3/6
The angel stares at me from the gates of Heaven.
“Name?”
“Uh… Joseph.”
“Well Joseph, you can be judged for all your sins, mortal and venal. We weigh your soul and it must be lighter than this feather.”
“I can be judged this way. Is there another option?”
“Or you can roll these two dice. Six or higher, you get in. Less, and you have to wait outside the gates for all eternity with the other losers.”
I think about it for a second. “Give me the dice,” I say. Even if I lose, I’ll probably have better conversations with the losers than I ever would with all those weightless-souled tightasses in heaven.
Rattle rattle rattle. Roll!
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Sam - Religion
You know, we talk a lot about religion and if we’d be better off without it. We talk about atheism and how god doesn’t exist, or that he does. But some times, late at night, I have to wonder. What if it’s not that God does or doesn’t exist, but that the Gods are absent? Religion tends to be a twisted and dark thing at the extremes, but, that doesn’t mean its wrong.
Or something. This was deeper in my head.
Or something. This was deeper in my head.
Joseph
3/5
The Jewish people were the first to successfully claim that “my god is the only god, and it’s better than yours”. Christians and Muslims are the Jews’ bastard redheaded stepchildren who appropriated the old testament for their own purposes. No wonder many of them hate the Jews so much. They want daddy’s love but won’t realize that they already have it. Abraham is looking down on them in heaven like “What the fuck?”
The Jewish people were the first to successfully claim that “my god is the only god, and it’s better than yours”. Christians and Muslims are the Jews’ bastard redheaded stepchildren who appropriated the old testament for their own purposes. No wonder many of them hate the Jews so much. They want daddy’s love but won’t realize that they already have it. Abraham is looking down on them in heaven like “What the fuck?”
Friday, March 4, 2011
Joseph
3/4
“I can’t live with the fact that 90% of the world is suffering from a mass delusion” –Contact
I can live with that. I can live with the fact that 90% of the world are, while not stupid, scared as fuck of death and so make hasty and stupid decisions. How can someone possibly listen to someone else tell them what will happen after we die? No one knows. That’s why it’s called “Faith” and not “knowledge”. I can live with the fact that 90% of the word are okay with the murders, stonings, inquisitions, molestations and genocide that have been committed in His name. But you know what I can’t live with? I can’t live with the fact that you want me to believe the same bullshit delusions that you do. Call me a nonbeliever, a sinner, an infidel. Tie me to a stake and burn me or just throw me on the fire with the other faggots. Make me go to a school taught by nuns, or imams, or rabbis, or Buddhist monks, or hindu-ites. Lash me. Crucify me upside down, force me to undergo death by a thousand cuts. Punish me. Because I will never believe what you believe.
Unless you’re an agnostic. In which case, let’s have a beer and talk about what all those stupid people who believe in god and organized religion are going to do next.
“I can’t live with the fact that 90% of the world is suffering from a mass delusion” –Contact
I can live with that. I can live with the fact that 90% of the world are, while not stupid, scared as fuck of death and so make hasty and stupid decisions. How can someone possibly listen to someone else tell them what will happen after we die? No one knows. That’s why it’s called “Faith” and not “knowledge”. I can live with the fact that 90% of the word are okay with the murders, stonings, inquisitions, molestations and genocide that have been committed in His name. But you know what I can’t live with? I can’t live with the fact that you want me to believe the same bullshit delusions that you do. Call me a nonbeliever, a sinner, an infidel. Tie me to a stake and burn me or just throw me on the fire with the other faggots. Make me go to a school taught by nuns, or imams, or rabbis, or Buddhist monks, or hindu-ites. Lash me. Crucify me upside down, force me to undergo death by a thousand cuts. Punish me. Because I will never believe what you believe.
Unless you’re an agnostic. In which case, let’s have a beer and talk about what all those stupid people who believe in god and organized religion are going to do next.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Mar. 3, 2011
Reference: Book of Disquiet
Create someone outside of yourself, taking an aspect of yourself and amplifying it to the point of caricature, or to the point that it might be the exact opposite of your original trait.
Strip away all hopes, goals, temptations, pleasures, and productive activities—what are you? How does your life still have purpose? This purpose may be quite different, or outside of the box, from what you had hoped or expected.
Joseph
3/3
Is nothing more impermanent than memory? Tryout this experiment: do something extremely memorable. This is the hard part. Many people live their lives without doing this. Not memorable for others, but just memorable for you. Then, don’t think about it for ten years. This will also be hard. Purposely not thinking about something is in its own way even more difficult than meditation. Now, once you’ve done so, try to remember it. Events will have changed, become more blurred yet also more vibrant. Now wait 20 years. 30 years. 40. Then, get Alzheimer’s. The experiment never ends. But as long as you remember this one event, this one action, this one thing, you’ve proved me wrong.
Is nothing more impermanent than memory? Tryout this experiment: do something extremely memorable. This is the hard part. Many people live their lives without doing this. Not memorable for others, but just memorable for you. Then, don’t think about it for ten years. This will also be hard. Purposely not thinking about something is in its own way even more difficult than meditation. Now, once you’ve done so, try to remember it. Events will have changed, become more blurred yet also more vibrant. Now wait 20 years. 30 years. 40. Then, get Alzheimer’s. The experiment never ends. But as long as you remember this one event, this one action, this one thing, you’ve proved me wrong.
Joseph
3/3
Cliffs are impermanent. Eventually, after eons of esve, water, and wind-borne particle action cliffs become sand, dust and dirt. Sand is impermanent. Eventually, after years of buildup, pressure, and heat it becomes sandstone, or glass.
Glass is impermanent. Bottles are broken over heads. Stained glass windows are broken by rocks thrown by the unbelievers. Bongs just get broken, period. But broken glass is still glass, even if it’s ground into powder and added to a fellow inmate’s oatmeal for them to eat and internally hemorrhage from. But glass becomes lava, just like anything else.
