Sunday, February 22, 2015


I think or almost know that we all desire to be alone more often. I think it's true really because when else are we at ease? sometimes I think its hard to become alone, hard to withdraw from society, both the strangers and those we know, but on doing so there are so many rewards. It's hard to write because it forces a thread to be borne out all the way. the wonderfully frayed blossoms of thought that take place in a passive mind all wither away. there is just one long thought that you can see as a wake behind the sentence being typed out. it's hard not to go back and read what you have written. but then, really i haven't said anything. i'd like to tell you about my dream. and i'd like to tell you what i think about the first few pages of the article that i began reading that inspired me to sit down and begin writing this. should i be afraid to be discovered? there is a whole future of work and career ahead of me. of sitting down with people and needing them to take me seriously enough to pay me money for a service. and certainly part of seriousness is mystery. part of it is letting the mystery of your degree and what goes on in a school stand in for the individual mystery of what goes on in any one of our heads. i think we must all muddle through school in our own little way. but upon completion we all share that same receipt. and we all forget our individual muddling and look back and say, look at what i share with who i share it with. that must be me.

what does lebron mean to me? is he the future man. the uber mensch and zarathustra? what does that stupid book mean to me? i remember eating a big peice of carrot cake and reading that book on a sunny day alone in a cafe while in college. i felt very grown up and alone in that moment. not lonely. i hardly ever remember being lonely in a moment. i remember eras of my life that were lonely. but it's hard to pinpoint one single moment with that feeling. maybe some feelings only reveal themselves in accumulation.

here is a vein of thought that has been coming into my mind with some regularity. i don't know what it means but i think its connected to the heartbeat of my interest in sports. i mean 'vein' in the sense of mining for gold, not in the physical sense of a vein in my body. but the heartbeat thing. look, i don't know. i am trying to choose my words carefully and not complicate things more than they need to be. there must always be a best word for what you are trying to describe. enough dicking around, here goes;
lebron is a national celebrity, a worldwide celebrity. he belongs to everybody. he can go from cleveland to miami but i dont know if he can go back home. and russell is that other celebrity. he is my waking celebrity, the celebrity of home. russell represents me to the rest of the world. if lebron represents me at all it is a very generic part of me. my americanness, my superiority maybe? i saw russ in the airport and shook. in my dream i saw the back of lebrons head. i saw him go into a futuristic tanning booth.

i guess its better to fix your vacuum cleaner than follow some boring line of thought about sports celebrities.  but i really need to note how real the seahawks are to me. the truth of my feelings. the mystery of their depths. the rug that i sit on while i write is much cleaner now.

in the corner of this page there is a field that says 'complain to google'. that must be why that company is worth so much money. this little bullshit blog is saving me a fortune in therapist fees. and maybe its the thrill of being discovered that makes me write. it does take some sort of spark or spur to write. i mean, we could all write a thousand pages a day, that's how many thoughts race through our mind on one level of consciousness or another. if we just tapped into that unending brook of thought and our fingers could move fast enough and we had enough different pages open. yes i think we could record it all, all day and all night, all the thoughts. and there would be some gems among the muck.

i think i want to hide myself at work. i must drive people away at work. i want to be a robot at work. i don't want to be known there. or perhaps, i don't want to be known as that. perhaps in my hubris i think i must be what i am doing. that i must disassociate from what i think i must do. i have less success that way. i know myself worse. maybe its okay if you are my boss and you are reading this right now. though i would be shocked. in the world of work there is always so much to read. and most of it is just as poorly written as this, but at least its about money. i dont really know what this is about. its like playing my guitar kind of. but more personal. or maybe just more developed.

seahawks, mariners, seahawks, mariners, seahawks, mariners, seahawks, mariners, seahawks, mariners, seahawks. i guess that's how i'll bide my time. how i'll demarcate how i feel when i look up and see buds on the trees. when i think about how long the summer is going to be. when i think about which time is real, when the trees have leaves or when they have not. which season is the one where life happens and which one is the one where we digest and recuperate. when is it okay to watch tv while the sun shines.

here is the quote that makes me feel the best about the terrible feeling of watching us, the seahawks us, lose the superbowl XLIV;

It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”

i saw it in a cadillac add on the back of the new yorker magazine. 

