A Candle Alone

The Vessel

I overheard a conversation, well, more of a well enthused argument I would say, at the Old Soul in Oak Park the other night. It was chilled and a Sunday, a day I reserve for some form of solace; if possible. So I guess it might go without saying the argument was intruding on my well deserved peace of mind. Hopefully, you notice my sense of overbearing irony, but I did wish for some definition of calm. The conversation, however, could not have been better orchestrated as its theme focused on the fate of Oak Park no less. Fitting for the place we were sipping hydrated coffee bean, would you agree? Considering we were...well, you get the point. Anyway, I think you could deduce that the sides were not exactly simpatico, sadly, for they had much more in common than they did opposed. But, no matter, it is arguments like this that need and should be taking place inside of the 40 Acres, and hopefully, other cafes (and beyond) in this the capital city of the Golden State.

I spoke briefly with a young woman who was inquiring about my reading and we soon found ourselves in the “heavy” topic of dealing with death. If you think that is where this story is headed, let me stop you right now, while not averse to the grand theme of our ultimate destiny, I would like to save that for another log. We were cut short promptly after our conversation needed to make room for a video about to be shot for a spoken word poet. So I found myself alone again at a deuce, picking up where I left off with my material, but not before, once again, I was interrupted, not by prying a videographer but by a humbly curious voice. I was struck to find it was half the argument I mentioned before. Undoubtedly the winning side. He was curious about my reading as well, although it decidedly did not take as morbid of a digression as before. Not directly, at least.

He wondered about my life and why it found itself here; as if the story behind it should be remarkable. It either did or did not but how would I know. So I told him I was from the neighborhood and that I had indeed seen much of its merits and defects. One aspect presented by the other half of the discussion, the man I did not meet but heard, was that of view that I have heard much regarding Oak Park and its newly minted title as “extension of Midtown.” This position often cites that “parts of Oak Park” are actually quite nice, even ideal.

But what the man I spoke about (the one I would argue was a better proponent for the neighborhood) and I agreed upon was that this audit of Oak Park's character totally lacked any appreciation of the history of the said neighborhood. The borough has long been a refuge for the poor of Sacramento, the last place they could turn to for affordable housing, it also holds one of the west's oldest schools—Sacramento High—but more than anything it is a living, bleeding, sanctuary for human life, not simply a stigma of gang violence and prostitution. A sentiment which I think is often forgotten when this area is referred to in conversation.

But, one reality I know more than anything, is the undeniable diversity it holds, which outshines so much of the city as well as the state and beyond. People of the Pacific Rim, African Americans, Chicanos and Whites all live together in a small bedlam of knowledge, life and story. And that story, harsh or not, is something that no one can subtract from this microcosm of California. It is a rare jewel indeed. But of course, as common discourse goes on this particular topic, there is indeed the tragic.

In particular, the lack of heroes we often see, or rather, do not. There is of course the obvious, Mayor Kevin Johnson, a man who was not only incubate there but survived, departed, evolved through education then succeeded in professional basketball and, quite selflessly, returned with a mission to salvage what resources that forgotten place still retained. Think what you will of the man and his policies, if you disagree him, but he did do at least this. Which is more I can say for many celebrities in sports or entertainment.

But what I think my caffeine-proponent and I were really encircling was sort of the everyman brothers, sisters and cousins we know in our intimate relationships who have succeeded themselves, and gone on to speak about those milestones. We did indeed did find ourselves on morbid ground once again. I was reminded about a young man who did truly break the barriers set by his immediate world and its lack of assets. He did so with the help of others, likely family, but still in spite of great odds which included poverty, education and position. These faculties are often noted as almost cliché in the public consciousness, mainly as the result of it being cited in so many stories of accomplishment. But that should not, in the slightest, diminish that this one is real and truly so rare for such a young person to succeed in lieu of such high stakes.

This man's name was Rodrigo Rodriguez—I knew his family. I wish I knew him: it is my loss. He excelled in math and garnered many accolades, including full scholarship for college and a seat on former Mayor Heather Fargo's Youth Commission. His accomplishments cannot be exaggerated. He was literally everything we hope for in Oak Park. Someone who came from the same mold but managed, not to break it, but reconfigure it. How do I begin to understand?

