In summer’s thoughts and winter’s fears.
I turn back around and go down,
Reclining into my thoughts.
We’re all just doing our best I say,
But what I say doesn’t suffice [not for her].
Because in words sufficient I’m only perfect for a moment,
So I turn to my spiritual grandfathers to find better words.
Lennon, Watts, Mandela, Aurelius,
Give me the grace.
And then there’s music. Sweet music.
Songs speak for me and in lyrics I am understood,
Because I know that something isn’t right when all my heroes are in black and white.
If I had a pool I would dive in that motherfucker every morning,
An indoor pool like Garden State.
Garden State was my generation’s On The Road.
But I digress because the generation gap is getting smaller.
Now it’s Spring Breakers and that stupid child’s name that I will not say. Who gives a fuck about the VMAs anyway.
I never look back and watch 10 year old music videos thinking about how great they are.
I listened to Lorde’s entire album,
Royals was perhaps the least good thing on it.
And in my appreciation for it I came to the conclusion that all 17 year olds should be required to make an album,
Skizzy Mars I’m looking at you.
In what future can I make this a reality?
Maybe I’ll be a teacher one day and my class assignment will be as such.
Or maybe, like my book, I’ll be a member of some organic futuristic colony in New Zealand.
Haha – what a great sentence.
If only everything I wrote were as grandiose.
But then again, I might go insane,
I need some semblance of normalcy.
Hardwood floors and French doors. As my friend said recently, I don’t want a girl who does drugs, I just want a girl who tolerates me doing drugs.
I laughed my ass off.
I don’t care about drugs. But in that same way, I don’t want a girl who is eccentric, I just want a girl who tolerates me being so.
How lucky I’ve been in love.
If angels exist, I’ve dated them. I don’t know why, I’ve just been the luckiest son of a bitch alive.
Because I’ve been a real SOB.
What more can I say,
Nothing could be sufficient to measure gratitude insufficient. My words fall short of the awe in my heart. Even now I feel stupid continuing to try and express what Shakespeare said best.
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature’s changing course, untrimmed;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st,
Nor shall death brag thou wand’rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to Time thou grow’st.
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
And this is why I love the arts. Our own words don’t have to suffice for our feelings.
Even tortured souls lend grace to beautiful and awful things,
Because there are days when I want to fake it through the day with some help from Johnny Walker Red – oh Elliot Smith how I love you for singing those words.
And there are days when I need the cathartic inception of reading David Foster Wallace’s words:
Fiction is one of the few experiences where loneliness can be both confronted and relieved. Drugs, movies where stuff blows up, loud parties — all these chase away loneliness by making me forget my name’s Dave and I live in a one-by-one box of bone no other party can penetrate or know. Fiction, poetry, music, really deep serious sex, and, in various ways, religion — these are the places (for me) where loneliness is countenanced, stared down, transfigured, treated.
And I am understood [by myself] again.
I learned something else about loneliness this year through the words of Carl Jung:
Loneliness does not come from having no people about one, but from being unable to communicate the things that seem important to oneself, or from holding certain views which others find inadmissible.
Can I get an amen.
So I countenance, stare down, transfigure, and treat my loneliness by communicating the inadmissible truths.
The truth – the truth in art. The truth in love. We all have our various ways and places where we face the truth in our souls,
Some of mine are guilty pleasures that few if any people alive know of. How I still listen to Fiona Apple. I wonder what happened to that 5th grade girlfriend of mine who idolized her. Can’t even remember her name. Wish I could.
Art, man. Just art. Words. Like little acid tabs sometimes I feel like I’m frying because the tiny death I get from art massages the back of my eyes.
It’s an intellectual kind of sex.
I just got up and hung a blanket over that window that always let’s too much light in – lit a candle, burned 5 seconds of incense and put it out (the incense). Haha
This is the best kind of morning.
I’m listening to various soothing sounds, and I’m just laying on this chaise writing.
And I’m 28 years old.
How perfect would this have been had I ended at that. But I’m not that perfect. I’ve got to communicate what’s important to me,
Which, today – is art. The ways in which other people have used their humanity to create change and understanding in my own. There are few causes more noble than art.
Art can get you stoned. Lay back, wrap yourself in nothing but a sheet, place pillows in creative places to support your legs – put in some headphones. Listen to something emotive – and start writing.
Or Listen to this.
Or Read these.
Or maybe don’t.
I don’t know,
I just know I’m really high right now.
Don’t seize the day. Savor the day. As Alan Watts said, “It is your solemn duty to learn how to enjoy yourself.”
And I do. I’m a classic epicurean,
So I’ll enjoy everything I do today.
I’ll get up and wash my face or take a shower and pretend I’m James Bond. Then maybe I’ll eat pancakes.
I’ll do some work.
I’ll do some private writing on paper later.
Maybe a check will arrive in the mail. Maybe not and I’ll curse.
I’ll do whatever I want to do today because I have this day to take me closer to my dreams,
And it’s only just begun.