I’m catching myself in a rare mood. One in which all negativity and pessimism has been drowned and burned and shipped out to the furthest edges of space in a capsule built by love and thankfulness. I’m catching myself in a mood where all rays of light glisten across the surface of the smallest things. And I’m telling you that the smallest things are the most important of them all. They’re the cosmic glue that holds every little fucking thing together.
We’re being put through a maze our entire lives and it’s not our fault. We’re pushed down long, dark hallways that try to lead us away from those little glowing moments. BUT THEN! Sometimes a child is born or sometimes the moon hits you “just right” after way too much alcohol or even sometimes a precious woman dies in the street for no reason. And when that happens… the walls of that pitiful maze crumble around us as if we were GODS. Because for a second or two… we found the answer to the secret. Everything is limited and brief. Everything has a time line. Nothing can escape it. And unspeakable beauty lives inside each and everyone one of us. Even the sick and broken ones. Even the most hateful and horrific of us all.
And sonnets and words seem to fall short of this fact, but I think they actually capture it perfectly. Because even though we don’t believe it… everything is within our reach. Everything. Even those who are gone.. because the creatures that once stood in our presence and blessed us with their smiles and aura? They leave us drenched in the perfume of their greatness. We awake with it covering our clothes and our hair. Like a morning lover. And their perfume will go with us to our graves… until our perfume covers those that are still hanging around once we get pulled out of the party as well.
It’s a goddamn miracle. This WHOLE thing. Can you really believe this is all existing? I have to pretend I can believe it. It’s almost too good to be true. And no one has the real answers on where it came from or where we go afterwards. NO ONE KNOWS. Not one person. And I swear to God, I’m amazed and thankful that it’s going on right now and that I get to be a part of it. I’m a lucky creature. I’m lucky to be covered in the scent of so so so many people I love and that (for some reason) love me back. Because I’ve done enough to not deserve it. And so have you. And so have those that are already gone.
We’ve been thrown into a big pot of boiling wonder and fascination together. We climb and swim over each other and laugh and celebrate in the mess of it all. AND WE CAN’T STAND IT WHEN SOMEONE HAS TO LEAVE THE PARTY. And we’ll be covered in their scent forever.
It’s beautiful. It’s incredible.
What ever happened to visions? Revelations? Lights and voices from above articulately speaking specific and simple instructions on broad topics that carry very personal messages for very personal people. No one is speaking from the skies and no one is listening down below.
What ever happened to magic and mysticism? Warm orbs of blue that seep through walls and grant wishes to the less fortunate that actually end up being a symbolic tool of an underground Lord for the horrible reign to come.
What ever happened to mystery and the unknown? Where are the eye patches and black cats that glance in your direction with the power of Death and then melt into the forgotten cracks of a damp sidewalk.
What ever happened to the strange and majestic? Pillars of white ivory that form statues of haunting faces and animals that sit on the side of the sea staring into space waiting for something we obviously are not waiting for.
What ever happened to the terrifying and obscene? Bulbous creatures scratching at our heels in anticipation of a weak moment in which we forget ourselves and drop our guard and reveal a small section of our hearts. What ever happened to that moment? What ever happened to the moment in which we reveal our hearts and the monsters in waiting leap from their hiding places and devour everything good and real within us? What the hell ever happened to that?
Can you ever really trust your own mind? With the definition of reality being “the state OR QUALITY of being real”… can you fully believe in the concreteness and actuality of anything? I think there are two ways of going about your life with that question in mind.
Make a little time for yourself. Take a walk in a cavern. Lay in a field of rosemary. Drink from the bluest ocean. And make a definitive decision on what you are going to base your entire existence around. Once that decision is made… DO NOT ALLOW ANYONE TO REMOTELY CHANGE YOUR MIND OTHERWISE. You can get into titilating debates where, in the end, both parties involved walk away feeling like they both got their points across. But in the core of yourself… do not change. Make your choice and believe it… believe it… believe it. Don’t question the path you created. Simply believe that the Earth is round and the sun provides heat and that gravity is a comforting presence. Believe that God turned into a man and heaven is real and hell is waiting and doves and rivers of blood are not symbolism in mythology but created by a creator to effect the created. And believe that it won’t kill you if you eat grapes and drink coffee in the morning and that jogging increases muscle mass and that America is superior to all and should have a hand in all governments AND personal lives of everyone everywhere. And believe that you are right and that EVERYONE ELSE WHO DOESN’T BELIEVE WHAT YOU BELIEVE IS WRONGE AND THEY JUST HAVE SHIT LUCK TO NOT BE YOU.