I told my new friend at the Old Soul of a book I had read. One that reminded me of the situation we were discussing. The last chapter of the final book within the tome: it was The Once and Future King. A modern era novel about the origin and life (and death, of course) of King Arthur. I remember before his last slog of battle, an aged Arthur charges a young Tom (Mallory, perhaps?) to be witness of his final testament; his last argument of sorts to the world for the positions he took in life. The stances and stands he made—why he tried to change it in a way he thought was more true.

Indeed, why he did not simply enjoy the fruits of his status in the world and just let be. He told young Tom—who was no older than a boy of grammar school—that he would risk mortal fate if he should take this task, to which the young boy, without question, still accepted. He asked the child if he actually understood what he was undertaking, to which, surely, there was no real way of knowing fully. Finally, he asked Tom, something to the effect of: Can you understand that you are a sort of vessel? For truly there are those who carry something...else, within them. The title of the book in this anthology was titled: The Candle in the Wind. We agreed that many other candles had been lit since the death of our young hero, but still, each one burns to its own wick.

2nd Time Around

We traffic in ritual—pastimes (little quirks)—that seem to sustain us through the din of an uncertain world. There's one I've had for a while now, one that I hardly noticed I even maintained for so long. I like to secret favorite books, films, music; hide them—from myself actually. It's only natural to become fatigued with your most precious and treasured possessions after you have owned and sort of sunk yourself into them long enough. I feel as though they are a part of my psyche after a while, entities which have incubate in my subconscious and manifest themselves at convenient times.

Dane Cook refers to movies, specifically in theaters, as “cinematic adventures.” I don't know if he's the most qualified mind for philosophical treatise, but despite whatever you may think of the guy, I believe he has a very thoughtful point, circumspect it may be.

These three mediums share a common ability in that they can spirit, shall we call them users (the reader/audience/listener), to a seemingly separate place. One that is occupied by the both the present mind of the fan as well the artist's latent, or perhaps residual, imagination, becoming almost a transmitter and receiver of shared thought. They also have the common trait of creating stories which we can occupy our consciousness in, brief as it may seem, but still nonetheless powerful and moving.

It's for these reasons that we hold them so dear to our pathos: we feel 'connected' to the art we interact with, because, let's face it, without a receiver (a patron) these fields would have little contribution to society. They move us, and we in turn provide emotive feedback, creative synergy, like a crowd and musician, or even the speaker system which a band uses to amplify their sound. No art is created in a vacuum, it all is as many have said before me, “Built on top,” of much else. And what that else is obviously happens to occupy most of the bookstore, library and internet.

But this all leads to an earlier point. We all have our treasures, some obvious, others guarded in the quietest parts of thought, a place I think people are fond of calling a “guilty pleasure.” These artistic works are conduits, portals for us to escape and dwell in a more pleasurable state. But they do offer us more than just escapism—the best do more than just pander to our baser likings. They challenge and help us reflect on our beliefs, make us see concepts and truths that were maybe hidden from our common view. A very esoteric character who was basically a Catholic mystic named these unsung truisms “quotidian” to Nick Shay the hero of Don Delillo's Underworld. Objects or realities hidden before our everyday eyes which come to us in the simplest avenue but many times are only learned the “hard way.”

For this undying love of our artistic taste—whatever it happens to be—we eventually find ourselves burnt out, bored, fatigued. And that is when we often forsake those jewels to find a newer love.

But, like I said before, there's a ritual I keep, like an old ring or wristwatch. When I have not only moved on from the said novel, movie, album, but I have also found a new one, a new two or three, and have all but forgotten my forlorn old conspirator: I like to come back. And what better way than to stumble upon it...anywhere. The shelf of some stranger's house, a relative's coffee table, a strange frequency as you scramble through the spectrum of a long road trip. To be reintroduced to that ancient work, is like reuniting with an old conspirator, rekindling a lovely secret. It is reincarnation, to put it boldly, which can be spiritual or simply a personal growth—as incredulous you may be—or more to your pragmatic liking, like reliving what you already adore.

in the day of silver tide
there were starbursts all around
and the cat sits on my head

New Stuff (Already an Anachronism)

woman is a butterfly

might land on your knuckle

in an open palm

likely rise away the air

stomp the zodiac

leave you to dwell

...