Friday, May 17, 2013

Maranatha The Hippopotamus pt. 2

Maranatha hid her beautiful hippopotamus head under a pile of straw
She cried and cried into the dry straw, it itched her face
and she stayed under her pile like that as the day went from afternoon to night time
during the sunset, when the clouds to the west were all magenta and purple
Maranatha's friend Timothy, the zoo keeper, entered the pen
he brought with him some carrots and apples to calm her rumbling tummy
he told her that its ok to fart sometimes, and its ok to feel embarrassed
he told her the people loved her very much, they only wanted to see her happy
but she was inconsolable, so her left her to cry
and when he left his heart hurt for her so much he was distracted
and he forgot to lock the pen door behind him
what was Maranatha to do? She could stay crying and stay embarrassed and stay confused
or she could go and start going and start exploring and see what the world held for her
so she bolted
light as a feather and nimble as a sparrow and quiet as a mouse and deft like a ninja
she glided past the guileless guard
she slipped by the noisy monkey cage
she scooted by the lazy lion enclosure
and she was right there at the back end of the zoo at the chain link fence
the fence might have served some barrier to a smaller animal
but Maranatha was not to be stopped
she put one hefty foot up against the pole holding up the fence and applied a little pressure
the entire section toppled over and she was off
and she tip toed into the dark unknown woods

Next Time; Green Lake

Thursday, May 9, 2013

Maranatha the Hippopotamus pt. 1

maranatha was  very beautiful hippopotamus
she lived in the woodland park zoo in seattle washington
the people loved maranatha
they would come from far and near to gaze at her laze about her pen
she liked the people
she at pumpkins for them
she swam for them
she yawned for them and they loved it
what a mouth she had!
then one fine day in may maranatha was plodding about her pen with no particular direction
and she felt a very large of pumpkin shift from her upper to lower intestine
she took another couple steps and a deep rumble started from the bottom of her stomach
and it worked its way down her frame, shaking her as it went along
in the next moment she was letting escape at an obscene noise from her behind
it went on and on
it could not be helped or stopped, and it felt good
but the people were all laughing at her now
her majesty escaped her
she was so horribly embarrassed, she didnt think the people would ever respect her again
she was devastated she didn't think she could ever recover from her embarrassment

Next Time; The Escape!

Monday, April 29, 2013

a third of the workforce

a man can learn a lot about himself in the woods. he can find his voice is more like the rich tonal chords of a wooden guitar than the whine of a puppy he once thought it was. its not always a safe thing to be traipsing about the woods looking for yourself. there are a lot of opportunities to stab yourself in the leg with stray twigs. opportunities to turn your ankle on a rock, or get your socks all wet and walk around in the miserable mud all day. but there are almost no opportunities to work in the woods. you will sweat and you will suffer, just like a man does at work. but you wouldn't add to the gross domestic product, or the economic value added, out there mincing through the pines.
so why do it? why do something hard if your not adding anything. If your just looking for something thats in there ANYWAYS, why bother looking for it? Isn't it enough to know that its there. Safely bottled up and trapped. canned, locked in, sealed, placed, frozen.
maybe its only there when your looking for it. i dont really know. i just march forward. on to the next lake, the next look out, the next summit. i itch my mosquito bites. i marvel at the stars, i note the silence of the night. it adds nothing, it changes nothing, and i do it still.
and i know that someday soon it will end. the trail will find me in a parking lot. someone there to pick me up. remark on my skinniness. i wont have much to say, and that will be ok.
and here in this interview room myself will be in a tightly sealed jar in my sternum. safe and muscled. so i will be charming, or i will come off poorly, or i will be silent and awkward. it wont change what is happening. i am in society to be judged. judged against my peers, judged against my historical averages. judged by my diction divided by my vocabulary. and that is work. its not work if no one is comparing it to something else. because no one mans vision, no matter how hard and clear, is perfect. its only through collaboration that we can come to an agreement.

Friday, April 26, 2013

sundry tomatoes

I am so tired and lazy all of the time that i must have mono. what is my problem exactly? and then when its night time is the time when i have the energy to do the things. and i never have the focus. i want to do the things! i want to do the hard things, the admirable things, the worthwhile things. i want to really dig down deep inside and get into the nitty gritty of the things. i want to harness my potential, utilize my talent, go above and beyond. reach for the stars and get straight to the heart of the issue. i want to be a little bit naughty. i want to get away with a few things. i want to savor the moment. i want to enjoy shirking off. if only i could enjoy the shirking of responsibility. being a bad friend. being a bad boyfriend, a bad son, and bad athlete. haha. i wish i could make the smells these africans make. i wish i could make any of these food smells. my food smells are just hot Costco smells. they signify nothing. they are a puzzle piece for my strangely shaped stomach. i wish i was a bird. i wish my legs were stronger. i am seemingly indestructible and in imminent danger. i want a vietnamese sandwich and a trip to vietnam. where is a better therapist than typing into a blog that no one reads. i want no one to read. i want to bare my soul. my bear soul. i am a polar bear. she is a jaguar.
i one time spent the night alone on a beach in spain. it was a romantic notion of a husky boy. i was woefully unprepared. i had my backpack, containing all my things, a liter of cheap spanish beer, crackers. i spoke no spanish. i don't remember the towns name but it wasn't famous or notable. it was just a town on the beach in spain. i got to the beach far too early in the day. it was still time for swimming. a group of boys played soccer. they talked to me and i told them i planned to sleep on that beach that night. i was determined for adventure. i remember it being pretty scary. i broke off from some english speaking people on the bus i took to the town. they didn't want the same adventure i did. i walked through the town during the day and there was a depressing project full of very dark african people. i didn't know about that diaspora then, i thought it was just some weird anomaly, but it scared me just like everything in the world scares me.
i went in the water for a while. which was dumb. the night was salty and scratchy. but it was part of the adventure. the doing of whatever i wanted. my sister was nine years old at the time. my grandmother had died a few months ago when i was in scotland. i didn't make it through the whole night on the beach. the wind coming off the Mediterranean was very cold. the Mediterranean is an ugly body of water. theres smoke that hovers above it and big rusty ships. it feels very much like a desert of water.
i moved up from the beach and slept on some crab grass behind some palm trees so i couldn't be seen from the street.  then when dawn came i emigrated to the train station to wait for the first train out of that town.
i think it left a mark on me. like the scar on a chin of a friend of mine who fell off his scooter in thailand. i think there is a mark on someone who slept somewhere exposed, urban
and unsafe. even though it was my choice. i chose that adventure. and i think it left a mark on me.

