion in my life that (perhaps aside from friends and loved ones) gives life the most purpose of all, because it is what causes me to pursue new avenues and meet new people and start new projects. It is what makes me plug my headphones in and listen to that record I've never really given a chance. It's what makes me write a song. It's what makes me go out into the fields and just sit in the vastness of open space. It's what makes me plan my next course of action and dream about all the places and people I've never seen. It's what provides me with the comfort of the realization that I will never be terribly unhappy or bored or impoverished because I will just get too antsy for mental stimulation for this to really happen. I feel fortunate in this respect. The interestingness of life itself is enough reason to wake up every morning. Curiosity is the best thing in the world and, even if it begets a kind of idealism that leaves the individual always looking forward for something greater, it is still positive; for this kind of idealism is what causes the individual to provide better solutions, more accurate answers... This is the kind of idealism that causes the individual who is dissatisfied with the present to look at the reasons for this, and an awareness of these reasons is what leads to social and political change. It is what perpetuates scientific research. It is what makes better art. It is what disrupts dysfunctional governments. And it is what sometimes keeps children from making the same mistakes that their parents made. It's what allows for growth.

Skies seen while cycling

"Bike X-ing" sign:


Clouds, Stevenson Rd.:


Sunset, Russell Blvd.:


Treetops, Old Putah Creek Rd.:

On Popular Music and Lyrics

Someone needs to do a comprehensive study of how often certain words are used in the popular songs of various eras throughout the history of popular music, and which words most frequently occur in the top 100 or so songs over the years at different points in time. It would be interesting to see whether there is any pattern to the occurrence of certain words in songs that resonate with the general public at different points in time, aside from the obvious ones ("love," "time," "baby," etc.) - although it would be interesting to see how frequently these occur, too, and to then look at what was going on politically and culturally at the point at which, say, the word "gone" is most frequently occurring. I suspect that a lot of it is arbitrary, and that a lot of it remains somewhat consistent (because certain things just always have and always will resonate with human beings), but it would be interesting to see how the influence of an economic recession or depression or the influence of war or assassination changed the poetry of the most popular music of that time. I'm not saying that the most popular music would be the best music; but if the study just focused on the songs that were most listened to and requested, the resulting data would say something about the majority of human beings, which might be interesting even if it centered around some shitty music.

Someone also needs to write an entire book, complete with a plot, comprised only of lyrics from songs that meant something in some way to the author, or which were somehow lyrics that the author was aware of in some capacity.

That Feel

Perhaps it's the wet leaves that I know must litter the ground outside, or the flooding in my kitchen caused by the leaking roof; or the fleeting power-outtages that did not stay, but which made their peripheral presence known. Whatever it is, it's that one thing that, according to Tom Waits (with Keith Richards in the background to boot), you can't lose: That feel. Don't ask me to describe it, because it can't be described except by way of circling it and shooting through it without quite hitting it on the mark; but you know it when you have it, and I have it. It's not love, but more something like the awe of every kind of love one has ever had for anything ever. It's a feeling of not wanting to forget so many other feelings. It's a feeling of not wanting to lose those feelings. It's a feeling of sadness as one watches memories slowly fade and become paler, and the feeling of relief and joy upon realizing that there are so many moments yet to come in one's lifetime. It's the feeling of total and complete gratitude for those in one's life who are most loved. It's the simultaneous fear of losing these people, and fear of never meeting the others who could be these sorts of precious people. It's an open window in a suburb of Paris in the middle of the night, in a room that smells like pastries and cologne and coffee. It's a small elevator, and a large parking lot, and a small telephone booth, and a number of strange shops and an absence of people. It's a bus in Portland, and the colors of the seats and the nickels on the floor. It's a tree, in the middle of a field next to an orchard, under a full moon, and beer and whiskey both, and a laugh shared with the company there. It's the exchange of a book in a little park during a Christmas festival and a promise to return the book and to start anew. It's a walk to a trash can in a dirty city and a conversation about wanting to start again. It's a kiss in a church parking-lot at five in the morning and a moment of panic as the sun begins to rise. It's the feeling of sneaking out of one's bedroom in the middle of the night as a teenager, not to meet someone or to do anything illicit but just to be out in the night air, and just to have gotten there by way of sneaking out. It's the frozen noses of winter in the middle of the night, and the silence of solitude underneath the pine trees. It's a song's ability to bring tears to one's eye as that song is heard through headphones in the middle of the softest and quietest of snow-storms. It's the warm air and dry red dirt of a summer back home, and the stained and scratched purple hands of the blackberry-picker after hours of picking. It's the thousands of feet between one's nose and the floor of the valley as you look over at the Yosemite valley and feel very much a part of things and yet very, very small. It's frozen hands from snowball fights, and swollen eyes from sleepless nights, and long walks home from school just for the sake of walking under the pines. It's the act of leaning over the rail of a balcony to watch strangers pass by below, unaware that they are being watched. It's a nap in a park in the middle of the afternoon. It's that space of silence in the middle of the night when everyone is asleep. It's Christmas morning when you're awake too early and you're still young enough to wear pajamas with feet. It's the thumbing-through of picture-books and the wonder thereby induced. It's the callused hands from games of dodgeball and the broken nails from tetherball. It's the fear to approach another and the excitement felt at the same time over the idea of making a new friend. It's the brief goodbyes that don't sum up the moments before. It's the attempt to define those things which can't be bound by words. It's the look of understanding in the middle of a sentence and the look that follows which recognizes that the look before it pertained to something entirely unrelated to the sentence uttered. It's the space between faces and eyes and hands and noses, and the lack of space. It's the words uttered while waking, and the last words before sleep. It's all the things that slipped away from your memory as time passed by, or because you drank too much that night, or because you couldn't bear to remember those things because they were too beautiful or because they were too painful. It's the sudden remembrance or something from long ago that is unimportant but which happened. It's the running ahead of a group in order to be the first to look at some particular painting in a museum, just to get there first or just to see it without having to discuss it with anyone, just for a minute; to look at it in silence for that moment before the group catches up. It's the waving at a stranger because he's on his bike in the rain and so are you. It's the good meal after a long hike. It's the sky that makes you think about everyone you've ever missed when you realize that you wish they were there to look at that sky with you. It's those people who will never know how much they mean to you. It's that fear that you might forget, and the trust that you won't. It's the fact that every time you look at someone in the eye, every moment of past eye-contact and conversation and time spent together is summed up there in that present interaction. It's the way in which every past moment and thought and idea and experience and feeling serves as ornamentation for the present moment; and every past moment serves as a window through which to view the present. None of this will feel the same or look the same, but things will be felt and things will be seen. It's none of these things, but all of them and more, but only when these things are fluid and at risk of being forgotten and considered with regard to the infinite number of possibilities that await the individual.

