Not my chair, not my problem: New Blog

I went ahead a did us all a favor and got a real site. Not a fake one. A real one. It will be updated soon, but here it is:

http://www.polarbearface.com/

Thanks everyone who pays attention to this boring stuff!!!

xoxoxoxox

Attractive Rubble

“I don’t use drugs, my dreams are frightening enough.” – M.C. Escher

 

X = Stranger

I am an X amongst many X‘s, and I guess that means that because of the fact, getting by shouldn’t at all be that difficult. In hindsight, I’d rather even say that the Me that was me back before I was the ME as I am today, could have used some pointers towards the right direction of most other Me’s (sub X) out there in the world. But before I go on, I just want to add that being me is at most times funny. I laugh a lot at the strangest things. My therapist says that this is because I’ve gained “control” over the issues that allow ME to be me.

 

Question: What are your thoughts when facing an opponent?
Bruce: There is no opponent.
Question: Why is that?
Bruce: Because the word ”l” does not exist.
A good fight should be like a small play…but played seriously. When the opponent expands, l contract. When he contracts, l expand. And when there is an opportunity… l do not hit…it hits all by itself (shows his fist).
Any technique, however worthy and desirable, becomes a disease when the mind is obsessed with it.

So in this new found need to express my Weekend Me, I have sort of tapered the drinking off, made some new songs, and waxed, polished, and shined my numchuk collection. It’s all for the betterment of the weather in my house, and in hopes of reuniting in a dark alley with my arch-enemy-Me.

 

“I won’t eat anything green. ”  - Kurt Cobain

Which brings me to my next point: Why, is it that beer and me don’t get along on Friday nights, or Saturday nights for that matter [otherwise known as W(sub M)(b/F+S)].  And why do I find myself always doing the same routine at the same hour after I’ve been drinking for several hours previously? [Also known as Σ of W{W(sub M)(b/F+S)}/R]. What is it? Well, I go home, make stabs at what tomorrow will probably feel like {probability that the Σ W/R is y, and why it’s a strange thing to be anything at all}. Then I fall asleep and dream about being someone else who never Fails and because they never fail, they are in fact inherently imperfect like the rest of us; this also makes him X too.

 

 

“Some people are just dicks.”

Have a great weekend!

Periscoping into Your Face

“Sometimes it’s a form of love just to talk to somebody that you have nothing in common with and still be fascinated by their presence. ” – David Byrne

 

I’m drinking a beer right now, it’s 5:30 in the afternoon on a Saturday, the wind’s blowin’ hard as all the devil’s little whores outside, and I woke up on both sides of the bed… I am not a fan of speaking in cryptic messages and working my abs out on tacos and beers for several hours on hand. But I am a fan of working my magic-staying alive powers. Furthermore, the beer I’m already done with, is a  Lonestar, and it says a lot about my financial status as a student that can’t seem to move his calorie intake past the +/- 5 lb. ratio. “If only I had been beaten severely as a child, and had had the will to work out all major muscle groups vigorously in hopes of defeating my inner demons…” I say to myself most mornings these days. FUCK demons. I wanna eat.

 

I live my life like I can’t die.  And it works.

 

The above is a curiously dangerous idea. But it does work. If you live your life like you’re an invincible being from another galaxy (but still under went differential reproductive process), you’ll eventually come to the conclusion that living is just as easy fine as dying. And all the stuff in between is based on 1 prime-time thing: Fuckin’. If only we had a button to which we could all just get a fuck in during our busy, mega-worried lives. I’m fairly sure, were this button to exist, we could most certainly solve the over-population problem. And war. But probably not a zombie attack.

 

“I wasn’t a sex symbol, I was a sex zombie. ” – Veronica Lake

 

You know, more than anything, I would love to live through a zombie attack. I think that this sort of thing is needed in many people’s lives. Especially those who have recently suffered/surrendered to the financial DOWNTURN/depression. What could help people feel good about themselves? Did someone say, Zombie Attack? More importantly, if this happened, A) population density would drastically change for the better; B) You can finally have the chance to be a real hero/oine; C) With all of the people gone, you’re going to have much more time to read the latest books. Let’s be honest, we’re all secretly waiting for this…

 

 

“The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep. ” – Robert Frost

 

Where I live, it’s dinner time.

 

Our House Is Multidemensional

“What then is time? If no one asks me, I know what it is. If I wish to explain it to him who asks, I do not know.”

- Saint Augustine

 

I have no idea why we do the things we do, why we live the way we do, and how we continue to ignore our fears, our dreams, and yes, even our desires. When you cross into other worlds, other cycles of reality, you become a different thing. A different kind of animal. Not homo-sapien, but of the homo genus. And many times, when you return to the time portal in your house, you’ll have to dust off the cosmic dust that’s accumulated on your shoulders and face.

 

“Fair peace becomes men; ferocious anger belongs to beasts.”