I think math is beautiful

a language of lines and angles

invisible worlds

describes the oblique

and speak to time

semiotic to nature

I wish I knew math like words

I think that it is beautiful

Ocular Poetry

There is a certain moment as artists we all aim for, consciously or not, in our respective fields. A leap in quality and emotion that cannot be found per se, but only arrived at by letting go of conscious motive then started upon by a place on a road and, further, nurtured and sought after. This mysterious destination, and the trek that naturally ensues, is what separates art from, say, routine work—whatever that may entail. However, one might argue, even the routine can be turned into a work of art. If the artisan himself know his trade and will himself in spirit, let's say. In Hip Hop this might be called “freestyling” and the equivalent in Rock would likely be “jamming,” I suppose. With painters it is a bit more obvious and can clearly be observed in the studio, whatever constitutes a studio for them (open flat or their own bedroom), as they simply free themselves into canvas. In life this phenomenon could be understood as “living in the moment” or improvising, and cinema unequivocally is no exception. Some of the greatest films were deliberate constructions of their makers simply flying by the seat of their director's chairs; to use a very ludicrous idiom.

To become a successful artist, whichever medium you might long for, it seems inherent to "do your research;" that is, to know who came before you and attempt to deconstruct and understand their achievements, techniques, failures and promising attempts that never were. Only then can you truly understand where you stand, your place in greater scheme of legends and heroes, and where you might tread—trail-blazed—next. But it is not enough to simply assimilate and regurgitate what already has been well established and revered:to fully accomplish the deed of what we call art you must use the tools and techniques at hand, find some new ones if possible, and transcend them with your own voice. And that voice must be genuine. As in, genuinely yours.

Perhaps the greatest example of this aesthetic transcendentalism in the last fifty years is the French New Wave film movement, and its very enduring brainchild, the Auteur Cinema; or the Auteur Theory. The theory ascribes that the director of a film guides an invisible hand in the camera much as an artist might stroke a brush. There are many influences as to the origin of Auteur Cinema, but, regardless of its genetic heritage in emulsion, it remains one of the most influential theories despite being over fifty years old (Wikipedia Auteur Theory).

The theory began with the French New Wave in the mid '50s and it is not known if its origins reach even further than the progenitors in Cahiers du Cinéma, with critics like André Bazin and Jean Luc Goddard. But some theorize its development has origins all the way back to such free spirited, American oldies like Maltese Falcon or Citizen Kane (Wikipedia Auteur). It is possible with the end of Vichy France, and all the occupied territories during World War II, the aforementioned films and others like it were finally shown and subsequently lauded for their subtextual commentary and, perhaps, friskiness. The French were so used to overly censored films that the grit and autonomy posed by John Huston and Orson Welles likely surged them with creativity (Wikipedia Theory). Possible. But regardless of this intriguing legend, the French, without a doubt, were Auteur’s biggest advocates and practitioners.

The rhetoric behind Auteur Theory itself describes motion pictures as placing the director as the most influential role within the filmmaking process. One of its most indispensable tenets is the mise en scène, supposedly a literal translation of "putting on stage,"which is likely the most cryptic of theories ever posed in any art form and widely disputed in all its fields, the least of which is film. But perhaps one 'college try' on its definition is 'how it is done," essentially how a film was made; i.e., what techniques a crew employed (studio or location), what kind of equipment used (35 film or Cinerama 65), what type of actors (character or method) and what was the final expression in product (jumpy edits or smooth continuity). A director employs these maxims to become the final and most important “auteur,” or author, in the film’s overall structure, look and attitude (Wikipedia Mise en Scène).

This applies to all segments amongst the production process, including pre, in, and postproduction. In pre the director most likely works with a screenwriter, artist or producer to set in motion the manifestation of their, or simply his/her grand vision. In production the director oversees most, if not all, aspects of the film, including set construction, lighting development and especially the actor’s process. Finally, in postproduction he/she would likely work with a “post house” in developing the film, transferring it to another medium (if necessary), editing (either directly or with an editor) and adding graphics to its near-end product.