Wednesday, April 24, 2013

terrorists will never win

i work in an air traffic control tower at a small, regional airport. having a job is very nice, but the work is not fulfilling. you all understand how air traffic control works, i'm sure. planes land, planes take off, it   goes on and on. planes can do all this without my help of course, but pilots are a pushy flock and need someone to organize them and set boundaries. can i land now? no, not yet. can i land now? someone else is landing right now, hold on. how about now? yes, now.

there are some planes that would like to disregard my advice. these planes are flown by men who signify their aloofness by owning planes too new, powerful, and big for any possible need they have. planes painted maroon with tan leather pilots seats. when i direct them i am greeted with long, huffy silences. as if i might should apologize for ensuring your safety at the expense of four minutes.

there are other planes though that direct themselves. i tell them what they already know. one plane in particular. it is a small blue and white plane with a single propeller. the pilot does not bring a lot to the table, conversationally, but he is easy to laugh. this plane stands out in particular though, because i am almost certain that the pilot, this jovial man, built it. who builds their own plane!

this is a thought i often have during the times when nobody flies. nobody flies after lunch but before work is over. nobody flies right after breakfast. and sometimes when i am eating a hamburger in the cafeteria i think about the small blue and white plane. it is one thing to build a house, a boat, a car. but a plane? where are we? since when can humans, with their own hands, endow themselves with the power of flight? it is a blessing, it is an abhorrence, I cannot believe god exists.

Tuesday, April 23, 2013

there are eels in desert

you wake up. your girlfriend says goodbye as she leaves to go to work. you say something, in your moon-logic child mind. yes, she says, the water did spill. and it is saccharine sweet. you think about it when your alarm goes off a fraction of an hour later. and you turn off the alarm. you are tired but awake. awake and alone, rudderless. here you are in your bed. in your place where you belong. in the place where you begin and end every day. always you leave the bed, always you return. it is the best bed you have ever owned. and that means a lot. it means progress. it means you are knowing what you want and knowing how to get it. but does it mean you can support it. do you deserve it. you have had worse beds and worked harder for them. isn't that unfair. it is hard to spend this time in extacy. imagine if you could sleep like you do and every night the night before you had to wake early for a job you hated that seemed like it never would end. but life isn't like that. you are a little cowboy, and you ride through the desert before you ride through the forest. and thats just how the trees got planted.

i am smoking a joint in the queensbridge projects
flying away, all swag
and this finger pattern is me justifying my existence. what does it mean to be more conscious than the next? i am no happier for it. can you take it for granted, consciousness. can you feel undeserving of it. can you be working on appreciating it and finding a way to not be so undeserving.

when i was 31 years old i would wake from my light sleep to the sound a church bell alarm. the same phone i'd had since i was 26, with the alarm clock noises changed every six to eight months, just to keep things interesting. most of the time i would be hung over. all of the time i would be late. all of the time i would put something in my mouth to smoke. sometimes it was a cigarette, sometimes a weed pipe. getting through the day was not a celebration, it was a rehearsal of numbness. i knew somewhere in my heart that this was not best practice. i really had to do it though. sitting in a padded cell, with the sun making its motions across the sky without my oversight was too painful a vision, it had to be done.

a business is built on two things; excellent customer relations and back breaking labor. i am no golden goose, but i understand that equation and in so doing make myself indispensable. so i listen to the single mothers and broken english. i can nod and sympathize, and give my condolences and my false hope. and i can turn back to my computer and work on the spreadsheets and the hoops brackets that make such class stasis possible.

then i woke up on friends couch. coming down off a white drug high, it was raining outside, the apartment was disgusting. i decided to get a colorful tattoo of a hunt, with the hunted animal over my heart. then i decided to move to denmark. fuck it. fuck this job i hate, fuck these drugs, fuck the grind. i'm going to europe to eat pastries and wear scarves.