I don't really know what or who is to blame, but this season causes my heart to swell up like that of the Grinch, and I feel myself floored by whatever it means to be alive and to learn and to fuck up and to falter and to love. I don't want to forget anything. I feel this need to write everything down before it's gone; but if I write things too fast it won't quite describe anything as it should. Perhaps it's best to process it all slowly, allowing for some of it to perhaps be forgotten (although hopefully not the sound of the hail on the roof as it awoke my childhood self in the middle of the night), if that means that those things processed and written down can be written about in the right way.

None of this was described in the right way, but at least it made me realize that these things are worth writing down someday in the right way. I hope the right day comes for remembering these things and writing them down right.

I'm sure that many of the moments that I forget were really, really beautiful. Many of those that I remember certainly were. Perhaps somebody else remembers some beautiful moment that I forget; and somebody else another, and so on. Some moments are just lost... "Like tears in rain."

Perhaps that makes life all the more precious. Life itself happens to be its own only record.

On Choosing One Path, Amongst Many Paths

I’m tired of being told that I’m flawed; that some medication or some new view of the world would make me once again a functioning component of a larger machine. I’m tired of trying to mold myself into a component of this larger machine without even knowing what the machine’s actual purpose is. I’d rather be a flawed component of a machine than a functioning one without knowing what the larger machine is meant to do. For it could very well be doing something that I would never want to be a part of, ever. I’m equally tired of the view that it’s the fault of the society around me that keeps me from being a functional and useful component. This view – this cop-out – is as tired itself as I am of it.

As children, we’re taught that we should have a purpose, and a set of goals, or even just one grandiose goal that we sacrifice all other past and potential goals for. We stop ourselves from even thinking about the other ways we could be directing our lives because the very act of thinking about these things causes us to stray from the path we’ve set ourselves on. Why? Because we are pressured to do so. Because time is scarce, and because we can’t waste it. It doesn’t seem logical that anyone chooses one particular path because it’s the best thing for that person, or because it’s their “calling”. No one with any amount of cognitive ability is able to determine what might be a better path to take than any number of other paths, simply because one’s ability to gauge his own abilities is limited; and one’s ability to guess the events that will surround his own life are even more limited. Both of these do not just contribute to an individual’s success in a particular field or pursuit, but by all means entirely dictate it.