All of this work is emotionally as well as physically exhausting for anyone but, as artistic prowess is the impetus with Auteur Theory, some kind of marker must be left to make the film at least somewhat distinctive. To do that, according to Auteur Cinema, it is imperative that one person take the reigns, guide the film on its course and reach its poetic conclusion (Bartleby Auteur). Since there are so many people on a motion picture set at one time, the screen writer is not always available for production and, further, the producer role is not inclined to be the final magistrate (or meant to be necessarily) it is natural the director fulfill that role.

But the director’s role in Auteur is more than just general decisions to guide the set, collaborate with an editor or converse with a star. Instead he/she must really envision the picture, almost entirely, in its aesthetic, philosophic and narrative scope. Further, this person must have practical as well as skillful abilities in communicating this vision to his/her crew, regardless of their level of talent (Britanica Auteur Theory). In fact, the more gifted the crew is the more the tools a director has at their disposal, and, thus, should strive to realize his/her vision to an even greater extent.

The Auteur Theory is not meant for ego-boosting as it would seem, although this is an inevitable sentiment however. But consider that many directors throughout film's short but textured history have been labeled as megalomaniacs before the theory even existed; D.W. Griffith and Charlie Chaplin, just for measure. Regardless, a director should not, further cannot, manufacture a film on his/her own, even if it were possible. Rather, the auteurist strives to work in concert with those surrounding him/her and complement their skills and knowledge, while pushing their abilities to the artistic limit. Furthermore, the auteurist conspires with the crew on most levels and all stages of the film’s development.

The most well known of the Auteur school, its godfathers perhaps, are likely François Truffaut, Jean-Luc Godard and André Bazin, the first two being foremost directors of the French New Wave and the latter a renowned French critic. The New Wave, as it were, being a sort of zeitgeist in film as well as a genre itself that began in the late '50s, and is known for pressing the limits of fundamental camera use, twitchy editing, and ambitious method acting based upon an actor's own prowess and instincts. One of Truffaut’s most famous works, 400 Blows, depicts a young delinquent in the most brutally honest if not charming terms possible. The boy, Antoine, manages to be a very likable and endearing character regardless of his kleptomania or stubbornness assimilating into education. But to Truffaut’s credit, and to Auteur Theory, Antoine is redeemed not by some selfless act of sacrifice but by his willingness to persevere through the monotony—and destructiveness—of everyday civilization (IMDB).

Without the merits of Auteur, however, it is somewhat unclear if films like 400 Blows, Breathless, 81/2, Vertigo, and American films like Mean Streets, A Clockwork Orange, Eraserhead and THX 1138 would even exist. Nor the whole movement in American film appropriately dubbed New Hollywood. These films all have the common thread of having the director’s psychological and aesthetic imprint. Furthermore, despite the immense talent encased within the stories, or even the indisputable craft from the actors themselves, the figure to leave the most influential fingerprint is the director.

So how does a director leave his or her invisible hand within a given body, especially considering there are so many individuals involved in a film? The most telltale sign would probably be the aesthetic flair of the film itself. In such a case the director would have a definitive cut, sequence or, perhaps, a very distinctive shot that is repeated several times (British Film Source). The Italian director Federico Fellini often used a somewhat bizarre, but very intriguing, pan where the camera would dolly across the location and show his various subjects; some of them often looking at the camera itself. This shot is typified in his most perplexing but vibrant film, and companion piece to his opus La Dolce Vita, 81/2, where a party scene is shown with a group of bachelors and débutantes. Martin Scorsese likewise uses a lot of self-adjusted pans, dollies and tracks that move swift and seamlessly. In Taxi Driver he often used slow motion to show a subjective view of Robert Dinero's enhanced observation as a Vietnam veteran in maritime mainland (Roger Ebert Taxi Driver).

Many other directors have used artistic liberties and continue to do this as well, and New Wave most definitely influenced other auteurists outside of simply France of Italy. Americans were heavily swayed on multiple platforms as to the philosophical direction of Auteur cinema. One of the most critically savored was, without a doubt, Stanley Kubrick. His films are well known for their technical, narrative and aesthetic mastery, which is undoubtedly because of dedicated, if not obsessive, drive for perfection (Wikipedia Kubrick). Throughout his multitude of films you can see a repetition of motifs present, both individually and in his larger body of work, that just seem to echo within the mind of the audience. For instance, Kubrick loved to use long, inverse “tracking shots” where he would follow his given subject as he/she approached the appropriate blocking spots (Kubrick).