Everything becomes lava. Bone, flesh, grass, glass. Except water, which when combined with lava eventually becomes obsidian cliffs overlooking the ocean. Perhaps topped by a church with stained glass windows. Impermanence is a cycle, and the absence of a true end.
Cliffs are impermanent. Eventually, after eons of esve, water, and wind-borne particle action cliffs become sand, dust and dirt. Sand is impermanent. Eventually, after years of buildup, pressure, and heat it becomes sandstone, or glass.
Glass is impermanent. Bottles are broken over heads. Stained glass windows are broken by rocks thrown by the unbelievers. Bongs just get broken, period. But broken glass is still glass, even if it’s ground into powder and added to a fellow inmate’s oatmeal for them to eat and internally hemorrhage from. But glass becomes lava, just like anything else.
Everything becomes lava. Bone, flesh, grass, glass. Except water, which when combined with lava eventually becomes obsidian cliffs overlooking the ocean. Perhaps topped by a church with stained glass windows. Impermanence is a cycle, and the absence of a true end.
Joseph
3/3
It’s hard to talk about impermanence without mentioning death. It’s easy to talk about impermanence without mentioning love because love is eternal. How cool is that?
It’s hard to talk about impermanence without mentioning death. It’s easy to talk about impermanence without mentioning love because love is eternal. How cool is that?
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Sam - Religion
Imagine there’s no heaven, it’s easy if you try.
No hell below us, above us only sky
Imagine all the people, living for today
I wonder some times if the world wouldn’t be better if there was no religion. It’s been such a hugely divisive thing through out our past. And yet, at the same time, it’s intrinsic to humanity. We anthropomorphize everything, and baring evidence of true divinity, the outgrowth of gods from that are obvious. Gods answer deeper questions, give a reason to the random chance of life, be those chances good or ill. I don’t think it’s something that can ever really be absent. Even atheists seem dedicated to convincing others that there’s no god, sometimes to the point where they sound just as zealotic as a religious man.
No hell below us, above us only sky
Imagine all the people, living for today
I wonder some times if the world wouldn’t be better if there was no religion. It’s been such a hugely divisive thing through out our past. And yet, at the same time, it’s intrinsic to humanity. We anthropomorphize everything, and baring evidence of true divinity, the outgrowth of gods from that are obvious. Gods answer deeper questions, give a reason to the random chance of life, be those chances good or ill. I don’t think it’s something that can ever really be absent. Even atheists seem dedicated to convincing others that there’s no god, sometimes to the point where they sound just as zealotic as a religious man.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Joseph
3/1
Ironic that cupid makes people fall in love with an act of violence. The hippies want to pretend that love is the opposite of violence and war; that war is the utter absence of love, that the simple power of love will conquer the demons of hate and fear and the military industrial complex. I believe that love is (maybe not first and foremost) an act of violence. It doesn’t hurt, not at first, but it tears the heart in two. It’s an act of violence, and so help me if you even look at her the wrong way I’ll tear your fucking face off.
Ironic that cupid makes people fall in love with an act of violence. The hippies want to pretend that love is the opposite of violence and war; that war is the utter absence of love, that the simple power of love will conquer the demons of hate and fear and the military industrial complex. I believe that love is (maybe not first and foremost) an act of violence. It doesn’t hurt, not at first, but it tears the heart in two. It’s an act of violence, and so help me if you even look at her the wrong way I’ll tear your fucking face off.
Sam - Religion
I am not a religious person. I never have been and I never will be. Well, no, that’s a lie. I have my own little cycle of beliefs that are somewhere between an ideology and a religion I guess, but that’s about it.
Once upon a time I was raised Jewish, but I never really liked the religion. I spent my Wednesday afternoons going to religious school, preparing for a bar mitzvah I didn’t want, and spent my speech blasting the section of Torah I had to read for having a shitty plot, bad characters, and a stupid message. I don’t remember it, but apparently I did it well, even if the rabbi was less than thrilled.
Is something really absent if you don’t miss it?
Once upon a time I was raised Jewish, but I never really liked the religion. I spent my Wednesday afternoons going to religious school, preparing for a bar mitzvah I didn’t want, and spent my speech blasting the section of Torah I had to read for having a shitty plot, bad characters, and a stupid message. I don’t remember it, but apparently I did it well, even if the rabbi was less than thrilled.
Is something really absent if you don’t miss it?
Joseph
3/1
When you murder someone, you need to do it right.
If you use a gun, for example, all you’re really doing is moving the trigger. You pull the lever, and someone dies. There’s an unhealthy disconnect there, a disparity between the action and consequence. Because it’s not your consequence. It’s the poor sap getting murdered who pays the tithe. There was a science experiment once, that asked people what they would do if runaway train was heading towards a group of people working on the tracks. Most people asked would pull a level and change the train’s path so it only ran over one person, rather than the whole group. But, when asked if they would push someone off the bridge above the tracks in order to stop the train with their body, they would. Same amount of lives saved and lost in both situations. The only difference is that in one example you end someone’s life by pulling a lever, in the other you actually have to push them off a bridge. For some reason it seems like one is murder, and the other isn’t.
It’s for this reason I feel that using a gun to kill someone is too easy. I’m not saying you should choke the guy to death, and I’m not saying you should look them in the eyes as the life leaves them. That’s morbid. But you should definitely get hands-on with it. Gain an appreciation for the act of death. It doesn’t get easier. It does, however, get more meaningful.
When you murder someone, you need to do it right.