Or you can live in a great terror. A man hanging in the vast and horrible winds of doubting everything. Because if reality is simply based on “a quality” then everything in your reach is up for debate and scrutiny and dissection. You’ll feel free within this mindset and nothing will suppress you or control your thoughts and actions and feelings. And you won’t live with the guilt of knowing you’ve chosen a path for your own comfort that isn’t based on anything but yourself. And those kinds of perks can get you through your time here in this world. But there will be moments when you will lay in that same field of rosemary, and walk through that same cavern, and drink from that same blue ocean. And you will feel alone and unprotected from the immense unknowns of everything. Once faith and science and love and math kneel to the great god of your own suspecting mind; nothing will be left to comfort you but you. And you will stare at the universe and pretend to create a path of belief for yourself… just to see what it feels like. And those that actually believe will communally stare back at your from their side of the galaxy. And they will scream to you, ”WHY ARE YOU CHOOSING TO GO IT ALONE!?” And you will scoff and smirk in their direction… but you will not be able to answer them. And that’s ok.
Not to start off in too harsh a manner this morning, but I wonder what last thoughts go through a human brain as it meets its end. I wonder if it can be something extremely mundane like, “Did I leave the iron on?” Or “What was that guy’s name I meet at work? I can never remember names these days.” I wish we all had the exact same last thought. Whether an old man in a hospital bed or a child on the wrong side of the playground. I wish when our hearts stopped beating and our brains slowed down to one last spark; we all thought the exact same thing before “the great unknown” finally became “known.”
And I wish it was this:
“Aloha… you magnificent beast. We’ve all fearfully called you Death, but now I call you “the inevitable conclusion.” Now I call you “the annoyingly impatient last stop.” Your talons are not as strong as you think they are. But I suppose neither are mine. Look at this body. This shedding shell of condensed atoms has been falling and scattering across the Earth and sky since the day I was born. And yet there is still more left of me NOW then when I began. Perhaps I learned that from my origins of the planets/stars/condensed cosmic power/energy/heat from long (but not that long) ago. They have always been known to spread their essence into new beings and I guess I just picked that up from them.
And I suppose if I can consistently free myself of skin cells (for a brief human lifetime) and end up a more powerful and interesting and complex and magnificent being than when I began; I suppose I can continue to do so even when you win and I lose… you silly monster of the end. I submit that, within this fragile body, I did very well on my own. So, what wondrous accomplishments will I achieve once I am on the side of nature wrapped in the holy arms of the never-ending universe?!? Trees will be grown from my skull. Birds will feast on the steams of my eyelashes. My bones will form a bridge to birthing stars.
I’ve always thought that people will come and people will go. You, Oh Death, have tried to fool us into that thought. But we come into existence and then we never go away. We never leave. We are always here. We are eternal in the most physical and beautifully strange sense. I will always be alive and help make up the atomic existence of the universe. And you have not won and you will not win… you silly self appointed Dark Lord. Not until you have stamped out the dim lights shining in all the corners of the cosmos. Not until you have painted infinite galaxies black with your own hand. Not until you lick clean the plate of all and everything. Good luck. Good luck. I will be waiting.”
Good morning, America. LOLZ. WTF. Coca Cola. Mood rings.
I’ve been spending a lot of time wondering lately. Not about certain extremely specific things. Just general wondering… that honestly eventually just morphs into worrying. It’s usually stressful and unfulfilling with brief moments of teetering clarity and drab nirvana.
I wonder/worry about there being more universes than our own and what that means. What if math ISN’T the universal language and existence is BEYOND BEING BEYOND our collective comprehension.
I wonder/worry about the intricacies of my brain. Today I can quickly adjust the three different knobs that control my vehicles air conditioning (level of flow, placement, temperature) But tomorrow could be a different story. Maybe my assumption of motor skills are just that and the hard drive in my head will eventually fill up and I will unwillingly have to dump files into the ether of nothingness to make room for more unneeded skills and information. Tomorrow the knobs of a vehicle could be dark, strangers to me.
I wonder/worry about the chance that I will never make anything that lasts OR that the one thing I make that DOES last is something that doesn’t properly represent me or the fascinating purist I deem myself to be.
I wonder/worry about the ice caves in Mexico and know that something terrible will surely happen to them because anything that unique and fragile can not last forever. It’s like that wall of graffiti you want to take a picture of and when you finally get around to it… it is painted over with a map of the United States. Or a Coca Cola sign. Or an intricate kaleidoscope of mood rings.