In most cases these little artistic themes would be few and far between for a director as he or she would have to adhere to the aesthetic design created, perhaps, by the art director, studio or the screenwriter himself. Without this school of thought, however, many of the most love and cherished directors throughout the world, but, especially, here in the US would not exist; at least not as we know them today. They found their own way with the source proverbs, but managed to metamorphose its purpose to make it relevant for an American audience. From Spielberg and Scorsese to Kubrick and Coppola some of our most beloved films and filmmakers were students of the Auteur kind.

Sources

"Auteur Theory." Wikipedia: The Free Encyclopedia. December 21st, 2009.

"Mise en Scène." Wikipedia: The Free Encyclopedia. January 5th, 2010.

“Auteur.” Columbia Encyclopedia. 2006. Bartleby Online. 9 May, 2006.

"Auteur theory." Encyclopædia Britannica. 2006. Encyclopædia Britannica Online. 9 May, 2006.

“Authorship and the Films of David Lynch.” The Films of David Lynch. 2002. The British Film Resource. 9 May, 2006.

"Taxi Driver." Roger Ebert. Chicago Sun Times. http://rogerebert.suntimes.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=//20040101/REVIEWS08/401010364/1023. January 1st, 2004.

“Stanley Kubrick.” Directors. Internet Movie Database (IMDB). 9 May, 2006.

Lyrics

Two Lovers

There were two lovers young in hue

Their touch and pupils were quite soft

But their hearts told ages not known

By the dour eyes of their elders

One day the lovers grew pale

Their fair flesh with thorns extant

And two lonely corpses in bed

Found with a lyre of ten strings

And to Awake a Sleeping Heart

He wanted things to stay the same

He wanted to take the stars and tie

Them in a ribbon; hold them to

The earth Forever, and never

Letting go of his dreams

To Sleep, of the Garrison They Speak

I feel its time is coming nigh

The breadth of a moment; or the

Moment within breath – like the force

Of iron within all things living

Hearts resealing, in disarray

Eyes disbelieving, or astray

The moment forms like a code

Something strangely comes to unfold

Hiding in screens, we hide behind

Our walls and sheens; through the velvet

We must go, all together, all

Alone – If we ever be so bold

Inside/out

Make the good stuff bad

It’s all so clearly wrong

We’re not made to last

Alone but never lonely

A Fractional World

I have often wondered about the world's strange chain of events, with its conflicting and oftentimes fragmented sense of morality; perhaps fate. I was surprised to find the deputy who was killed by the young Asian teen, Jimmy Siackasorn, on December 17 (2007, Sacramento, CA; Real Police, 1) was in fact Asian himself. This was before I knew the officer would come to be known as Deputy Vu Nguyen, a surname of Vietnamese origin. At the time the suspect was unidentified except his general size, height and his mysterious “Asian” background. Does it matter if he is not Vietnamese himself? I'm not really sure. Siackasorn is of Laos decent. His grandfather, much like Nguyen's father, left South East Asia to flee the Vietnam War (Modesto Bee, 2). This fact, about both being from a similar background, albeit, perhaps not the same ethnicity, still seems so ironic it's almost ridiculous and points to the social realities we Americans have become acclimated to in the United States. How could one person kill another of a very close cultural heritage? Everyday police officers of all backgrounds suit up and oftentimes patrol the streets of their very own blood. Usually they do their job and come back home to wherever they live—likely not where they work—and its not a stretch to say that most would like to have at least some police of their own background, in their neighborhood. But just think for a moment how eerily divine this is: one man lives a decent life and joins law enforcement, becoming a deputy sheriff; the other, a young man from a similar origin, follows a life of crime and winds up killing him. Moliere could not have devised a better tragedy. 

I suppose, it doesn't matter in the end—just because it is ironic and almost fateful does not prevent it from actually happening in reality. I guess the truth is that many kids who grow up in that kind of violent and ambivalent background are often, voluntarily, or not, split from the moral norms of society. Indeed, conditioned in that sphere to be more and more violent just to survive, while at the same time, increasingly afraid of those they are surrounded by; those who are supposed to be their loved ones. But end up being more like the protocol and asylums with which their lives are dictated. It is a very different existence than what most middle class kids and teens go through, but just because it is not the norm does not make it untrue. Or uncommon for that matter. And so they do not always distinguish others as personally 'like' or 'unlike' them regardless of their ethnic, political or even spiritual background—nor grant them any mercy if they were alike. 