If you use a gun, for example, all you’re really doing is moving the trigger. You pull the lever, and someone dies. There’s an unhealthy disconnect there, a disparity between the action and consequence. Because it’s not your consequence. It’s the poor sap getting murdered who pays the tithe. There was a science experiment once, that asked people what they would do if runaway train was heading towards a group of people working on the tracks. Most people asked would pull a level and change the train’s path so it only ran over one person, rather than the whole group. But, when asked if they would push someone off the bridge above the tracks in order to stop the train with their body, they would. Same amount of lives saved and lost in both situations. The only difference is that in one example you end someone’s life by pulling a lever, in the other you actually have to push them off a bridge. For some reason it seems like one is murder, and the other isn’t.
It’s for this reason I feel that using a gun to kill someone is too easy. I’m not saying you should choke the guy to death, and I’m not saying you should look them in the eyes as the life leaves them. That’s morbid. But you should definitely get hands-on with it. Gain an appreciation for the act of death. It doesn’t get easier. It does, however, get more meaningful.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Joseph
2/28
Love is more than an emotion.
Love is more than a lifestyle choice.
Love is experiencing the petit morir with someone else in the room.
Love is saying sorry, damnit!
Love is feeling angry at someone despite yourself.
Love is “evolve” with an extra v and e.
Love is painful, and not the good kind of hurt.
Love is hurtful, and trying very hard to be hurtful only to yourself.
Love is Venus and Aphrodite and Ares and Helen of Troy.
Love is a roll of the dice.
Love is more than a win/loss ratio.
If you get over the first time you were in love, you weren’t.
Love is more than an emotion.
Love is more than a lifestyle choice.
Love is experiencing the petit morir with someone else in the room.
Love is saying sorry, damnit!
Love is feeling angry at someone despite yourself.
Love is “evolve” with an extra v and e.
Love is painful, and not the good kind of hurt.
Love is hurtful, and trying very hard to be hurtful only to yourself.
Love is Venus and Aphrodite and Ares and Helen of Troy.
Love is a roll of the dice.
Love is more than a win/loss ratio.
If you get over the first time you were in love, you weren’t.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Joseph
2/27
It’s hard to think of death without thinking also of time. Death to me is proof that time is not an abstract or relative concept, as some physicists, mathematicians, and Einstein would have us believe. We travel towards death step by step, one second at a time, in one direction, whether you are a king, peasant, or acid head who is used to time acting funny. I wonder if our perception of death is any different than the deads’ perception of it. I personally think there’s more than one right answer, and what you feel when you’re dead (not dying) depends on what you truly believe death is like. Time is the great river, in which we all must drown.
It’s hard to think of death without thinking also of time. Death to me is proof that time is not an abstract or relative concept, as some physicists, mathematicians, and Einstein would have us believe. We travel towards death step by step, one second at a time, in one direction, whether you are a king, peasant, or acid head who is used to time acting funny. I wonder if our perception of death is any different than the deads’ perception of it. I personally think there’s more than one right answer, and what you feel when you’re dead (not dying) depends on what you truly believe death is like. Time is the great river, in which we all must drown.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Sam - Impermanance
There are place I remember, all my life.
But some have changed,
Some forever, not for better.
Some have gone, and some remain.
I’m sitting alone in a stretch limo on my way back to Santa Cruz from the airport. It’s bigger than I could ever possibly need, but, that’s the way these things work out. It dawned on me half an hour ago that I left the necklace I’ve worn for as long as I can remember sitting on my headboard at home. I wont be back until spring break. Maybe it’s silly, but, that’s the longest I’ve ever been without it. Once I even lost it on a beach in Hawaii and managed to find it again. Talk about impermanent.
But some have changed,
Some forever, not for better.
Some have gone, and some remain.
I’m sitting alone in a stretch limo on my way back to Santa Cruz from the airport. It’s bigger than I could ever possibly need, but, that’s the way these things work out. It dawned on me half an hour ago that I left the necklace I’ve worn for as long as I can remember sitting on my headboard at home. I wont be back until spring break. Maybe it’s silly, but, that’s the longest I’ve ever been without it. Once I even lost it on a beach in Hawaii and managed to find it again. Talk about impermanent.
Joseph
2/26
People drink until they black out, in my opinion, to feel death. To experience death; utter, black, formless, sensation-less oblivion. Death, I feel, is just like not being born yet. You don’t remember it, but it still happened. It’s not like the 1970’s never happened, but all I experience of it are echoes. To me, the seventies were one ten year long drinking binge, and I sprung from and am still living through the hangover laden aftermath.
I’ve only blacked out drunk three times. The first time was fun: the first time I ever drank anything alcoholic, let alone hard alcohol. We had the remains of a bottle of 151 rum and a bottle of Everclear to the three of us. I remember knowing something was up when I almost fell over trying to tie my shoe. Later, I hit my head hard on a rock because I was rocking back and forth on the ground in order to follow the wild tilting of the earth. Then, death. I woke up in my sleeping bag, my wet shirt on the sand next to me. Drag marks led to my sleeping back. Apparently I spent the rest of the night making “walrus noises”. That was fun.
The other two times weren’t fun, because I can’t be sure what I did and how I acted. I don’t know what kind of drunk I am, so I don’t trust “blackout me”. I don’t trust “dead me”. The last time I came to with sticky green stuff on my arm. I don’t like being dead. One difference between death and getting blackout drunk: your experience varies based on whether your friends were with you. Death is the absence of memory.
People drink until they black out, in my opinion, to feel death. To experience death; utter, black, formless, sensation-less oblivion. Death, I feel, is just like not being born yet. You don’t remember it, but it still happened. It’s not like the 1970’s never happened, but all I experience of it are echoes. To me, the seventies were one ten year long drinking binge, and I sprung from and am still living through the hangover laden aftermath.
