Delivering Gen Rx

98 S. Duncan

2008-05-25T15:54:00.000-07:00

Setting: Dank, acrid, below ground-level apartment - the air is thick and smells like a combination of sweat, rust, and fish shit.

Upon handing a young lady her prescription, she says to me:

Thank you! You are so nice!

And after the door is closed, I overhear her saying to someone else in the apartment:

Yay! I'm not going to die of hypothyroids anymore!

I bet that is pretty exciting.

Dancing and Cigarettes

2008-04-17T09:14:00.000-07:00

On the 12th, Crazy Tim (majored in physics at the UofA, served in Vietnam, helicopter shot down, went crazy, attempted suicide by jumping off 7th story of apartment complex, survived, still crazy) came up to me at work, said the following, and promptly left:

I could've been a dancer, but I started smoking cigarettes. I still think cigarettes are better than marijuana though. Bad things can happen to a guy who lays around on marijuana watching soap operas.

Social Workers are so silly.

2008-03-27T10:22:00.001-07:00

At the North Hills Living Center, which is a retirement/rehabilitation home for the elderly and sick, the following are the names of the building's living areas:

Honeysuckle Lane
Razorback Lane
Rehab Lane
Whispering Willows

Which one doesn't fit?

Dear, friend

2008-03-10T19:19:00.000-07:00

Today I delivered to a young family with two kids, probably between the ages of 4 and 7. As I was walking up the sidewalk leading to their front door, I noticed that on the concrete, scrawled with pink chalk in a child's hand, was the following:

Dear, friend most dearest of all. I GIVE UP!

Delivering Gen Rx

2008-03-03T07:01:00.000-08:00

I fell out of blogging for quite a while, but I have an idea.

I work for a local drug store here in Fayetteville delivering medication (and the occasional order of ten Klondike bars for Mrs. C and the four liters of Mountain Dew for Mr. H) to the poor, the sick, the elderly, and the exceedingly rich. Needless to say, I get let in on a diverse cross-section of Fayetteville - I go from one-room, roach infested "apartments" to the underfunded City Hospital to the mansion of, ironically enough, the CEO of the largest nursing care supply company in the country.

It's a rich job in the way of experience, to say the least.

So I'll start posting little bits of my day here on blogspot, but I'm not going to say very much, because these experiences tend to happen in the span of a door opening, an exchanging of money for meds, and the subsequent close of the door.

---------

[At City Hospital, 2-2-08, 10AM]

Old Woman in wheelchair: Hello [smiles].
Me, in passing: How ya' doin'?
Old Woman: Well, I guess I'm living [smiles].

Dwayne

2008-02-10T20:21:00.001-08:00

I doubt anyone still reads this, but if they do, here's something.

I work at Collier Drug Stores at the Dickson St. location as a delivery guy and just about everyday this guy named Dwayne comes in to visit. He's schizophrenic, really sweet, and he's always dipping - he must be in his 30s. The other day he came in and Jake and I started talking with him as usual, which tends to be pretty scattered and strange, but this time he said something really touching, which I promptly wrote down:

When I hear that song Love by John Lennon I think of flowers at weddings. I think of my Grandpa. We put flowers on his grave on memorial day. Me and my family put flowers on his grave. He hated flowers though. Loved beer. Yeah I cry sometimes when I hear that song.

Happy Mother's Day!

2007-05-13T15:28:00.001-07:00

Bootylicious

2007-04-28T11:00:00.000-07:00

This is why Gregory and the Hawk (AKA Meredith Godreau) is incredible:

I Feel Like Dancing

2007-04-23T01:39:00.000-07:00

I think capturing, via photograph, hipsters in mid-dance may be one of the funniest things in the world.

The Stolen Child

2007-04-17T03:55:00.000-07:00

Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you
can understand.

W.B. Yeats wrote those words in 1889 at the age of 24 as he realized his sense of idealism was slowly slipping away.

I watched the news yesterday with my Irish roommates as reports came in of the worst mass shooting in U.S. history.

32 years later, in "The Second Coming," Yeats wrote:

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

It's interesting how things like poetry, music, or prose can have such impact when delivered at the right time. I feel like Yeats came to me in the same respect that he lowered his pen to a blank piece of paper - with coffee nearby, sending its heat upwards into the air; and outside, a storm unfurling it's dark cloak.

I just spent

2007-03-25T16:55:00.000-07:00

the entire day reading Virginia Woolf's "Mrs. Dalloway," which, I discovered, is a complete abomination of a book. Utterly terrible - not the least bit engaging. A few paragraphs were well-written - I did my share of underlining bits I enjoyed, sketching a star here and there, an exclamation point on occasion. However, it felt as if I had listened (and actually paid attention) to an entire album and only enjoyed a couple verses. No redeeming melodies or choruses, just the occasional turn of phrase that jumped out at me.

The story begins with a whimper, continues like a prolonged, sickly wheeze, and finally fades out into a little more than nothing (for at least "nothing" in and of itself is an end; "Mrs. Dalloway" can barely claim to possess such.)

I know it's highly pretentious of a young writer to criticize one of the most highly regarded authors, but someone's gotta do it - I mean, she did suffer from bouts of mental illness. "Mrs. Dalloway," I suspect, was a manifestation of said illness - a manifestation the world could do without and I sure as Hell could do without writing a paper about.

Like the Linen

2007-03-24T14:24:00.000-07:00

Everyone leave this page immediately, and go to this one.

Fatt turned me on to this site a while ago, and I just rediscovered how awesome it is. Read about Thao Nguyen, the new love of my life and download four of her songs for free. She's got kind of a Memphis Minnie (v.2k7) / Regina Spektor "Soviet Kitsch"iness about her, but, y'know - Asian.

She's great.

Stop reading - leave. Go here.

Visual DNA

2007-03-24T05:46:00.000-07:00

I got this from my brother's blog and decided to make one for myself - actually pretty cool site. Try it out.

Read my VisualDNA™ Get your own VisualDNA™

It's the Little Things

2007-03-08T10:11:00.000-08:00

The purple Skittles in Ireland are NOT grape - they are, in fact, blackcurrant.

Also - an equal combination of red, yellow, and green Skittles (The Rasta Rainbow, as it were) is the most satisfactory way in which to enjoy the candy.

Go forth and Skittle.

Legend American Buskers

2007-03-08T03:19:00.000-08:00

So I know it's been a while since I've posted, but -- actually, no excuses. I've had plenty of "material;" I just haven't gotten around to it. But today, on this fresh, mowed-grass, Irish morning - I'm going to post, as it were - pictures and all. Thank you for your patience.

---------corona&coltrane---------

Mundane backstory: A few weeks ago, my friend, Mike (SWM, Boston, seeks SWF), and I went down to K 'n B Music to purchase cheap guitars to sate our finger-picking, good-time tendencies. I bought the cheapest one they had - a decent (looking) classical for about 70 Euro - Mike, on the other hand, going East Egg on me and springing for a nicer solid-body acoustic.

So for the next few weeks we jammed, received noise complaints, et cetera, et cetera. He taught me a lot, as he is a lot better than me, and I learned a lot. Let's just say don't worry about bringing a copy of Nelly's "Ride Wit Me" to the next party - as long as I've got my axe, we've got the raps.