Further, many adolescents from rival gangs are more similar to each other than contrasting, than they realize, and yet are oblivious to any common traits they share. It's sad to see a such young, honest family man killed by an even younger disparaging male of a similar ethnic background. It's good that the killer was found and taken off the street so justice can be served to the office and his family. But the reality is that there are a lot more kids out there like that, and the extent to which gangs are ingrained into California, on so many levels, is just really overlooked by society and government. As of 2000, according to the Department of Justice, there were 24, 500 gangs functioning in the United States, and estimated there were 772, 500 people that were gang related in the same year (Violence Prevention Institute, 3). Much time has elapsed since then, a whole decade, but how much could really change? Could we have cut those statistics in half? Maybe. Probably not. People like that will continue to function in our society until the state and federal government really take a look at our current system of incarceration, justice and rehabilitation and finally decide whether to overhaul it or not, hopefully for a more realistic future.

But that will not happen until people—common everyday tax paying and perhaps registered voting people—really look at our world, especially our lower-income areas. Because as of 1999 over 85 percent of gangs were comprised of minorities or people of color (“DOJ: National Youth Gang Survey,” 3). People that usually live in these low income neighborhoods: areas which are often derogatorily referred to as "the ghetto," which does more damage to the psyche of those neighborhoods than anyone realizes; many calling it simply “the hood.” Well, if those “everyday people,” as a family of poets once said, do not just glance but really, deeply, truly meditate on these places and, perhaps, decide the way it currently exists is not balanced with the rest of world (economically, opportunity-wise and familial coherence), offers no sense hope, no recourse to its inhabitants and finally decide “this ain't 'livin;” something must be done. Because, in fact, obviously or not, this is where so much (not all or even most) graphic violence comes from in our cities—violence our media seems so fixated on but rarely attempts to change. 

But that begs the question, why? Why does so much destruction, both internal and external, come from here? For the very reasons named before: economic imbalance, lack of opportunities (both career and education wise) and familial coherence and harmony (i.e. no steady paternal figures, etc.). Why do we spend as much on incarceration as we do on education in California? This is not hippie rhetoric for some dissident with a sign out on a corner, these are fair and logical questions about our society; a legitimate progression of thought based on the fundamental flaws in how our country functions (SF Gate, 4). As of 2006 over 11,000 people were killed by gunfire in this country, compared to about 200 in Germany and Canada, and around 60 in England/Wales and the same for Spain (Department of Justice, 5; Brady Campaign, 6). This is not to say, however, that our country's dysfunction is absolute but, ultimately, one day people will have to realize that most legislation comes from movements and change starts from the bottom—meaning public opinion and activism—working upwards; it will not just happen upon by some random, idealistic politician. That inner city children really do need everything else kids in suburbia and the mid to upper echelons of society get: decent education, a nurturing family life, mentoring, and the cardinal maxim of them all—respect. Then, only then, will we be able to actually prevent future killings, criminals, and ignorance, in general, from happening.

Sources:

1. Real Police. “[sic] is a leading resource for Police Officers and Law

Enforcement professionals.”

http://www.realpolice.net/forums/archive/index.php/t-75064.html. 2008.

2. Modesto Bee. "Family In Shock Over Teen Accused of Killing Detective.  

http://www.modbee.com/1618/story/179505.html. January 10, 2008.

3. Violence Prevention Institute: [A site] intended to provide valuable tips

for parents, teachers and school administrators with regard to addressing the

growing problem of violence in today's schools and the larger issue of

overwhelming youth violence in general. "Department of Justice: Office of

Juvenile Justice and Delinquency Prevention, National Youth Gang Survey

Trends from 1996 to 2000." By Arlen Egley, Jr.

http://www.violencepreventioninstitute.org/gangs.html.2009. 

4. SF Gate. "Prison vs. Education Spending Reveals California's Priorities."Maya Harris.

http://articles.sfgate.com/2007-05-29/opinion/17244077_1_school-dropouts-school-diploma-spending-on-higher-education. May 29, 2007.