I’ve only blacked out drunk three times. The first time was fun: the first time I ever drank anything alcoholic, let alone hard alcohol. We had the remains of a bottle of 151 rum and a bottle of Everclear to the three of us. I remember knowing something was up when I almost fell over trying to tie my shoe. Later, I hit my head hard on a rock because I was rocking back and forth on the ground in order to follow the wild tilting of the earth. Then, death. I woke up in my sleeping bag, my wet shirt on the sand next to me. Drag marks led to my sleeping back. Apparently I spent the rest of the night making “walrus noises”. That was fun.
The other two times weren’t fun, because I can’t be sure what I did and how I acted. I don’t know what kind of drunk I am, so I don’t trust “blackout me”. I don’t trust “dead me”. The last time I came to with sticky green stuff on my arm. I don’t like being dead. One difference between death and getting blackout drunk: your experience varies based on whether your friends were with you. Death is the absence of memory.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Sam - Impermanance
They say that all good things come to some kind of ending. Some roads you walk down, and you cant turn back. Life is change, it’s flux. Nothing can stay the same. We have things, and then we don’t. If we don’t lose them, if everything was permanent, we’d lose that drive that makes us human. It our struggle that gives life our meaning.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Sam - Impermanance
Flames to dust, lovers to friends
Why must all good things come to an end?
I’m in my last year, almost my last quarter, at UCSC. It’s a scary thing, and so I find I’m listening to a lot of music about endings. A lot of it is really bad, but still somehow moving. I dunno. We’re talking about impermanence, and nothing feels less permanent than my life these days. Twelve weeks and I’m out in the world.
Also, it's my birthday. And that was cool too.
Why must all good things come to an end?
I’m in my last year, almost my last quarter, at UCSC. It’s a scary thing, and so I find I’m listening to a lot of music about endings. A lot of it is really bad, but still somehow moving. I dunno. We’re talking about impermanence, and nothing feels less permanent than my life these days. Twelve weeks and I’m out in the world.
Also, it's my birthday. And that was cool too.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Sam - Impermanance
Sometimes I get nervous, when I see an open door.
Wave goodbye, wish me well, you’ve gotta cut the cord.
Once upon a time nothing was permanent. We did things, and they faded, in a few weeks, or months if they were especially memorable. Now, things come faster and fade faster. With the 24 hour news cycle we see things so fast and they’re gone before we’ve even really realized what happened.
At the same time, on a personal level, nothing ever leaves. Thanks to the internet, life is written in stone. Take this blog, for instance. If we delete it after this class, it wont really be gone. It’ll be hard to find, sure, but it’ll still be saved in a thousand different caches. You’ll never escape your past.
Wave goodbye, wish me well, you’ve gotta cut the cord.
Once upon a time nothing was permanent. We did things, and they faded, in a few weeks, or months if they were especially memorable. Now, things come faster and fade faster. With the 24 hour news cycle we see things so fast and they’re gone before we’ve even really realized what happened.
At the same time, on a personal level, nothing ever leaves. Thanks to the internet, life is written in stone. Take this blog, for instance. If we delete it after this class, it wont really be gone. It’ll be hard to find, sure, but it’ll still be saved in a thousand different caches. You’ll never escape your past.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Feb. 20, 2011
Reference: The Book of Disquiet, page 19 “The Banality of Life”
You can say that life is a lot of things: horrific, lovely, complicated, wondrous, agonizing. But how. the. fuck. can you say that life is “banal”? That’s just a blatant rebellion against reality… Oh. Right. I’m dealing with Pessoa. But still! Life is everything wrapped into a perfect burrito handed to you for lunch. Sure you might get violently ill later, but it tasted good and nourished you for the time being, right? There is nothing else besides life. Why do people renounce it? Put so much pressure onto it? Are you that much of a control freak that life needs to be this towering accomplishment of awesomeness? Just fucking live! Life will be epic no matter what. Just the fact that you existed is fucking epic! What kind of experience is P.a.S. (Pessoa as Soares) hoping for that life, to him, is banal? It’s like he’s too good to accept the existence that was bestowed on him by the universe. Oh. Right. He’s hoping for “heaven.” For immortality. But why isn’t life good enough?
Friday, February 18, 2011
Sam - Love
Our blog is titled Absence Makes the Heart. At the time I was just looking for an interesting title, but given that it’s Love Week, it seems like a good time to talk about the deeper meaning (not that there really is one). They say that absence makes the heart grow fonder, and I think that’s true. When someone is absent we’re able to romanticize them. We forget the bad (or the good), and accentuate the positive (or the negative). It’s worth remembering that it’s really not only good things. I can recall plenty of people from my past who I have to be making worse than they were, unless my school was full of sociopaths. (Funny story; it was, but they’re not the people I’m talking about.)
At the same time there are friends and closer that are ‘absent’ now, who I remember with nothing but love, but I know in some more objective part of me were walking disasters. Our relationships were never remotely stable, and every time we’d drift apart we’d end up back together because of how well we’d remember things going, only for them to melt down again. Funny how that works.
At the same time there are friends and closer that are ‘absent’ now, who I remember with nothing but love, but I know in some more objective part of me were walking disasters. Our relationships were never remotely stable, and every time we’d drift apart we’d end up back together because of how well we’d remember things going, only for them to melt down again. Funny how that works.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Sam - Love
And that was the day that I promised
I’d never sing of love if it does not exist.
Love is a funny thing. I guess you can say it’s absent from me. Obviously in most of the ways that matter, I’m loved. I have friends, and family, and I like to at least think they care about me. But I’m single, and this week is valentines day. Sometimes I feel it, it hurts to be single. At other times I’m glad I’m alone. Friends are enough, and I don’t know what I do if I actually had a real relationship anymore.
I’d never sing of love if it does not exist.