If someone wants to truly make an impact on the world, he has to be open to the inevitable fluctuation of the circumstances around him, even if it means that he will have to revise his plans. He has to be open to being wrong. Otherwise he runs the risk of picking something that ten years down the line is so obviously irrelevant to the paradigm in which he lives that he can no longer justify taking any action to further the end that he has, for all those years, solely had in mind. Logically, the wise thing for him to do (if he really wants to have a positive effect on the world) is to be willing to shift gears if circumstances suggest that he should; but this again goes against the notion that has been ingrained in his mind: Stick to your guns and follow your dream. The subtext, and the small-print, is this: “Stick to your plans, even if your dream no longer has any bearing on the world around it.” Otherwise the individual is rendered nothing more than a willing hypocrite.

To live in a way that leaves open the possibility of this necessary changing of courses, even at the risk of this aforementioned hypocrisy, perhaps one must take care not to neglect a number of backup plans that he may have had in mind. He must avoid neglecting several things to the point where, if it so happens that he has to switch gears and start on down another path at some point (whether it be for financial reasons or because he has convinced himself or been convinced that his offerings in some field are naught), he is not yet so far behind in another field or pursuit that there is no point in changing his course and attempting to do something else.

The natural fear, then, is this: What if he has already traveled so far down one path, with such staunch determination, that in all of the other possible routes he might have taken he would have to just beginat the trail-head if he began something new at all. Then what does he do? Does he stay on the path he’s on, regardless of how irrelevant it may be and regardless of how futile he deems his efforts in that given area, or does he switch to a new path, in which he may very well have little or nothing to offer just because he has been busy pursuing something else (just because he has been wasting his time all of these years because he failed to recognize his “true calling”)?

Either way, the man will be deemed a failure, entirely because of external factors beyond his control; and additionally (what might have turned out badly has instead turned out horribly) because he has thrown himself so blindly and ardently down that former path.

The same may be said of relationships, or of a man who dives headlong into a marriage. A passion for one thing, and a determination to make that one single thing the focus of all of his time and all of his energy, may be the very thing that renders him a failure not just in that relationship but also in all of the other relationships that he might have pursued had he been viewing things a bit more clearly and not been stuck in the “wrong” relationship. But, I swear, there’s no way of knowing that might have been the right choice except in retrospect. The biggest human fear, pertaining to this, is seemingly the inevitability of realizing that one has made the wrong choice. Perhaps even worse might be the prospect of not being sure that a choice was wrong, but spending all of one’s hours just wondering whether it might have been.

Our society is not really conducive to a man who wants – who really truly wants – to maximize the degree to which he might be able to benefit the world. Thus this world breeds individuals who are forced to shut off that part of their mind that even cares whether or not they benefit the world, rendering them crude, primitive, selfish animals. Those who might have been the most passionate contributors are at risk of being rendered stagnant or tormented just as a result of having been unable to choose between multiple passions, or as a result of having decided to blindly throw themselves with all of their faculties into one thing just because they wanted to know what would happen when they truly cared about something and pursued it. What happens to those other things that these unfortunate individuals once also cared about? Is the passion for these other, conflicting pursuits redirected? Or is it just obliterated? If the latter is the case, then can these people really say that they are throwing all of themselves into their respective chosen pursuits? Isn’t it perhaps better to pursue several things with a great deal of passion than to just snuff passions for things that take time away from one chosen pursuit?

Human beings are equal parts primitive animals, acting on instinct and passion and smooth, functional mechanical components. Perhaps they are not innately these things, but they are forced to be not one but both, simultaneously. The two do not make sense with one-another, and cannot be reconciled. And yet we are given no other option. Lucky is the man who is able to be a smooth, operating component of a larger machine, by way of which he is able to understand both his purpose and his usefulness in the world, who also is able to approach the prospect of being a mechanical component with full, unfaltering and undivided passion and determination. I do not know how to be this kind of a person, and I am left with nothing but a nagging awareness of the faulty nature of that mechanical component which I embody (or those numerous mechanical components which I attempt to embody, alternately or all at once, to less of an extent than might be desirable). Time does not allow me to turn myself into a passionate, functional, interchangeable part of a larger machine, just because it is scarce. And yet the tragic point to be made with regard to this is that it is this same scarcity of time that has embedded in me a strong passion to be a determined, ardent mechanical component: Not several, but just one; and one that functions to its full capacity even if it is required of me that I sacrifice all of my other inclinations to be other parts, corresponding or conflicting. The scarcity of time has rendered me simultaneously passionate and scattered; determined and stagnant; inadequate and idealistic. Yet I can’t do anything else but spend my time trying to be a more functional part of a larger whole, even though I have no idea which part of the machine I might be best suited for, or what the function of the machine as a whole might be. I’m too busy thinking about whether or not I even want to aid in the functions of this machine to figure out which part I should be.