We finally decided that we should give busking (playing instruments and singing in the streets) a shot - despite my complete lack of experience as far as performing goes, I was comforted by the fact that Mike could more than compensate for my mistakes and lapses, so I agreed - next weekend, let's go busking in Dublin.

Book.

So we spent that week frantically working on our "repertoire," if you will, which consisted of little more than a few Oasis, Creedence Clearwater Revivial, Bob Marley, Kings of Leon, and Britney Spears songs - very few of them in their complete state, save Oasis and KoL.

Regardless - on Saturday morning, we hit the streets of Dublin.

We found a nice little tunneled alleyway in the Temple Bar area that served as a perfect shelter in case of rain and also worked as a good people-funneling structure - anyone entering Temple Bar after crossing the River Liffey pretty much had to lend an ear, provided the individual was endowed with such.

It was such a beautiful day - partly cloudy, people everywhere doing their shopping, buskers on every corner, trad music spilling out of the center of Temple Bar, birds, smoke, the city.

So Mike and I stationed ourselves in the tunnel picture above, and began to play. I was somehow thrust into the position of singer, which should've bothered me a lot more than it did. But I was somehow comfortable with it all, maybe because I knew we were on the periphery - we weren't in focus - just extras in some urban musical depicting life in Dublin. I found myself actually singing out and people seemed to be enjoying what we were doing.

At one point, an older Asian man video-taped his timid son, probably about 4 years of age, waddle over and toss a coin in my guitar-case. I think that was the most beautiful moment of the day - the realization that we would now be packed up, loaded onto an airplane, flown to wherever they call home, and finally watched on some rainy, reminiscent Sunday.

Do you remember that, son?

Dublin? Not really - I was like, three or four, right?

And maybe the Dad will smile and remember it all so clearly - the jacket he was wearing, how his son fell asleep on his shoulder as he carried him back to the hotel, how the two young men had smiled when his son tossed a coin in their bag.

We ended up making almost 50 Euro between the two of us - quite a bit when we expected to barely make the train fare back to Maynooth.

Three Spanish girls stopped to dance, laugh, talk, and sing with us while we played.

Two Dubliners, about our age, stopped and talked music for a while and listened to us, calling their friends when they found out we could play a Kings of Leon song.

While he was on the phone, I heard him say to his friend, "Some f-ing legend American buskers are playing f-ing KoL..."

It felt good to be embraced by people.

A camera crew filmed us for a Spanish television show.

We played music in Dublin.

Jacob Smith says that I crave glory, and maybe that's why I loved busking so much. Maybe I do want those things - respect, esteem, glory, et cetera. I know I do desire those things to a certain extent, but the home video remains with me.

Is it that I find comfort in permanency? That I want to spread my effect across the globe and thus insure that I am in some way remembered?

I haven't figured it out yet. It is not something that bothers me or arrests sleep from my nights, it is simply something that I wear like a shirt - it's comfortable, lightweight, and it doesn't cost much. But then I remember that at one point very early on in history, the shirt and every other kind of adornment - shoes, necklaces, crowns - all of it was completely

superfluous.

Go Maire Fheile Vailintin!

2007-02-14T08:43:00.000-08:00

A lesson in Irish (sans accent marks - haven't figured out how to type those yet) for Valentines Day.

La Fheile Vailintin (Valentine's Day)

Go maire fheile Vailintin! (Happy Valentines Day!)

Bi mo Vailintin (Be my Valentine.)

le gra (...with love.)

Tusa mo ghra geal (You are my bright love.)

Ta me i ngra leat (I love you; I am in love with you.)

Go maire fheile Vailintin - le gra,
SCRAM

Happy Happy Joy Joy

2007-02-14T07:01:00.000-08:00

(L to R) Naimh (pronounced "neeve"), Connor, Ema (pronounced "m-uh"), Sorcha (pronounced "soar-sha"), and myself (pronounced "sam"). The blow-up man's name is Josepe (sp? pronounced with a soft j - "Juh-sepp-e"). Naimh and Josepe are happily married.
(L to R) Max, Dan, Sorcha, Naimh, Mike, and myself. We had a huge sing-along the other night after Mike and I bought guitars - featured hits included: Hit Me Baby One More Time (Britney Spears - acclaimed songstress), Ride Wit Me (Nelly - renowned singer-songwriter), and Wonderwall (Oasis, British brothers lauded for incredible ability to hate).

Important Video Message from Scram

2007-02-12T15:12:00.000-08:00

So I think I figured out how to post videos on here.

The following video is for people that I love, which may or may not include YOU - but even if it doesn't, there's a great shot of my chair that'll leave every last one of you in an indescribable state of envy (for said chair, of course.)

NUI Maynooth Campus

2007-02-08T11:40:00.000-08:00

St. Patrick's cathedral (which, unfortunately, is being worked on right now, as you can see by the scaffolding) and part of the courtyard.
Where the town meets the campus - I like the fact that in these days we can capture a Coca-Cola sign and a 900 year old castle in just one picture.
Part of the original castle built by the Fitzgerald family in the 1100s. You can see the main street in Maynooth in the distance.
A really awesome tree lined pathway on campus - the light at the end of this tunnel is, appropriately, the entrance to an old cemetery.
A beautiful garden on the edge of campus - I like the fact that there are flowers blooming, yet in the background you can see some of the snow that fell this morning.
This is one of the main buildings on the Old (South) Campus, which is characterized by old, beautiful architecture. You can see St. Patrick's Cathedral on the right.
Opposite of the building pictured above this one - the buildings form a square, with the courtyard in the center.
This is the view from my window this morning. Apparently, it rarely snows in Ireland, but I've been fortunate enough to have been here for two already - one via Cork to Limerick, and now in Maynooth.

This place is incredible.

Flying from London to Cork

2007-01-30T16:58:00.000-08:00

The waves break white - pushing back against the ocean - the wind like a mother pulling her children along - dragging their feet & moaning about home & "How far?"

NYC 3:31 AM

2007-01-08T00:42:00.000-08:00

It's amazing how this city augments movement.

A truck rumbles across the BQE & this apartment trembles.

In the subway stations, as a train thunders in, the ground shakes & the air blows like a burst of breath thru a blue trumpet.

At sunset, the glow of Manhattan slides across the clouds, lazily mingling with the last of what the sun has to offer.

Cartography

2006-12-04T23:46:00.000-08:00

A man’s struggle to be exposed
is a long, slow climb
through treacherous territory—
“Harrowing the whole way,”
he says across napkin boulders
and steaming pools of coffee.

“Bears at the tree line
could tear your heart right out—
Bam— one swipe and you’re done for.”

She sighs, knees pulled close
to her chest—prodding a plateau
of eggs over easy.

“Altitude sickness.
Exposure at 12,000 feet,”
he adds and subtracts—
“can’t get ahead of yourself.”

“Why go through all that?
Seems silly to me,”
she replies— snowing salt
over biscuit mountains.

Giant slabs of sugar & ice
break off & crash
into sweet tea springs.

“The view from the top is incredible,”
he echoes through silverware valleys,
“everything spread out & open—
like a map of the face of God.”