5. Department of Justice: Bureau of Justice Statistics. "Gun Crime Reported to Police."

http://bjs.ojp.usdoj.gov/content/glance/tables/guncrimetab.cfm. January 6, 2010.

6. The Brady Campaign. "Facts." http://www.bradycampaign.org/facts.January 6, 2010.

Stray Thoughts

I want to melt into like a flake of snow on the glowing earth; I wrap my arms around and want to become one with like ivy on oak. 

ca.  Summer '07

And if at last we shall find a way

If we should finally never be led astray

Then we will see the days not counting down

But moving forward, from the pain

With all the love and experience we gain

…

I do love you…

I really do

ca. Winter '07

This was in my dream this morning:

Two eyes fiery meet. For reasons unknown.

What do they dream?

I dreamt of the moon but nothing made sense, everything was in reverse and felt less dense

I looked into the sky and noticed I was falling off the earth

And some say he passed away, but I’d like to think he faded into in a poetry café

Lamentation for Dave

ca. August, 2007

Met a young man in Raley's today, couldn't have been older than thirty-three, his head was sunk deep into a cereal box. I knew something was wrong but I wasn't quite sure if he was crazy or just 'fuckin around. I asked him, "Are you alright?"

To which he replied a muffled response with his head still behind the boxes, "Yeah...I'm just 'havin a moment [sic]..."

I said, "Oh yeah, we all get like that from time to time," as I began to walk off. Then, for some reason, I added, "You know, this last year has been rough (for me)."

He pulled his head out and looked up at me, eyes red with slowly drying tears; I noticed he was slightly bald, a thin build, wore a striped shirt, and had a bit of a hipster edge to him. He said, "Really?" walking towards me slightly.

"Yeah."

He replied, "What was it?" Or something to that effect.

"My friend passed away...He was killed in a car crash...A big rig flipped on top of him. And then, I got sick at work."

He asked, "What happened?"

"My lungs, I breathed in all this crap from the building."

"Where did it come from?"

"It was an old building and when they cleaned it released all kinds of dust and mold and shit into the air. Now I'm on workman's comp and I want to sue them but I don't have a lawyer."

"You have to figure a way of getting one--talking to one and getting them to know what happened--that's important."

"Yeah," I said...

"And you...what happened to you?"

"Oh," he said, full of tears and emotion, "My wife left me a few months ago...it's hard...sometimes I just break down."

I said, "Yeah, I see," trying to console. "That's rough. We all get like that sometimes. We gotta'...push ourselves through it somehow."

"Yeah."

"What's your name?"

"Dave," he said. "And yours?"

"Sam," I said. "Well, Dave, you try and take care. Keep 'strivin--that's all we can do sometimes."

"Yeah. You too, Sam."

"Good luck," I said.

"You too."

We gave daps and departed our ways.

As I stepped out of the market, with my slim carton of milk and Orbit chewing gum, I saw him by the Wine cartons. Or the oats and natural cereals.

I think he saw me as I walked out...I'm almost certain he saw me.

I remember there was a fox by my apartment in Monterey; it lived in the field by my place. He was friendly and ate from the garbage can…I suppose it domesticated him because he was not afraid of humans. I took him as a mascot for our building. Spoke to him. But one day he was gone. He was real, like the raccoons with their little bandit masks. There was also a snake that lived there too – a big, scary Boa; supposedly. But someone killed it. 

The Beginning

Secret distortions arising from an unknown source on the plane. The force of centrifugal thought has caused some minds to explode, but their bodies still remain. Locked in eternal birth and development—they can’t remember their former selves. Memory is a haze but not a wipe, and they pray for a day when their old names will return. But what a beautiful blur it is! Across a thousand stony-age centuries, only to be refolded back in time that never really existed but was implicit. Destiny is like a grid plane that constantly shifts across a three part axis and you’re intersecting it in curves and vibrations, instead of going with the lines like practice. Explode: and reform…or reshape. And become that which you always were—what your heart knows you could be from the moment of self-awareness! You’re not sure where this could be, am I right? Was it inside the strange effervescence of your mother’s belly, or the moment you realized your life was meant for something more?