Love is a funny thing. I guess you can say it’s absent from me. Obviously in most of the ways that matter, I’m loved. I have friends, and family, and I like to at least think they care about me. But I’m single, and this week is valentines day. Sometimes I feel it, it hurts to be single. At other times I’m glad I’m alone. Friends are enough, and I don’t know what I do if I actually had a real relationship anymore.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Feb. 15, 2011
“I finally found what makes me happy in life, and it’s not friends; it’s things.” –Fry from Futurama
There are only a few aspects of life that bring pure joy without all of those other complicated emotions. Music? No. Love? Hell fucking no. Things? Yes. Baseball? Yes.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Sam - Love
I’ve always lived like this. Keeping a comfortable distance. And up until now I had sworn to myself that I’m content with loneliness because none of it was ever worth the risk.
Today is Valentines day. I have a term paper due. What is love? (Baby don’t hurt me). No seriously, what is it? And why does it matter. All my past relationships have gone down in epic flames, but some how I always seem to be the one to get burned. Which sucks. But on the other hand I get stuff done (theoretically) this way. And I can live with that too. I’ve got a tight grip on reality, and I don’t have time to date even when I want to.
Today is Valentines day. I have a term paper due. What is love? (Baby don’t hurt me). No seriously, what is it? And why does it matter. All my past relationships have gone down in epic flames, but some how I always seem to be the one to get burned. Which sucks. But on the other hand I get stuff done (theoretically) this way. And I can live with that too. I’ve got a tight grip on reality, and I don’t have time to date even when I want to.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Sam 5(?)
I know Food Week has passed, but I feel as though this past friday deserves a special mention. I had the unparalleled treat of having lunch with my family at The Gallery at Pebble Beach.
I've eaten at Pebble Beach before, and each time the food has been incredible, but I have a feeling this most recent time will be the most memorable. The Food at The Gallery is what you would expect from a country club restaurant. It is not particularly fancy nor uniquely good. Except, the Milk Shake.
I had what had to have been the best Milk Shake I have ever tasted. I can, a day later, still practically taste it on my tongue. From the frosted artisian glasses just out of the freezer to the incredible ice cream and chocolate sauce, everything about the Milkshake at the Gallery is unspeakable. Even though it is absent from me now, the taste remains.
I've eaten at Pebble Beach before, and each time the food has been incredible, but I have a feeling this most recent time will be the most memorable. The Food at The Gallery is what you would expect from a country club restaurant. It is not particularly fancy nor uniquely good. Except, the Milk Shake.
I had what had to have been the best Milk Shake I have ever tasted. I can, a day later, still practically taste it on my tongue. From the frosted artisian glasses just out of the freezer to the incredible ice cream and chocolate sauce, everything about the Milkshake at the Gallery is unspeakable. Even though it is absent from me now, the taste remains.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Feb. 10, 2011
Impermanence
There are so few things that are permanent in relation to our brief little lives, even if you believe at one point during your life that something is. I would like to believe that unconditional love is permanent, but it’s not, really. One thing that could sever, and has severed, family relationships for me is addiction.
Does pain always accompany impermanence?
Things I have believed would be permanent, but haven’t been:
-My first boyfriend
-My first band
-My desire to be a writer (one of the reasons I got a sleeve of tattoos—permanent, by the way—was so I wouldn’t be roped into working a mundane office job for the rest of my life.)
-My anxiety/panic attacks
-My love for my first favorite band
I would list the things that I think are permanent at this point in my life, but it’s too depressing to think about the possibility that they might be impermanent, so I’m just going to avoid that thought.
Feb. 10, 2011
Mickey is staring glumly out of the window, wearing a faded red robe with two big brass buttons. He inhales a long, crackling drag on his cigarette and blows the smoke toward the snow-capped mountains of the Disney ski resort in the Sequoia National Forest. “I brought him here two weeks ago to see the progress we had made on the place. Christmas was his favorite holiday. He loved getting the Park all decorated like a winter wonderland. This was his dream getaway.” Mickey’s eyes are watery and red, and they haven’t met mine since I entered the room two hours ago. “Do you know what it feels like to be born a grown mouse, into the bestfriendship of your life,” Mickey turns his steam and smoke from the window and talks to my shoes, “and then have to live on forever after your best friend leaves you?” I admit that I do not. I only knew the death of my grandfather, who raised me, but who was not my best friend by any stretch of the imagination. “He gave me life but forgot to give me the death as well. I don’t want to die right now, but it would be nice, at some point, to know…” Here Mickey trails off and ashes his cigarette into his empty scotch glass. His voice is no longer the cheerful, musical falsetto we have all grown so accustomed to hearing; now it is strained and reedy, smoky and slurred with fatigue. Walt Disney died three days ago at St. Joseph’s Hospital. Mickey isn’t handling it well. “Donald called me to tell me. Fucking Donald. Well, he’s got bigger balls than Roy, I’ll tell you that much.”
Mickey and Donald have a notoriously bitter relationship, each one living out the character the other wishes he could have been. Mickey, early in his career, had to back off the dirty jokes and sneaky tricks he became famous for so that people would see him as more of a family-friendly icon. Meanwhile, Donald overshadowed Mickey as the new unpredictable prankster; he was Disney’s scapegoat and everyone loved him for it. Mickey had to step back from the spotlight and act as more of a presenter, or “MC,” of Disney, rather than participate in the fun of Disney cartoons. “And now everyone expects me to step up and ease their grief, be the shoulder they can cry on, take control of the company. But what about my grief? I wasn’t fucking expecting this! It was supposed to be a goddamned checkup, for Christ’s sake!” I ask him what the plans are for Disney now that Walt is gone. “I don’t know,” he moans. “Last I heard, they were working on some jungle movie. But who wants to see a movie about that? Walt loved the magical stuff. Princesses and fairies to grant your every wish… Not some monkey kid with animals for parents. Where’s the royalty?” We talk a bit longer about the rocky future of the company, but Mickey doesn’t look very interested or hopeful. Someone knocks on the hotel room door. I answer it. It’s Minnie in a fur coat and net veil. She’s carrying a large, messy notebook and she looks as if she’s been crying too. “I just wanted to drop this off for Mickey. He should have it, ya know. Not that two-timing slimeball Donald. Mickey?” Mickey doesn’t turn his head. Quietly, so we can barely hear him from across the room, he says, “Get that tramp outta here.” Minnie looks sad but not alarmed. She raises her long black eyelashes to my face and says, “Tell him he needs to call Roy. He could never live with himself if he let Walt’s dream die with Walt. That’s not what the big boss would have wanted.” She hands me the notebook, turns, and sashays back down the long hallway. I shut the door behind her and walk back across the enormous room to hand Mickey the notebook. He looks at the cover for a long while, on the front of which is scrawled in big, boxy letters: “Walt and Mickey’s Magical World.” He leafs through it for a couple of minutes, sketches and scraps of writing falling around his frail body onto the floor. I begin to repeat what Minnie said, in case Mickey hadn’t heard, but he cuts me off. “For once in her silly life, the girl’s right. Hand me the phone. We’ve got a movie to make.”