Ireland

2006-11-26T00:10:00.000-08:00

December 22 - 28: Lake Tahoe
December 29: Fayetteville
December 30 - January 10: NYC
January 10 - 20: London
January 20 - August: Ireland and surrounding areas.

All of this seems pretty ridiculous to me - leaving my friends and family for such a long time, living across the Atlantic, walking around a 900 year old town. I'm not sure if I really believe it will all actually happen. Bittersweet.

The picture above is where I'll be studying creative writing and philosophy.

That's why I can't believe all of this is happening. It's too good.

Thanks, J.C.

Today's News: Halloween a Time for Non-Trad Student Expressionism

2006-10-31T15:14:00.000-08:00

My favorite part of Halloween is not the candy corn, nor the pumpkin carving, nor even the gathering of friends to celebrate such a special holiday. Rather, let us consider the Non-Trads - that autonomous group of students that always sit on the perimeters of classrooms and only speak up when the topics of politics, children, or sex arise.

For some reason these creatures, while remaining dormant for most of the semester, choose Halloween to express what they've been holding back all this time. And suddenly, when that magic day rolls around, the Non-Trad population explodes with color and life - sending a veritable smorgasbord of personalities trouncing about the campus. For some it's a time to get that witch out of your system, for others it's an opportunity to swashbuckle your way into the heart of that ghoulish Non-Trad gal you've had your eye on since the first day of class. Regardless what their true motives may be, Halloween is always a time for the Non-Trads to shine and proclaim to the rest of the student population that, "Hey, we DO have a voice. We DO know how to have a good time. And yes, we ARE the Non-Trads."

Monkey Talk

2006-10-30T21:49:00.000-08:00

Today during Anthropology I found out that scientists managed to teach modified American Sign Language to a chimp named Lucy Temerlin and a bonobo named Kanzi.

This absolutely blew my mind.

I've spent a few hours today reading as much as I can about it. Apparently, Lucy figured out how to lie, which was previously thought to be impossible as it necessitates a sense of self - something we thought only humans had.

During an outing in the woods, Kanzi signed for "marshmallows" and "fire" - he then broke twigs, set fire to the wood with matches, and proceeded to roast the marshmallows on a stick.

I don't know how I just now heard about this, but I find it all pretty incredible. Check out these links:

Kanzi

Lucy Temerlin - includes a conversation between Lucy and her trainer, translated from ASL.

Sleeping with Nicotine

2006-10-18T08:39:00.000-07:00

Since my last post, I've quit smoking - my last tobacco product (cigarette, 10-8-06) was surprisingly not as awesome as I'd hoped, although I tried to make it as dramatic as possible, as if I were moving to one of Jupiter's lesser moons, or something of that nature. But alas, my trusty 14mg patches have made it a lot easier than I thought, but a new problem has arisen. Wearing the patch 24 hours a day, I get nicotine at times when I normally wouldn't have, had I continued smoking - specifically, while I sleep. This extra ingredient seems to skyrocket the detail, extension, and depth of my dreams. For me, dreams typically cover a short time span, take place in one setting, and aren't too detailed. However, I've been incredibly productive and thoughtful these past few nights as I've slept - and Hunter, I know you said no one is really interested in the dreams of others, but I'm going to tell you anyway.

Dream One: Just to reiterate how vivid and striking these dreams have been, let me say that this dream occurred on the night of October 10th and I can still remember it perfectly, even having not yet written a bit of it down.

So, before I went to sleep that night, I had been rigourously studying for a Russian Literature midterm exam - Naturalism, Pushkin, Czars, Petersburg, noumenal, et cetera - so, I was definitely stuck in the Russian mindset, whatever that is. Regardless, as I fell asleep, I began recalling a discussion from earlier in the night in which my fellow Russians and I had been joking about the correlation between Chumbawumba's "Tubthumping" and the ideas of the superfluous man and the Byronic hero, both common to early 19th century Russian Literature.

So as I drifted to sleep, I had one of those pre-REM dreams, which seem to be more like extremely focused brainstorming sessions - you can still hear cars honking and occasional voices, but for the most part, you're out. Slowly but steadily, and without my consent, I began writing an essay in my brain - not formulating ideas and a general outline - actually writing a thesis statement and introductory paragraph word for word across my eyes. I watched as some part of me scribbled out certain words and replaced them with others - keep in mind, this essay dealt with Chumbawumba's portrayal of Danny Boy as a superfluous man and a Byronic Hero in their smash hit, "Tubthumping".

The last thing I recall of the dream, or essay, before I fell asleep, was my attempt to explain and speculate on the symbolism of the many drinks (whiskey drink, vodka drink, lager drink, cider drink) Danny Boy enjoys and why the author feels the need to explain that he spends the evening just "pissing the night away." Can anyone say "Oblomov?"

Dream Two: I'll keep these short from here on out - just a quick synopsis, and then on to the next night.

This dream took place on October 14th, the night after a Reaves family reunion in Memphis, which I did not attend.

I dreamt that my family (extended and immediate) and I were all enjoying general merriment at a family reunion somewhere in the jungles or swamps of Thailand. I'm not sure why such a locale was chosen, but it was probably Uncle Jerry's idea. Anyway, I smoked two cigarettes with my Mom, who does not smoke, and woke up feeling extremely guilty and then excited, because I realized I was still actually smoke-free.

Apologies if that was a boring one.

Dream Three: Take High Fidelity, remove John Cusack, insert Scram, delete all comedic elements, and change the ex-girlfriends.

I spent what felt like the entire night, going back to each and every one of my ex-girlfriends and reconciling our differences. Strange thing is, only one Ex remains unreconciled, but not by any choice of mine. Anyway, this sleepwalk down memory lane led me all the way back to Beren D., my fourth grade girlfriend who played the agressor by placing in my desk (during my first week at Pulaski Academy, mind you - I was very proud of this) a note that said "I like you."

"Simple and honest," I thought.

I guess I like you, too - so we "went out", which means we awkwardly said our hellos in the halls and at one point, I believe I may have called her. For Christmas I gave her a teddy bear and she gave me an ornament, which I have to this day and continues to adorn our tree each year.

But alas, things weren't working out and we had to go our separate ways - and I thought everything was alright between the two of us, but for some reason my dream felt otherwise. We shook hands and apologized and I continued my journey.

Rachael (circa 5th grade, multiple times, perhaps)
Cat (6th, twice)
Taylor (7th, capture the flag)
Marci (circa 8th-9th, on and off)
Nicole (10th - I could drive)
Sarah B. (11th grade, kind of)

And finally, my most recent: J. This was an interesting one because it is the only relationship that ended on a bad note and has yet to be reconciled. Given that fact that we dated for a year and a half, however, Dream-Scram and Dream-J were pretty damn civil about the whole thing - just a hug and we were out. Not much to say about the matter.

Despite the stressful state I found myself in when I awoke, I will say my version of High Fidelity was vaguely therapeutic - but maybe that's just because I remembered the ornament that Beren gave me, which reminded me of how much I like Christmas, and furthermore, how nice it is when it snows.