Did you know “Xmas” isn’t a pagan manner to express your holiday cheer? The Greek word for Christ starts with the letter X. Screwed me again, Christians. Oh well. I think with each year leaping and laughing its way past my aging mind; I become more and more nostalgic. I’m trading my wit in for long, warm stares. I’m switching out narcissistic undertones for tears of remembrance and thankfulness. It’s awful. Someone help me. X? Are you there? Is anyone listening? Santa? Can you help? Get off your sleigh. Well, first reconfigure the spelling of “sleigh” because that word looks presumptuous. And after THAT check your list and after THAT grant me a holiday miracle. All I want for Xmas is to stop this whole downfall into maturity and selflessness. Can you grant me that, Saint Nick? Can I wake up by the warmth of a fire knowing that no one is more important than myself? That goodwill towards men means nothing in comparison to what I want to eat for lunch or what record I want to buy next or which scarf is going to look best with which tweed jacket of mine? I don’t need two front teeth. I don’t need a red rider b b gun. This Xmas I want to fall asleep knowing I took the world down with me. I want to laugh in the face of universal peace and scoff at the mere thought of anything wholesome or caring. This Xmas I want to burn the bridge and the water below it. I need to make up for time lost in sentiment. Are you there Santa? It’s me, Will. Get on it.
I woke up thinking about the importance of our sense of smell. It’s a strange thing I don’t quite understand. And I assume it is everyones “go to” if asked which sense (if forced for some unknown reason) you would give up first. Not saying that it doesn’t have its importance, but it seems easily dispensable comparatively to the others. Right?
Such as sight. Sight always seems safe in these imaginary scenarios. It’s number one. It’s always going to be guarded and protected because everyone wants to be able drive and not stub their toe in their apartments. Everyone (whether they admit it or not) wonders what it would be like to work in a team of people guiding a giant balloon on a Thanksgiving Day parade and everyone thinks that one day they could sit in a luxurious room with an eye piece and be able to tell an unnamed explorer if a stone was actually a diamond from some ancient Chinese dynasty or just some stupid stone.
Then hearing comes next. People are very protective over their ear’s ability to pick up sound waves. Really because everyone thinks they could still one day become a dj like they planned on doing for extra money during their Freshman year and then accidentally become “known” for it and go on tour with Daft Punk or whoever. And most people still think they may accidentally hear a tapped phone conversation that could lead to the downfall of all corrupt businesses and governments everywhere ever. And mass revolution would occur and peace would consume the land and incredible golden statues of their ears would be placed in fields and rooftops and gardens all over the Earth.
Then comes touch. This is the 3rd of the top three senses to save, but it is still a pretty big one in people’s minds. And folks may tell you a plethora of reasons why they would save touch, but none of those reasons are true except one. Everyone would save touch because no one wants to burn themselves and not know it. Because everyone is vain and the longer you are unaware of a burn the bigger and more permeant a scar will be. And the quicker you notice the burn the quicker you can get some sort of antibiotic cream on it. And the quicker the medicine is applied the quicker it will heal and the more faint and unnoticeable the blemish will be. That’s all.
So now you are down to taste. I don’t know why people save taste. They just do. Food I guess. I think it should be the first to go. I think we could probably have a better chance at ending world hunger if we could simply not be able to taste anything. Because at that point; quality and distribution of food wouldn’t be so class controlled because it wouldn’t matter. We would focus on creating one uniform source of food. A small square of ground grains and nutrients and vitamins that our body needs. And once the perfect and healthy “food” is created we would concentrate on distributing it to the entire world. Everyone would eat the same amazingly powerful thing. It would be cheap and sensible and no one would complain because everyone would be fit and healthy and no one would taste a thing.
And at last and least is our weird and awkward friend… smell. The second we are asked to give up a sense; He is first in line. Which is interesting because of the scientific studies linking smell with memory. Isn’t that a thing? Isn’t smell one of the strongest senses that can bring back thoughts and moments from our past that we would not have had a link to otherwise? Fascinating. Because to me this means we would rather see a sun set then remember one. We would rather hear a child’s laughter than think back to our own. We would rather feel the empty air around us than remember the touch of a loved one who has passed. We would choose to taste our own blood than remember why we are tasting it.
Farewell, dear smell. You were under appreciated. You hid in the shadows holding a box full of memories hoping that one day a whiff of something cool and delicate would make us pull you into the center stage and adore you above the others. Alas, that time did not come. Your dreams remained dreams. Your hopes remained hopes. So… close your eyes. It will all be over soon.