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Joseph 1
what remains
Breakfast:
a thin moat of milk. soggy, disintegrating oat donut. yellow peel, opened from the bottom and bruised. buttery crumbs (formerly nooks and crannies). sugary muck on the edge of a dull knife. pulpy dregs of oj.
Lunch:
mound of ice, large to small slick spheres, melting into pink of lemonade, touch of diet sob. brown stain inside coffee mug. leaves of lettuce, partial ring of raw onion, clearish balsamic dressing. alfredo mixed with red sauce, and tangled noodles. hunk of bread, olive and melted cheese hardened into rind. bean mix, flecks of enchilada fixings. orange film on bottom of bowl, tomato basil on spoon. rice wrapped in seaweed, half of a whole roll. shards and butt of a think cone, liquid dregs of cream.
Dinner:
small pile of romaine hearts, coated in rice vinegar and lemon juice. some pulp, a seed. seeds in the brown teriyaki, sugar cooled into something thicker than syrup. scrape marks on the plate. beyond scraps of dead bird too small to count as anything; the absence of something else.
Breakfast:
a thin moat of milk. soggy, disintegrating oat donut. yellow peel, opened from the bottom and bruised. buttery crumbs (formerly nooks and crannies). sugary muck on the edge of a dull knife. pulpy dregs of oj.
Lunch:
mound of ice, large to small slick spheres, melting into pink of lemonade, touch of diet sob. brown stain inside coffee mug. leaves of lettuce, partial ring of raw onion, clearish balsamic dressing. alfredo mixed with red sauce, and tangled noodles. hunk of bread, olive and melted cheese hardened into rind. bean mix, flecks of enchilada fixings. orange film on bottom of bowl, tomato basil on spoon. rice wrapped in seaweed, half of a whole roll. shards and butt of a think cone, liquid dregs of cream.
Dinner:
small pile of romaine hearts, coated in rice vinegar and lemon juice. some pulp, a seed. seeds in the brown teriyaki, sugar cooled into something thicker than syrup. scrape marks on the plate. beyond scraps of dead bird too small to count as anything; the absence of something else.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Sam 2-3/??
I guess you could say that the most absent thing I’ve had is death itself. It’s terrible to say that, and please, Death, if you’re listening doesn’t take this as an invitation, but I haven’t really lost anyone. Not to death, anyway. I’ve lost friends and loved ones for almost every other reason, but not through death.
I wonder, can you be absent an absence?
I wonder, can you be absent an absence?
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Feb. 3, 2011
Professor Foster is trying so hard not to use the verb "fuck" when responding to comments about Maggie Nelson's use of the word. His euphemism? "Sexual Diction." I find this hilarious.
He's like a nervous dad having "the talk" with his kids.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Laura 9
2/1/11
Felicia asked me if we are going to tour this summer. I said I didn’t want to do a van tour. Not after what happened to Makh. I already woke up every five minutes (during a fifteen-hour overnight drive to the next venue) thinking that my life was going to end because the driver put a bit of pressure on the brakes. I’ve already spun around two different times on an icy freeway in a van and trailer, seeing cars whiz by, praying that no one would crash into us while we free-spun at God-knows-how-many miles per hour. And I never wore my seatbelt; no one did. I don’t want to spill out of the windows, my friends giving my toothless, blood-soaked face and lifeless body CPR in vain on the side of the freeway. I don’t want to go like that.
Felicia said that she had to go talk to her friend. I didn’t see her for the rest of the night.
Felicia asked me if we are going to tour this summer. I said I didn’t want to do a van tour. Not after what happened to Makh. I already woke up every five minutes (during a fifteen-hour overnight drive to the next venue) thinking that my life was going to end because the driver put a bit of pressure on the brakes. I’ve already spun around two different times on an icy freeway in a van and trailer, seeing cars whiz by, praying that no one would crash into us while we free-spun at God-knows-how-many miles per hour. And I never wore my seatbelt; no one did. I don’t want to spill out of the windows, my friends giving my toothless, blood-soaked face and lifeless body CPR in vain on the side of the freeway. I don’t want to go like that.
Felicia said that she had to go talk to her friend. I didn’t see her for the rest of the night.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Laura 8
1/31/11 A Dead Friend (not “friend” as in Facebook “friend,” but a real one)
It was Makh’s birthday on Sunday. I don’t know how old he would have been. Justin (the driver of the van, also my friend) was feeling bad on Facebook. Everyone was wishing Makh a happy birthday on Facebook. It’s kind of sick. How can a dead person have a happy birthday? And do the dead read Facebook? I hope not. If there is a heaven, I don’t want to just be on Facebook all the time for the rest of eternity.