Lyrics to Iron and Wine's "Hickory"

2006-10-03T17:49:00.000-07:00

I just think these lyrics are awesome. Sam Beam does it again.

he kissed her once as she leaned on the windowsill

she'll never love him but knows that her father will

her fallen fruit is all rotten in the middle but her

breast never dries when he's hungry

the money came and she died in her rocking chair

the window wide and the rain in her braided hair

a letter locked in the pattern of her knuckle

like a hymn to the house she was making

blind and whistling just around the corner and there's a

wind that is whispering something

strong as hell but not hickory rooted

she kissed him once cause he gave her a cigarette

and turned around but he waits like a turned down bed

and summer left like her walking with another and a

sound of a church bell ringing

the money came and he died like a butterfly

a buried star and the haze of the city lights

a gun went off and her mother dropped her baby on the

blue feathered wing - we were lucky

blind and whistling just around the corner and there's a

wind that is whispering something

strong as hell but not hickory rooted

Excerpt from the Short Story Entitled: "There's a Church in the Valley by the Wildwood"

2006-09-28T11:12:00.000-07:00

I must’ve been about eight years old the first time I felt the throb of guilt. I didn’t mean to kill it – I guess I just didn’t quite understand death, finality, or endings. Mawmaw would live forever, the hummingbirds would always feed, and Mr. Vern would never fail to take us fishing. Everyday’s hot here – in Southern Arkansas there’s no escaping it – the heat’s invasive, surrounding, and overwhelming. If I were prone to making excuses I would blame it on the temperature, but I knew better – I know I did. I was out behind the old, green house looking for what Mawmaw called “live toys” – frogs, lizards, the occasional and fantastic snake. Under the pink and blue hydrangea bushes on the side of the house, I finally got hold of a little frog – soft and green like the undergrowth, its whole body thump-thump-thumping with fear. As all little boys learn ever-so-quickly, frogs pee when they get scared and before I’d rounded Pawpaw’s workshop, the little bastard had baptized my dirty hands with something far less holy than holy water. So into my fist the tiny guy went as I made my way to the carport to play with my toy in the stifling shade by the big, black body of Mawmaw’s Lincoln Towncar. The only witnesses were the horrified hummingbirds sippin’ their sugar water and the granddaddy longlegs huddled aghast in the corner. I hurled the frog against the concrete wall and watched as it landed on the oil-stained floor of the carport, its whole body thump-thump-thumping with fear. Soft and green like grass on a cemetery plot, wet with piss and blood and “This is war,” I thought. I picked up my poor victim and took aim at the grill of the Towncar, where the frog’s last breath escaped beneath a dull, metallic thud. I could hear cars driving by on the highway – quiet at first, and then louder and louder until they were gone – the rush of wind still whipping the grass into submission.

Let's All Take a Step Back

2006-09-16T19:25:00.000-07:00

and learn to be true.
Find something purer
than mystery -
That's what God's for
and We
should offer up truth
to help our friends get by.
And let's all take a step back
to when clothes weren't worn
and I knew you,
and you knew me.
There were no shadows
or places to hide,
nothing wasted or secret -
All brilliant and simple,
without sons or daughters.
All humble and present,
not a-one of us'll live
forever, but now We
all think just that -
And it's sad cause we ain't
got so long.
And it's a waste to be hidden,
let's all take a step back,
and breathe in the air of the
open.

August 28th, 2006

2006-08-28T21:19:00.000-07:00

"It was the first time I'd ever had the feeling of missing someone I was still with."

Stuart Dybek

------------

Spit on the floor,
But don't look down -
We've got all night and coffee to drown
"Like slowly getting hit by a bus," she says.
We'll never get lost,
No matter how hard we try.

Metal & Mothers

2006-08-11T13:40:00.000-07:00

Steam & grease &
Menus & mugs -
Thank you, ma'am,
I think I'm done.
Sweat tea & coffee &
Break-ups & bruises,
Everything heals &
Every cup empties.
Take it to a family that
Don't ask questions &
Wear a smile when you like -
Metal & Mothers &
Brothers & Smoke.
Make that two,
We're all hungry somewhere.
Tip when you leave &
Pull out in the open,
Headlights on parking lot
Fights over nothing.
Butter & bacon &
Cinnamon, Coke -
We've all got our reasons to
Stay for a while.
Pay checks here, but
Come on back -
There are dishes to be washed &
Lives to be livin'.

I am Adam

2006-07-24T19:30:00.000-07:00

I'm listening to Mum right now - the music of dreams, it seems. Check them out sometime when you have a while to be by yourself - someplace devoid of distractions. A lakeside, an overlook. Somewhere - but make sure it is quiet and in view of something beautiful. Then put on their album "Finally We Are No One". Sit back, and dream.

So the other day I decided after two beers that I wanted to try weed. It was something I had been thinking about trying for quite a while, but never enough to seek it out. So when it happened to arise on the couch next to me at my friend's apartment, I asked if I could join. I can't ask you to not think less of me, as it is definitely something I don't condone. And after the other night, it is most assuredly something I hope you never try.

Let me start by saying this: last Sunday night was the most mentally and physically terrifying night of my life. So as I stated previously, earlier in the night I had had two beers, which I thought had left my system entirely by the time we got back to the apartment. I discovered later that although the effects of alcohol may wear off, it is still very much present in your system after the feeling subsides. So my friend smokes extremely potent weed (this I found out later), which friends from work later said was the strongest pot they had ever had (quite a statement coming from people who have smoked for most of their lives). I was unaware of this fact when I partook, about eight times in fact, of the joint.

I felt nothing at first until suddenly I turned towards Adam and watched his mouth form words that I was either unable to hear or understand. The moisture in my mouth disappeared, but it was too late to get water. My body felt as if it were seperating atom by atom as my mind floated around the space where I had once been sitting. I could not move, I could not form words, I could not process what was before my eyes. I have no idea how long I sat there - based on a friend's account it was only about an hour before I fell asleep, but for all I knew I had entered enternity - my body tumbling and rolling uncontrollably across itself. I watched thoughts flash across my open eyes like fast-forwarded movie credits or the blinking lights of a ferris wheel. I tried to think about something, but before I could focus another thought had flashed before me - scrolling ever downward across my eyes and through my body. My heart must've made an audible hum as it beat what felt like a thousand times every minute. The only thought I recall being conscious of was my feeble pray for God to make it stop - return my body and my mind back to themselves.

Give me movement - give me air - give me thoughts - give me feeling - give me myself.

I tried to lay down and fall asleep, but each attempt was quickly upset by violent vomitting, which by no means altered or made subside whatever state I had thrust myself into. I must've thrown up ten or more times, my head lying in the trash can after each violent battle with my own body and mind.

I had no concept of beginning or end - the only thing I was aware of was excruciating pain - both mental and physical, and my fear that it would never end. I lost the capacity to remember the basic facts that remind us of our own existence in the world: Samuel Slaton, 19 years old, New York City - name, age, location. I lost myself as I sat perched over the trash can, sweat pouring from my face, tears streaming from my eyes, vomit coursing from my mouth and nose. The last thing I remember before waking up the next morning was someone pulling me back onto the couch and laying my head on a pillow.