- Ovid

 

Of what I can remember, it was the things that I saw, that made the most sense. There were 4 of us, and we were travelers through space and time, through the lowest astral planes an experience can give forth; our cosmic glowing dust was purple and thick, dark and powerful pictures of the human experience. But when you’re human, these things seem normal…it’s when you’re unhuman that these things appear to be very foreign, and seemingly very dangerous. When you’re unhuman, you believe in the colors, and speak in the language of interconnected imagery. You believe in the sounds; the chase. And although you are not human, you are still of primitive nature. And in this primitive nature, you seek wisdom from the earth.

 

“From my rotting body, flowers shall grow and I am in them and that is eternity.”

- Edvard Munch

 

When in this area of the transparent mind, often you will feel like battling a great force. This force is from within, and entangled with your experiences. But it is the unbalance of this force that makes you capable of moving through the worst…consequence and relation. Consequence from exerience, and relation to the reality of consequence. Because there is this unbalance, this duality, you are forced by nature, to confront the force. To deal with the force in your own unique manner.

“In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life: it goes on.”

- Robert Frost

Where is the now? You’ve awakened from your weary and long night traveling, and now you seek rest. Work wants you, people need you, life is demanding…but you are tired; the energy spent moving from one dimension to the other is a rigorous thing. Your friends are there, they have all returned, and become themselves once again. The journey has ended, and like wearing a nametag and uniform at work, you resume your roll as a human being. Until the next time, that is, when the ceremony  demands your presence.

Weekend Worriers

“Future me with — authentic Caucasian beard extensions.”

Going to school is pretty fun. I have to admit, getting books, talking to counselors, financial aid process (doing taxes), dorm parties, hanging out with underage drinkers (who are proficient in talking about strong philosophical approximations), and soaking in the intense intellectual ardor of Sylvia Plath through the eyes of a freshman young adult is nothing but PRECIOUS. Nonetheless, this weekend, has been good. And I didn’t lose anything important. Just my dignity.

 

“Men are like steel. When they lose their temper, they lose their worth.” (Chuck Norris)

Moreover, last night, I watched a vicious UFC fight. It was raw, intense, graceful, and at the same time, twisted. The fight was between a beloved fighter named George St. Pierre (GSP for short); and another guy named BJ Penn (largly considered a d-bag in many social circles). I like to watch these things. I’m not sure if it’s because I’ve weened myself over the years of trash-tube footage (the Internet is amazing and renowned for finding PRETTY MUCH ANYTHING); or if I just have realized the need to learn how to fight like a ninja. For details, click here. Oh, and mind the Quebecois rap music — very inspirational. 

 

 

“A man is a success if he gets up in the morning and gets to bed at night, and in between he does what he wants to do. ” (Bob Dylan)

 

I should be studying now. It’s true. I have so much to study for, and yet, here I am writing a blog here. I wish I didn’t have to be doing this…but I felt the strong need to write. Perhaps this need sprung forth through my recent encounter with the idiosyncratic demeanor that first-year college students often project  like a beacon of soft burning naiveté? my love of writing songs about Quilts, Bear Bells, Bears in Boxes, and other such complicated or meaningless contraptions? or was it because I have mastered some area of my life…and want to talk about me? You know, I really should be writing my poor incarcerated cousin…

 

“All is vanity…” (Charles Allan Gilbert)

I had the opportunity to meet a new person the other day, and in this meeting (we’d been drinking, etc); I asked to her, “What part of yourself would you want to change the most, if you indeed wanted to change it?” She replied, “I’m vain. It’s true…I’m philistine…it’s sad..I wish I wasn –” I cut her off, “Yeah, Israel, jeez…I can’t express how much my heart goes out to your family…extended family..”

She thinks I’m stupid. And I think she’s right. In all actuality, this weekend’s been a good reminder to:

1. Brush up on Israel
2. Buy groceries
3. Don’t keep a loaded weapon in the house
4. Get belt buckle fixed

RIP January 2009

“Because I have loved life, I shall have no sorrow to die.”

- Amelia Burr

For me to say that this month has been anything but tragic and untimely, would be to let go of the initial kernel that keeps me on the path-of-living. And while there have been so many sentences this month that have started off as “W..why…”, I think we forget that it’s really not up for questioning. It. Is. What. It. Is. 

“Dying is a very dull, dreary affair. And my advice to you is to have nothing whatever to do with it.”

- W. Somerset Maugham

There are many forms of finding death…the worst of course, being a text message. Which in this month, I’ve received, along with an email, and the phone call. And in my midnight pensamientos, I’ve discerned that indeed, the text message death-alert, is the worst among the three. Nonetheless, all forms are ghostly reminders of mortality; and so whenever I get a call from a friend I’ve not spoken with in a while, it’s precisely the first thing I’ve found myself asking, “Hi! It’s so good to hear from you! Hey um…real fast, has anyone we known, died?” It’s a quick and effective question, and gets all of the ghastly pretense out of the way. Afterwards, the call allows you both to catch up, converse, talk about ‘things living’. Etc.

“Our death is not an end if we can live on in our children and the younger generation.  For they are us, our bodies are only wilted leaves on the tree of life.”