Some days I like to indulge myself by embracing the idea of living and/or dying in infamy. Surely, everyone has a small section of their soul they set aside and allow to feel corrupt and sinister and wrong. A place where Darth Vader and John Wayne Gacy run smiling hand in hand. Where terrorists and David Koresh and horrible wizards wield flaming swords and AK47s. I think I hide my evil urges directly below the hearts beneath the 2nd and 3rd rib. At night… a thin line of smoke escapes from the tiny lair in my chest. It swims through my skin and bones and sheets and blankets. It hangs in the air revealing my darkest thoughts. It makes the room damp and uncomfortable. On family reunions and work meetings, I hold my heart hoping to conceal the dark revelation from escaping. Because no one wants to have a close personal relationship with a man who can’t control his own monsters. No one wants to do business with someone who reminds them of their own desires for an infamous path. Maybe with age that little land I hide, full of villains, will diminish. Maybe it’s wild boarders will shrink and shrink until there simply isn’t enough room for them all. I’ll grow old and sweet and sad. I’ll say my goodbyes as the thin line of smoke drifts away from my body into the night sky. Adios, you cowboys in black. Adios, Hitler. Adios, you snake with an apple. The trail of smoke will wrap around the moon. It will be silent on the steps of my old house where I’ll sit. Perhaps I’m whole and good at last.
Or perhaps there is a sliver of smoke still lingering near my heart. Perhaps there is a knocking coming from below my wooden steps. Perhaps a weak voice is asking for help… asking to be let go. Perhaps I am smiling.
Is anything truly unique? After the Universe collided and atoms burst into flames and separated into the darkness and formed planets and water and light… was there any room left for new creations? From that point on… did we just start the long process of building up a civilization filled with replicators?
I remember narcissistic times in my life where I would seek out an original experience. “Touch the corner of that table and say the name of an exotic animal.” I’d think to myself. “Because NOONE has EVER touched THAT section of THAT table and said THAT particular name of THAT tropical bird.” Or there have been times when I walked through a museum exhibit and leaned in closely to a massive painting and tried to find one small brush stroke and simply focus on it. I’d meditate on the painter himself and what he was thinking as he made that mark on the canvas. And I would think, “Surely no one in existence has looked at that ONE brushstroke and took the time to wonder about the artist’s mood at the exact moment he made it.” Well done, me.
It’s a silly search. The search for the original experience. But who knows… maybe it could pay off. Maybe it’s a small, neurotic quest that would accidentally lead me to unknown and fantastic destinations. Maybe I’d randomly touch a knot on a tree while saying the name of a president and accidentally open the gates to the underworld. It would be as if I found the candle stick holder of our world that once pulled… reveals the dark, stone steps to the land of clues and mysteries and darkness and worries. I’d look both ways and enter the tree’s depths. I’d walk down the slippery slope into an earthy and warm terrain. Miles of melting mountains. Fields of houses overgrown with vines and small animals. I’d swing on mammoth bones while being covered by the vast shadows of looming giants. I’d follow inky pathways that lead to illuminated objects in the sky that would sing haunting melodies of moments that have yet to occur. I’d wrestle with white legged clouds and lay in the hold of hovering claws that tried to crush me in my sleep. I’d climb to the top of incredible statues made in the likeness of unknown entities. I’d find the highest rocky tip and place my finger delicately on its edge. I’d survey the land and know that no one had climbed this high. No one had touched this small space the way I had. And no on had said aloud, “CORNUCOPIA.”
If you could be the absolute BEST at something… what would it be? A painter? Physicist? Musician? Or maybe you’re just known for the best cup of coffee or slice of pizza? It’s a tough question. Because I mean the BEST. Spanning the entire recorded history of the Earth. What would you be?
I’d be a novelist. And not the kind that would write only one book and fall into seclusion. I would release a novel once a year and critics and the public would constantly be arguing over which title they deemed more revolutionary. Eventually, whole countries would split into different sects based on which book they voted on being the greatest of all time. And I would travel on horse back through the separate districts to see how the debate was going. In each, I would be welcomed with open arms. Parades would simply form around me. I would be showered from high windows with pages from other people’s books. Now that my publications were in existence… no other books were needed. My followers would make me stay the night in their grand cities. I would bath in pools filled with lilies and exotic oils that they prepared. I would sleep on gigantic pillows surrounded by wicker fans. I’d wake at dawn, kiss children’s foreheads, and ride on. On the day of my death… I would turn in my final book. All human kind would join together and agree that it was perfect. All sects and districts would fall away and disappear. The entire Earth would be renamed after my last master piece. History books would constantly praise my contribution to literature throughout the ages. Millions of sculptures would be erected in my honor. Once a year, old women would come dressed in black and cry at my marble feet. They would lay in my monstrous shadow. Miles and miles of dark, weeping figures would rest beneath my profile. They would all be clutching a handkerchief in one hand and my perfect book in the other. The novel’s title would be braised in gold and shimmering against the sun. It’s reflection would bounce against any surface that was near so all could proudly read it’s name: BRO DUDE