I've always desired experiences - adventure, people, life, etc - all the things that inspire books, songs, and poetry. Last Sunday night I subjected myself to a hell I never imagined I would enter. I understand now what people mean when they say that one must face the Devil in order to fully appreciate God.

I am Adam, and I am sorry.

In the Dust of My Rabbi

2006-07-11T22:05:00.000-07:00

Where'd the lights go?

I was just thinking about how I wish I could simply be reborn, and I know that as a Christian, I have been - but I wish my notions of life and living could simply be wiped away. Race would be a foreign word, lies would be defined only by those past judgements I passed on people, love would be the only thing I'd understand. I'd do all I could to comfort the crying and warm the cold - I wouldn't understand complacency. Turning a deaf ear would be inconceivable. The only semblance of an ego I'd hold would be the shadow following my steps. I wouldn't wear these damn jeans.

Where'd the water flow?

I'd never want more than I needed - what would I do with all that extra baggage? What about those souls dying in their clothes wishing at most to make it through the cold night? Their dirty fingernails scraping up money to buy whatever they trust to make them survive - bread, cigarettes, fruit, liquor, coffee. Teeth falling out - unable to speak a word, they just shake their hands and rattle their cups.

When did the dust of the Rabbi get blown away in the wind of this life?

I'd curse gold - deny the richest jewels. I'd understand the sinkhole of lust, the torturous river of envy, the drizzle of complacency - I'd show contempt for every bit of evil working to rob me of my birthright. I'd fight beyond death for my Father's honor and name.

When did mirrors become so important?

I'd be naked and free - I would have no figure, no self to glorify, no canvas upon which I'd paint the virtue of the week. There would be no billboard to advertise my interests, no commercials for what I previously thought important.

The light ahead would simply cause a shadow to fall softly behind my bare feet as I walked in the dust of my Rabbi.

Beyul Pemako

2006-07-02T20:31:00.000-07:00

Today I realized that my diet consists almost entirely of oatmeal for breakfast, pizza for lunch, and red beans & rice for dinner (with a cigarette before and after each meal). For all you bums out there in New York City who beg for my change, I know every single one of you knows about Zatarans Red Beans & Rice. For $1.69 you can feed four normal people (assuming you can procure a pot in which to boil water on your hobofires.) That said, you people do not need my money. First of all, you're just going to buy cheap box wine with it and second of all, if you're not going to do that you don't need a handful of Washingtons to live on. You need two Washingtons to feed yourself four meals - you even get change back (upwards of a full quarter, depending on your area grocery store).

The above is entirely unrelated to the real subject matter of this post, but definitely something to take to heart if you ever find yourself short on cash and in need of food. I also hear there's some killer dumpster diving behind Dean & Deluca on Prince and Broadway - just so you know.

So it's late and I should go to bed soon, but I figure it would be inconsiderate of me to not relate the body of this posting to the title (it is neither avant-garde nor hip to fashion entirely unrelated titles for works of creativity - it's an irritating attempt to be artsy and obscure).

On to my main point - I am currently reading this book entitled The Heart of the World by Ian Baker. It's a factual account of Baker's National Geographic funded expedition to be the first to reach and explore the Beyul Pemako region of the Tsangpo River, which curls throughout some of the most torturous, dangerous, and mystic regions of Tibet. Pemako is said to be the origin of the Tibetan legend of Shangri-La, an earthly Buddhist paradise where one can easily achieve enlightenment. It is the most secret and sacred of all Beyul, or hidden-lands, and until recently had never been discovered (aside from Padmasambhava, a highly revered Buddhist monk who wrote of the region 1,000 years ago and left clues to its existence in remote caves throughout Tibet). Beyul Pemako roughly means "The Hidden Land Shaped Like a Lotus" and is said to be home to magical plants and dieties - a place of eternal bliss - paradise on Earth.

I've only read about a quarter of it so far and, needless to say, from page one I was and remain incredibly intrigued. Imagine venturing out to discover one of the last unexplored regions on the entire planet. Waterfalls, snakes, cliffs, mystical scrolls, flowers, legends, mountains, rivers, paradise. I feel immediately drawn to Tibet and have begun thinking of ways by which I could get there and when I could leave. I know it will be a while before I can actually make the journey, but there is something so deeply pure and wild about this place that I literally feel like I must go. I cannot leave this world without having experienced Beyul Pemako.

Stand By Me My Apprentice - Be Brave - Clenched Fists

2006-06-27T22:00:00.000-07:00

So tonight I saw Lady Sovereign and The Streets perform at Webster Hall with my brother and Dasha. It was ridiculous and it blew my mind, which as Rachel pointed out, happens a lot. It appears I have an easily blown mind. Eh.

If you've never heard or seen Lady Sovereign, she's like a five-foot roman candle (with an English accent) pointed directly at your crotch and ears. Her music assaults your ears and her attitude makes one unable to put it past her to also attempt to assault your physical body - probably with small British punches to the crotch and face.

hahahaha - it was a cool show.

During The Streets, Mike Skinner took it upon himself to give shots of whiskey and vodka (straight from the bottle) to everyone in the front row. He said he was abstaining from drinking, however, as he is currently training to run a marathon in November. He also stage dived into the crowd, which was pretty rad.

After the show, Hunter and I got some eats at Whitecastle. If you've never been to a Whitecastle, you can easily recreate their hamburger by simply dipping raw meat into scalding water and then festooning it with onions and placing the finished product on damp bread. Not many people know that Whitecastle hamburgers are what Buddhists are really referring to when they talk of attaining Nirvana. So I guess you could say it's damn good.

I'll post something of a serious nature on here within the next few days - I promise. The following are some hints of what it may be about:

Adventure
The Soul
Beyul Pemako
Kerouac
Tibet
Fashion
Words

See you then.

There's Only New Music So That There's New Ringtones

2006-06-15T07:34:00.000-07:00

The Arctic Monkeys defy their own lyrics, their music most assuredly being more important and crucial than a simple ringtone. Last night they played at the Roseland Ballroom, which was absolutely incredible. It's a miracle I managed to get in given the fact that I showed up 30 minutes after the doors opened with no ticket, but thanks to those sweet little scalpers, I cautiously paid my $40 for a ticket that actually worked and made my way inside. We Are Scientists were OK - the only aspect of their set that really stood out was their phenomenal drummer and when Alex Turner and the drummer for Arctic Monkeys came onstage to help them out with one song.

When the Arctic Monkeys finally took the stage at about 9PM, the Douche Troop to my left were thoroughly smashed and ready to mosh the hell out of anyone that stood in their way. Other than that, however, the show blew me away. See the Arctic Monkeys if you get the chance - buy their album now - love every song.

Also, Regina Spektor played an in-store at Tower Records two nights ago to celebrate the release of her new album "Begin To Hope" featuring Nick Valensi on minimal guitars to add a little depth to her previously stark, yet intimate sound. The entire CD is wonderful and (thank God) managed to escape being the victim of over-production that is so common with the first big release from a previously small-time artist. See Regina Spektor if you get the chance - buy her album now - love every song.