It was Makh’s birthday on Sunday. I don’t know how old he would have been. Justin (the driver of the van, also my friend) was feeling bad on Facebook. Everyone was wishing Makh a happy birthday on Facebook. It’s kind of sick. How can a dead person have a happy birthday? And do the dead read Facebook? I hope not. If there is a heaven, I don’t want to just be on Facebook all the time for the rest of eternity.
Friday, January 28, 2011
Sam 2-1/??
I’ve never really experienced death, not in a meaningful way. I don’t have that gnawing void somewhere in my stomach that makes me realize “they’re not coming back.” I’ve never lost a pet (or really kept one), or a friend, or even a close family member. Over the course of my life I’ve lost three of my four grandparents, but they were always absent figures. One pair lived in Colorado, the other in Florida, and we never got along. I was at the funerals for both of my grandmothers, though, out of familial obligation if nothing else.
Looking back, the differences between them are more interesting than anything else. My mother’s mother, Lillian, lived in Colorado at the time. It was winter, or maybe late spring. Rainy, I know that. Everyone came to that one, all of her extended family. She’d been active in the church, and the funeral had happened there with a large attendance. I mostly remember it being wet and cold, and sitting around the hospital in the days leading up to it. I don’t think I cried.
Conversely, my father’s mother died in late November in Florida. It was unpleasantly hot, the way Florida always was, and I was the only grandchild there. I don’t really get along with anyone on that side of the family. Not uncles, not my grandfather, not my intimidating smart wanna be dominatrix NSA-employed cousin. They’re nice, don’t get me wrong, but we’re too different. Also that cousin scares me. Still, I was the only grandchild there. It was a small service and sunny the whole time. I know I didn’t cry then.
I wonder if that makes me a bad person?
Looking back, the differences between them are more interesting than anything else. My mother’s mother, Lillian, lived in Colorado at the time. It was winter, or maybe late spring. Rainy, I know that. Everyone came to that one, all of her extended family. She’d been active in the church, and the funeral had happened there with a large attendance. I mostly remember it being wet and cold, and sitting around the hospital in the days leading up to it. I don’t think I cried.
Conversely, my father’s mother died in late November in Florida. It was unpleasantly hot, the way Florida always was, and I was the only grandchild there. I don’t really get along with anyone on that side of the family. Not uncles, not my grandfather, not my intimidating smart wanna be dominatrix NSA-employed cousin. They’re nice, don’t get me wrong, but we’re too different. Also that cousin scares me. Still, I was the only grandchild there. It was a small service and sunny the whole time. I know I didn’t cry then.
I wonder if that makes me a bad person?
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Laura - 7
1/27/11 This is the dream I had about Gordon after he passed.
Gordon was there. I was so amazed and happy and proud that he had come back from the brink of death and was now standing right in front of me, smiling. He looked different, weathered. The most striking thing about his appearance was the color of his skin. It looked fake and tan. I couldn’t put my finger on it. Not much happened in the dream; he was just standing there pleasantly and I was looking at him. When I woke up I realized a couple of other odd appearance issues. He had a full head of white hair and he was very skinny. I remember him as bald and fuller-bodied, although before the sickness he had a good amount of hair and he was very thin. I also realized that the tan must have been the makeup that is put on bodies before an open-casket funeral. But there was no funeral, due to Gordon’s wishes, and he is also gong to be cremated, not buried. I didn’t tell Ben about my dream. I felt so sad when I woke up.
Gordon was there. I was so amazed and happy and proud that he had come back from the brink of death and was now standing right in front of me, smiling. He looked different, weathered. The most striking thing about his appearance was the color of his skin. It looked fake and tan. I couldn’t put my finger on it. Not much happened in the dream; he was just standing there pleasantly and I was looking at him. When I woke up I realized a couple of other odd appearance issues. He had a full head of white hair and he was very skinny. I remember him as bald and fuller-bodied, although before the sickness he had a good amount of hair and he was very thin. I also realized that the tan must have been the makeup that is put on bodies before an open-casket funeral. But there was no funeral, due to Gordon’s wishes, and he is also gong to be cremated, not buried. I didn’t tell Ben about my dream. I felt so sad when I woke up.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Sam 2-2/??
I want to say that I’ve always had problems with death. That I feel like everyone around me dies, or that I’ve struggled to over come it, or something equally heroic sounding. I haven’t, but I want to. Maybe it’s because we’ve been so trained by popular culture to look at death as a negative thing, but also as formative. How many protagonists come from happy not-dead families? A fair number, but how many of them have those families die by the time their 20, usually in the prologue? Most of them. Don’t get me wrong; I’m glad everyone in my family is alive and well. It would be unspeakably terrible if they weren’t, but a tiny unfriendly part of me feels cheated for it.
Laura 4/?
William S. Burroughs had some fucked-up dreams. But, I can relate to my first thought on another planet being, “Hmm, I wonder what the cuisine is like.” I definitely would not be down with the whole no-stomachs thing. Sometimes I feel like eating is a waste of time though, when I have a paper to finish or a song to practice. Times like that I wish we could eat every couple of days and be fine. Bodies are so fucking bizarre. Is that what the no-stomach aliens would think about me? It’s what I think about me. Who would I be if I were one of those no-body Ray Bradbury aliens? Just a ball of light evolved past anything a body could accomplish. I think there was something about music in that story…
Laura 3/?
1/25
Happiness is an empty candy wrapper. Am I happier when food is present and visible before me? Or when there is a freshly emptied plate with just a few morsels left in front of me? Hard to say.
Happiness is an empty candy wrapper. Am I happier when food is present and visible before me? Or when there is a freshly emptied plate with just a few morsels left in front of me? Hard to say.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Laura 2/?