Brooklyn Playground

2006-06-07T20:46:00.000-07:00

"well shut my mouth the woman said washing me this child got wings like a hawk
boys this is going to be a long song so you better take off your boots and spit"
Frank Stanford

Yesterday I was smoking a cigarette during my lunch break from work at Buffalo Exchange - leaning against a graffiti-covered building on Driggs St. in Brooklyn. I noticed a rock skitter by my feet and soon after a big piece of black plastic also ran down the sidewalk in front of me. I looked up to see a group of about ten to fifteen teenagers walking towards me throwing debris my way. Blown away by their audacity to actually throw things at a complete stranger, I just stared at them from my sitting position - they walked slowly by, almost every single one glaring at me as I glared back. Even after they had passed they continued to turn around and stare at me, as if this street was nowhere for me to be sitting.

It seems as if Brooklyn is just a playground for adults where the stakes are much higher than milk money and scraped knees - the bullies have become the "thugs" and the nerds the "hipsters". It's a strange and unsettling dichotomy - as if neither group wants the other to be anywhere near their turf. What's the basis for all this racist shit these days anyway? Every hipster out there has heard of TV on the Radio (a band comprised mainly of African Americans and termed "indie rock") and what about The Streets? - a white Brit who can definitely hold his own in the rap world.

You're black - who gives a shit.

I'm white - who gives a shit.

Unfortunately a lot of people do give a shit and those are the people who have their heads up their asses and can't think anything aside from what their parents or society taught them.

Turn your damn bass down, burn your Confederate flag - stop acting like you've got something to prove and just walk down the damn street.

The Tale of the Occurrence at Woodpoint and Skillman

2006-06-04T21:14:00.000-07:00

I've thought to myself on more than once occasion, "Man, Sam, wouldn't it be crazy if you got mugged in New York?" - to which I replied, "Dude, that would be so ridiculous." I realize now that statements such as these are silly ones and should never be made - a conclusion I reached last night after the following occurred:

So the plan was for me to meet up with Kevin in Times Square after the Broadway play (Jersey Boys) that he was seeing ended, which was supposed to be sometime around 10PM. I was sitting in my apartment feeling restless at about 9:30, so I decided to go ahead and make my way to Manhattan - on with the jeans, the jacket, and the shirt. The night before, Kevin and I had gone to see Cocorosie (one of Rachel's favorite bands) at the Bowery Ballroom, so shortly after I left my apartment, I gave her a call to tell her about the show and see how she was doing.

So we were talking - this and that, etcetera, etcetera - laughing and the like. As our conversation was going on I was approaching the corner of Woodpoint and Skillman, slightly past the halfway point from my apartment to the Graham Metro stop. Now Hunter had told me to always be aware of my surroundings in this neighborhood, and I had previously done so, but on this particular night, Rachel and I were talking and I was paying less than the usual amount of attention to the Brooklyn night.

And suddenly, in the midst of laughing, I looked up to find two young men had stepped rather quickly and aggressively in my path - a very intimidating presence. Before I could grab hold of what was happening, one of the men quickly reached for my hand and phone, saying in a strong and commanding tone, "Hold the conversation!". As he said this, both he and his accomplice reached into their pants to grab what I am assuming was one of three things, 1: a knife, 2: a gun, or 3: nothing. I'm not quite sure what it was exactly inside of me that assessed the situation, because I had less than enough time to think, but I immediately realized that I was about get mugged.

Let me take this time to reiterate that it is never a good idea to wish to get mugged for the sake of a crazy story, much like the hope of breaking one's arm in second grade so people will sign your cast is a bad idea.

So something inside of me realized the danger of the situation and almost simultaneously sent the words "Hold on" out of my mouth via the cell phone to Rachel's curious ear. Another something within me threw my legs into a full sprint around my would-be muggers, across the street, and down the block - all the while holding the phone to my ear as if to remind myself that just in case, I've got somewhat of a witness on the other line.

I've realized through past experiences that when my life or well-being becomes endangered, I react quickly and calmly and once the danger is gone, I proceed to laugh and watch my hands shake - in this case, the purchasing of cigarettes also occurred shortly after the incident.

The next day Hunter informed me that when he walked by the intersection later that night, the police were already there after someone else had apparently reported either an attempted or completed mugging, I'm not sure of the details.

Needless to say, however, I have marked "Getting Mugged" off my Wish List, which I replaced with "Winning a Lifetime Supply of Yoohoo". I suggest you do the same.

Of These Things I Repent

2006-05-31T05:56:00.000-07:00

"Oh I am wrong, and of these things I repent"
Derek Webb

Everytime I listen to Derek Webb's "The House Show" it sets me straight. If just for a few minutes, I feel like I understand a couple of things - any other time and I'm wandering around in the dark. I agree with and wish alongside Webb to have my sins broadcast on the 5 o'clock news - what would we, as followers of Christ, do if every other person on Earth knew our most terrible and shameful sins? We would have absolutely nowhere to turn but to Christ - God, sometimes I wish I could be turned inside out for all to see. I'll try with a few things.

I spend too much money on thrift/vintage clothing and then ask my Dad to loan me money till my next paycheck.

I cuss too much (I said GD the other day, I believe for the first time in my life - I felt like a stranger to myself.)

I gossip.

I am a proficient hypocrite. I define the word.

If someone doesn't like me, I feel like less of a man.

I still think my plan is the right one.

I will probably laugh at a dirty joke today.

I am selfish.

I feel like if I were to call myself a follower of Christ, I would be giving myself too much credit. I'm more of a little kid who tags along and gets easily distracted, always having to run to catch up. I guess the important thing is that I know without a doubt who the leader is.

A Recipe

2006-05-29T18:54:00.000-07:00

newyorkscram's Recipe for Fun:

Ingredients:
5 Games of Magic: The Gathering
Air of a New York night
2 Pieces of Chocolate Cake
2 Marlboro 27s
1 Zippo
Law and Order

Steps:
1. Bring the air of a New York night close to a boil
2. Play 5 games of Magic: The Gathering with Hunter while watching Law and Order
3. Blindfold Hunter
4. Prepare 2 pieces of Chocolate Cake on fancy plate
5. Light Marlboro 27s with Zippo
6. Insert lit Cigarettes into cake, birthday candle style
7. Sing Happy Birthday to Hunter (whilst he removes blindfold)
8. Lick frosting off Cigarettes
9. Smoke Cigarettes while eating Chocolate Cake
10. Die

Enjoy!

Soundtracks

2006-05-25T17:02:00.000-07:00

It's time for a typical "here's what's going on" post. Enjoy.

A lot has happened in the past day or so. Yesterday I had my first interview with Buffalo Exchange, a resale shop much like Cheap Thrills in Fayetteville. Immediately following that, I had an interview with the Patagonia store in Soho, about six minutes after which they offered me a job - $12.50 an hour is not too shabby, in fact, it's ridiculous. Unfortunately, however, it's a weekend/as needed gig.

But anyway, after all that I met up with Rachel on the corner of 4th and something else - got pizza, ate pizza, liked pizza - that kind of thing. So then we headed down to the Financial District to catch the free Books show, which found us arriving after all the tickets had been given out. Bigtime bummer.

But the Brooklyn Bridge beckoned us, as it was Rachel's last night in town, so she called the shots and off we went - lights and water and wind and horns - beautiful.

Afterward we headed to Avenue A with plans to visit the Life Cafe, however these plans were quickly discarded when word from Will informed us that Natalie Portman was indeed at a nearby bar where he and Shivani were hanging out.

So to Natalie we went.

And yes, she is that beautiful in real life.

So Rachel and I are at the Magician with Will and Shivani, you know, shmoozing and the like when we notice another celebrity: Justin Long drinking a Stella Artois.

After Justin left, his beer sitting lonesome on the table, Rachel and I did the only logical thing when a celebrity leaves a half-dead soldier just lying around: we grabbed it and each took a swig. So there, I drank after the Dodgeball guy.

Also - Rachel said "Hey Nat" to Queen Amidala and I went out of my way to bump into her - rude, but worth it... I guess.

At this point it was getting late - I had an actual job to get to at 9AM this morning and Rachel had to leave Brooklyn for her flight at 7AM, so off to the F-train we went.

Unfortunately, we were going opposite ways - Rachel, Will, and Shivani downtown to Brooklyn and myself uptown to Brooklyn. I said goodbye to Will and Shivani and gave Rachel a hug, needless to say I was sad knowing it'd be months before we'd be able to hang out again. So we found ourselves on opposite sides of the tracks - in every way it was a very bittersweet ending scene to our movie - I'm thinking possibly a Tom Waits song would be soundtracking the bit, played of course by a street musician on the stale subway platform and echoing through the tunnels.

And as we waved our goodbyes, our respective trains approaching, I realized she was leaving and for me, this was not a trip. This was the beginning of my summer in New York - Rachel leaving, beginning a new job, actually worrying about my miniscule portion of the rent being due soon, thinking about friends and family back home and how much I already miss them.

The trains soon roared in and Rachel, Will, and Shivani disappeared as I stepped onto the train alone to make my way back to Brooklyn. I sat down in the corner, leaned my head against the window and felt the immediate weight of loneliness being draped over my spirit. The train lurched forward and carried me into the New York night.

I am listening to hear where you are.

2006-05-21T22:39:00.000-07:00

How does something great begin? Is it wrong to want to create something beautiful in the eyes of others, or is the real goal to simply never stop creating and eventually something will shine?

Jeff Mangum - Neutral Milk Hotel - what fueled that strangely fantastic Aeroplane Over the Sea?

Maybe it comes from the busyness of New York City or the solitude of Walden Pond -

Extremes!

People seem to love unimaginable extremes that either quiet the heart so tenderly to a soft whisper or blow it up to reverberate so brilliantly and loudly in the soul.

My hands and heart and head are dying to put something down that mattered, matters, will matter - anything.

Anything true! Devoid of Bullshit!

I am a hypocrite, I am selfish and lazy, but I am a human who must overcome these things just like any other - and screw those who say "be careful how you use the word 'love'" -

I LOVE.

I want people to know God's deep, ridiculous, weird, incredible desire to listen to our lives, speak to our hearts, be involved with you and I in the wildest adventure of the heart and soul and all of the other things that sound beautiful and deep and holy.

I want so badly to leave something behind not so Samuel Slaton would be rememberd, but so people would be inspired to live GREATLY!

Thank You -
Bob Dylan
Jeff Mangum
Paul McCartney
Bill McShane
Jack Kerouac
Ray LaMontagne
J.R.R. Tolkien
The Little Toaster
Girl Who Gave Me Her #
Jeff Buckley
Kid Who Smiled
Couple Holding Hands
Inventor of Bazooka Joe Gum
John Coltrane
Neal Cassidy
Jerry Garcia
My Parents
Einstein (dog)
Honeysuckle
TRAINS
Sun(set)(rise)(shine)
First Kisses!
Cool t-shirts
Whatever the Hell Makes You Want TO LIVE GREATLY!

Be enormous - beyond yourself - send a whispered prayer to the stars,
scream at the horizon - run naked and thank God for the wind.

We were not meant to live in Suburbs and fake small talk and dance around insecurities.

Derek Webb - I'm in. Broadcast my life to the whole world - Lord, show my sins and all the shit you've rescued me from. Give sweet dreams to the homeless, let me smile unrestrained at every beautiful person you created - Lord, spend time with me - give me an outlet, open the floodgates. Let me never find it acceptable to live without passion. Let me ignore the cries of my heart to change so others will like me.

Scream! Show excitement and wonder and pity and care - CRY when you see something beautiful.

Be strange
Ridiculous
Incredible
Entirely true
ALIVE!
In-tune
Ready to ListenlistenlistenHEAR
Speak sans words
Hold her tightly
Hold him near

WALK ON WATER TOWARDS AND FOR: LOVE.
Trust God to create and calm the storms at the perfectly right time.

Drink wine and read poetry with other men.
Find beauty in "authentic manhood"
Respect women -
Do everything the
way God created the
heart to do it.

I am on your side and
SO
ALIVE.
RyanAdams.

I am a badass because God loves me.

Thank you Peter Marsh.

After a New York Sunset

2006-05-18T17:47:00.000-07:00

I'm beyond exhausted - traveling, job-hunting, and smoking will do strange things to a body.

I just watched the sun set from the roof of Hunter's apartment, which I will be living in for the next three months. Despite bruised shoulders from lugging my duffle bag across the City yesterday and weary feet from searching to and fro for a job, the pinks and oranges and grayish blues of the setting sun behind the Manhattan skyline blew my heart to pieces in every direction and I couldn't stop moving.

I guess I just realized that this is now my home.

I'm wondering how to begin making friends, but it seems one can never plan things like that - I guess friends will have to start making me or I'll be doing a lot of reading this summer. Not that I don't like reading, it's just that I'd rather laugh.

I'm sleeping on the floor next to Hunter's bed for the summer and this morning he dropped his cell phone on my face while I slept. Despite the early hour, I laughed just thinking about such close quarters.

During my search for a job today I found myself on the Metro quite a bit, mostly going in the wrong direction or just wandering around the station trying to establish my whereabouts. I did, however, manage to have my wait for one particular train serenaded by a baritone saxophonist, blowing the weariest notes of blue and gray I've ever heard. It was especially romantic in the dreary New York City sense as his back up band was the roar of the subway, a thousand different languages, and up-tempo footsteps going God knows where.

Faith and Giggles and Love and Burps

2006-05-03T10:27:00.000-07:00

When did real become forgotten?

Twelve?

Thirteen?

Teenage years and lies, flirts, secrets, and glances.

A baby can't help but cry and desire love. Reaching up up up when she's fallen to the floor. A scream to mean hungry, a hand on a finger to say just come with me, a covering of eyes to mean you're embarrasing me, a soft, loose kiss to mean you're the world to me.

Faith and giggles and love and burps.

We feign conversation to avoid confrontation - headphones and cellphones and big, dark sunglasses. The shuffling of awkward feet and hands - we hide when clouds pour down rain on our outfits - when did we forget that we all need a washing?

Drenched so we all feel a little bit silly.

First steps and teeth and words so tender.

He's reminding me softly to just be His child - reach up when I've fallen, babble at His feet, cry out when I'm hungry, and let the rain soak in.