1/23
I was watching something on TV where they spoofed those hungry-abused-animal commercials. They had that horribly tragic Sarah McLaughlin song playing over slo-mo videos of animals… jerking off. It was gross and pretty hilarious. But the regular hungry-abused-animal commercials are unbearably painful to watch. I get a block of icy tears in my stomach when I encounter anyone or anything hungry. I can’t think of anything more sad. Ugh. On a more positive note, the café I went to for lunch had a dog menu, which is pretty creative. I can’t wait to get a dog. Maybe I’ll order one from Sarah McLaughlin and then take it to lunch.
I was watching something on TV where they spoofed those hungry-abused-animal commercials. They had that horribly tragic Sarah McLaughlin song playing over slo-mo videos of animals… jerking off. It was gross and pretty hilarious. But the regular hungry-abused-animal commercials are unbearably painful to watch. I get a block of icy tears in my stomach when I encounter anyone or anything hungry. I can’t think of anything more sad. Ugh. On a more positive note, the café I went to for lunch had a dog menu, which is pretty creative. I can’t wait to get a dog. Maybe I’ll order one from Sarah McLaughlin and then take it to lunch.
Friday, January 21, 2011
Sam 1/??
Food is an interesting thing. One of the most, if you stop and think about it, really. Of all that which we seek, it is only one which, in having and using it, we diminish. Absence and food are, I find, intrinsically bound. The absence of food drives us to seek it, and then from there, to consume it, thereby making it once more absent. People often speak of good meals the way they would speak of fine art. It’s something to be appreciated not just as a way to fill the void inside, but also as an object of beauty and of desire. But unlike a Cézanne or a Rodin, it cannot be left to be appreciated. Instead it is consumed in the process, leaving behind empty plates and dishes, a testament to that which once stood.
Food is also one of the only things which absents itself. Having food, unlike Art or Books, is not enough. That food will either be eaten, presumably by you, or it will rot. Either way it goes away. It’s the one thing that can’t be horded, and if it could, could not be appreciated. Beyond that, however, absence is what makes food so delicious. Familiarity breeds contempt, and having the same meal every day, no matter how incredible it was the first time, will get boring. It’s that separation, the absence of the favorite, that makes food appreciable, that makes it so good. It’s why the meals we remember most are those we ate once one vacation.
Food is also one of the only things which absents itself. Having food, unlike Art or Books, is not enough. That food will either be eaten, presumably by you, or it will rot. Either way it goes away. It’s the one thing that can’t be horded, and if it could, could not be appreciated. Beyond that, however, absence is what makes food so delicious. Familiarity breeds contempt, and having the same meal every day, no matter how incredible it was the first time, will get boring. It’s that separation, the absence of the favorite, that makes food appreciable, that makes it so good. It’s why the meals we remember most are those we ate once one vacation.
Laura 1/?
1/20
I find that I am drawn to novels that spend a lot of time focusing on food. It just seems that details are missing when meals are not described in a character’s daily events. When it comes down to it, we are animals with a crucial base instinct; food descriptions are always going to make writing more interesting to the reader. Would it be considered cheating to use science to coax people into reading one’s book?
I find that I am drawn to novels that spend a lot of time focusing on food. It just seems that details are missing when meals are not described in a character’s daily events. When it comes down to it, we are animals with a crucial base instinct; food descriptions are always going to make writing more interesting to the reader. Would it be considered cheating to use science to coax people into reading one’s book?
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Laura - 6
1/20/11 This is the letter I wrote to his mom.
Dear Randi,
I am so sorry for your loss. Gordon was an extremely special individual who I feel lucky to have known. His passion for life, and music in particular, was infectious and influential. I am grateful to be able to celebrate his life with thousands of happy memories. Your family is an extraordinary one, and I can see your strength inspiring Ben every day. Take care.
With Gratitude and Sympathy,
Laura
Dear Randi,
I am so sorry for your loss. Gordon was an extremely special individual who I feel lucky to have known. His passion for life, and music in particular, was infectious and influential. I am grateful to be able to celebrate his life with thousands of happy memories. Your family is an extraordinary one, and I can see your strength inspiring Ben every day. Take care.
With Gratitude and Sympathy,
Laura
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Laura - 5
1/11/11
This is a song I wrote for my best friend after his father died recently.
We Are Not Our Bodies
I don't take pleasure in the routine anymore.
"How come your life seems so much better than mine?"
I take sleep where I can get it,
but I might as well forget all about it.
The road's getting rough,
but I happen to know a guy selling highways...
While that may not be exactly true,
either way, I can carry you.
Every stoplight tried
to make me late that night.
I kept thinking, "We are not our bodies."
It scared the shit outta me
and it gave me comfort.
I'm drinking less in case I need to drive.
You're drinking more to drown the hell that is this time,
but you don't need that shit.
Your mind will make your body numb on its own,
although I understand why you might
not put much faith in bodies right now.
If yours lets you down, I can carry you.
Every nightmare tried
to keep me up all night
I kept thinking, "Which one's reality?"
and "Will this thought still make sense
in the morning?"
It's a fragile time, but I've never felt so strong.
If everything else scares you shitless
please just take comfort in this.
This is a song I wrote for my best friend after his father died recently.
We Are Not Our Bodies
I don't take pleasure in the routine anymore.
"How come your life seems so much better than mine?"
I take sleep where I can get it,
but I might as well forget all about it.
The road's getting rough,
but I happen to know a guy selling highways...
While that may not be exactly true,
either way, I can carry you.
Every stoplight tried
to make me late that night.
I kept thinking, "We are not our bodies."
It scared the shit outta me
and it gave me comfort.
I'm drinking less in case I need to drive.
You're drinking more to drown the hell that is this time,
but you don't need that shit.
Your mind will make your body numb on its own,
although I understand why you might
not put much faith in bodies right now.
If yours lets you down, I can carry you.
Every nightmare tried
to keep me up all night
I kept thinking, "Which one's reality?"
and "Will this thought still make sense
in the morning?"
It's a fragile time, but I've never felt so strong.
If everything else scares you shitless
please just take comfort in this.
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