El Lugar Verdadero

2006-05-03T10:26:00.000-07:00

The empty apartment discovered
Beneath the life of college students on California,
Furnished with empty tables, refrigerators, and mattresses.
A spent bottle of wine,
Hemingway's The Sun Also Rises,
A broken bottle for an ashtray -
The only signs of life and dreams.

We speak of mountains,
1940's nights in the jazz clubs of NYC,
Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarty sit on this couch,
God and two souls discussing the
Passions formed on these deep nights.
Our young souls filling these empty bottles,
The light of our hearts burning
Thru cigarettes as smoke curls from our mouths -
Talk of captivating women worth fighting for,
Of lips and rivers and eyes and sunsets.

Dylan, Kerouac, Adams and Eves, and Christ -
Rebels, writers, firsts and revolutionaries -
Hearts digging life with wine, words, and women,
In an empty apartment with a brother
Writing the deepest lyrics of life.

Kerouac, Cigarettes, Steak and Stars

2006-05-03T10:25:00.001-07:00

We woke up on the mattress, Peter and I, to a cool morning of half-smoked cigarettes, flat beer and the smell of grass warmed quickly by the sunrise.

The previous night hosted cheers in the unrented apartment - broken into through a window and left unlocked for wandering tired nights like these - the moon brilliantly shimmering light on dreams and dreams and dreams.

Kerouac and Marlboro, Pabst and Dostoevsky - they spoke to us through a hitchhiker's thumb, smoke threading the air, a drink shared with friends, cold Russian nights - things distant to the eye, yet close - so, so close to the heart and the spirit that sends that breath of life into your soul on nights when the world seems dim.

A broken bottle becomes our ashtray - smoke 'em if ya got 'em.

Ah, it was a fine night, a warm night, a wine-drinking night, a moony night, and a night to hug your girl and talk and spit and be heavengoing. This we did.

Washing Into the City

2006-05-03T10:25:00.000-07:00

City lights were cast before us, leaping into hearts and shining dim on lovers dreaming aside one another -

Riding a wave of asphalt - washing into the city, so alive - cigarette sparks flashing the ground with a burst of embers - a glow on the horizon lets me know the morning is here -

I am on your side and so alive

Raging guitars, rythmic drums, a voice soaring over whatever used to hold it back - conquering weary eyes, hungry stomachs, souls lifted up in the glory of dreams being lived out by those brave enough to take chances

I am so alive

I am above the city lights - a racing heart tumbling into these arms of God and freedom and a melody deeper than Christianity or spirituality - lifted up by a Father into a light beyond what any eye has seen to hear music that is only heard by the deepest parts of the human heart

riding waves of earth into city lights with cigarettes, driving guitars, souls aflame and ready to burn into the night.

Exploding Blanks

2006-05-03T10:23:00.000-07:00

Blank spaces are great.

"Killing the potentiality certainly kills the actuality." Aristotle

When blank spaces cease to be, all other things then must also cease to be. So be grateful for the occasional spells of loneliness, restless in bed, long solo drives home, etc - inspiration fills those times if you just get over the thought that it's gonna last forever - it's temporary, enjoy it, let yourself see those times as blessings.

-----

I awoke to whiteness surrounding our home on the road.

John was on his way to Grand Junction, coming from OK City after burying his ex-wife - her heart had exploded after years of drug abuse.

We ate week-old rolls, day-old barbecue, and smoked a cigarette for breakfast in the back of my $27,000 truck.

I am nineteen with a $27,000 vehicle and John is hitchhiking his way back from a hole in the ground holding a woman he loved.

Walter must be in his 40s, heading to Illinois next week to see someone in critical condition - he once loved a woman in Jonesboro who ditched him for a quarterback. He works in a coffee shop and gives us directions to thrift stores around town.

Luby gives us rolls, tuna, etc (meant for the homeless) and antique Bibles - thank yous and thank yous and thank yous and such, and we walk back to my $27,000 truck to feel grateful.

Blessed, greedy? Both? One can surely be greedy for blessings, these are not mutually exclusive - where am I in those words?

I am somewhere.

Grass On Its Knees

2006-05-03T10:22:00.000-07:00

After the housewarming party that warmed my heart as much as it did the space we occupied, a field took my truck out into it's arms and blanketed light on the cool fog of three AM.

You are my sweetest downfall

I drove there with Madame of India on my tongue and Yellow Tail on my breath - wet grass and dim lights found me sitting on the warm hood while a piano and a lone voice soundtracked the night - steeped with the warm air after a rain like a widow brewing tea. Remembering loves and loves and loves.

I rolled my pantlegs up while walking towards the light, half-expecting to see Jesus step out of the fractured orange angling towards the subtley shifting ground. Soft and wet with rain and mud, grass on its knees thanking God for quiet nights in the company of water and music and moonlight and housewarmings.

Not a car passed - it seems the temperature never changed - my soul warm enough to heat whatever heart would be held - but all I found was my own and my pounding chest wishing I could simply be physically held by God in this moment, but knowing that all around me were His arms holding me near - to the music, the moonlight, the water and wine.

Deep green grass bent to its knees thanking God - thanking God with reverence - thanking God for the breath of the world - cool breezes and children playing - an orange light giving shape to the fog that once seemed so vague, but now gives form to my shadow as I wait for Jesus,

knowing He is within, without, all around, and lifting the grass up from it's lowered posture to look into His eyes and know that they are loved.

Heat and Noise and Destinations

2006-05-03T10:19:00.000-07:00

"Oh, God, it hurts so bad to love anybody down here..." Waterdeep

I have no idea what love is - I don't know if I'm just immature, young, or blinded by ideals - but I do know I don't get it.

I know what I think love should be, what I want love to look like, what I hope love is - but - I feel ridiculous even writing about "love" - it's like writing a paper in Spanish about quantum theory. I don't know what words to use, and even if I did, I don't know what I'd be writing about.

My chest has that earnest thumping in it like something important is trying to be said, but I have no idea what it is or what it means. I just tell it that a cigarette will help, but all it does is exposes me to the rain and cold and smoke and ash.

I should feel blessed to have that deep rumbling of wanting to love - there are people out there whose hearts are too cold to love anyone - I guess I should at least be glad that I have the desire to love and be loved - to know a person and be known.

I'm 19 - what am I talking about? I'm just trying to sound mature and wise beyond my years. I don't know what I need in my life, other than to simply let God do His will.

But I like to be in control of my life, so therein lies the challenge.

It's hard for me to let things happen - I feel like if I'm not 100% in control I'll be dragged helplessly along. I need that medium.

Music is love for people like me. I get to experience everything I think love should be without the hurt, the sacrifice, the intimacy. Easy.

This is another one of those things that I don't know if I should post because I may come off as a jackass, a selfish jerk, or an "emo" kid.

Whatever - it's a homework break.

Just let it happen.

back to the basics.

carry on

"people are just people, they shouldn't make you nervous"

"so beautiful, to be here, and alive"

desire is a good thing - it seems to fuel the heart and drive the dreams.

An engine can get you places, but it's gotta put out heat and noise - burns and pounding ear drums - but it gets you there.

It gets you there.