- Albert Einstein

There’s something to be said about staying alive I for one completely believe I would and should for all intensive purposes (bike accidents, concussions, drugs, car accidents, gunfire, living in the heart of Bushwick, motorcycle riding, walking down the street, etc), be turning in my earthen grave. Like many folks I’ve had the pleasure to meet along my journeys, I’ve learned that Living is truly as good as it gets. Even when it’s terrible and you want to rip your little heart out, or you want to just (my favorite) “disappear”; even if you secretly desire the rest of the world to say, “My god, why is s/he gone, why!?!” Living is as good as it’s going to get. Be lucky that you’re still here, pumping your ruby-reds along with the rest of us scientific experiments. The weary, the brave: STICK IT OUT. Most of all, Zydeco musicians.

 

“We say that the hour of death cannot be forecast, but when we say this we imagine that hour as placed in an obscure and distant future.  It never occurs to us that it has any connection with the day already begun or that death could arrive this same afternoon, this afternoon which is so certain and which has every hour filled in advance.”

- Marcel Proust

If I ever have the opportunity to experience death, I will have always wondered why, it had to be right then, that I had to die. Why not say, now, why not in 2 days, why not ever, like some of earth’s creatures? These are the questions that never cross the mind of a dead person (for obvious reasons), but also because of the time invested in one word: PAPERWORK. For if death is like life in any way — it would be this way. There will be shit loads of paperwork to fill out, meetings with counselors, meetings with other dead folk, FUCKING MEETINGS PERIOD. There will be things like “waiting lines” I mean seriously, that may even be the most interesting part when you’re first dead. You’d be standing in line, looking at everyone else, everyone else looking at you, maybe some of them are happy, maybe some of them are sad — you’re all dead. And that’s something to be proud about. (If you ever had the opportunity to see “Beetle Juice” at an early age, this will make complete and logical sense to you.)

“People living deeply have no fear of death.”  

- Anaïs Nin, Diary, 1967

In the above quote, I completely agree. Not only was Anaïs a very romantic and highly erotic and incredibly sexy woman…she’s damn right. Live Deeply. Do it! Go, and live, your life. Live it like no one has ever lived life before, and you’re the first person who can. And if you die while living your life deeply, and passionately, then you have done everything right. In the words of my ecology professor, “There is still a lot of beauty in this world, go out, enjoy it, while it’s still here.”  

Done. 

 

This post is dedicated to the following people I’ve known closely, and through friends: Kurt (I wish I had your last name), Scott Shaeffer, Colleen Chandler, and the really cool guy from Telfon Tel Aviv, Charlie Cooper. May you all have less paperwork to do in your new life. You’re a bastard Death, for pulling this shit in the beginning of  a new year…but hopefully this will be the last we hear from you for a while. 

 

Blood & Beer, Respectively

After getting out of class today, I stumbled upon a huge, tie-dye looking turd of a bus, and thought, “Fuckin’ A, a blood drive… Count ME IN!” While I realized that perhaps this may not be a good time to give blood (errands to be run, things to do, fix friend’s car up, etc. etc.); I went anyway.

Looking for an entrance I saw this hapless blue tarp, with a little puffy college kid underneath it, her cadaverous and ashen complexion reminding me of every reason not to donate blood. I think she was albino, and smelled like a pound of sun lotion. Nonetheless, I inquired, “Is this the blood drive bus?” She nodded, with this deviant, primitive grin akin to a demonic cave child, and then pointed to the left, “Gotta go up them steps, mister Cunningham.” What is this, 19th century London? And how did she know my name was Cunningham? To my left, I saw the door, narrow stairway and all. I turned back to the delinquent in front of me and slapped her in the face, “Whore”, as I went on my way.

For the purposes of confidentiality, I will call Charles Witherson III, Alfred Miers.

So guess what? He happened to a professional gay man, that spent his hours within this air-conditioned bus, taking the life from young men such as myself. While I pondered his absurd and hyper-feminine vocal chords, he pushed the needle into my arm, and I felt no pain. He was, for lack of a better word, wonderful at this. And this is why I thought he must be a dangerous man.  But as he was trying to tell me something, important, I believe, I paid zero attention. And instead, watched the warm red tube running out of my arm completely absorbed, and fascinated.

Suddenly, I looked up, and realized, he was just taking a bunch of bottles of my blood that would serve as a keepsake of our encounter, and I was stunned and strangely, flattered, that he cared so much about us. I looked away as I blushed intensely, looking at my dapper reflection in the window. Don’t be a fool… he’ll never love you the way you are… My inner wonderings were beginning to take over, as I nearly passed out from the lack of oxygen in my brain.

As the time passed, I felt taken advantage of. I felt, threatened and alone, like every Radiohead song. Nothing to keep me company but the indomitable sense of being that I shared with this lone hanging, little bag of DNA. How, cute… I commented within my solitude. Where was my guitar? What is Thom Yorke doing tonight, and why don’t I have his number anymore? Oh, of course…absinthe…

The warm tubes spiraling down my arms felt like a strange sneaky little animal, one that was also a part of me — one that would keep me company for as long as I needed, until I saw the white light even. The gay man that took my blood, was looking at me now… changing his apron to a pink one with frills and little embroidered pictures of colorful children across the front, all holding hands, and rejoicing in his homosexuality. From across the bus, his teeth, perfectly white, constantly checking his dark, perfect hair in the mirror, he reminded me of someone I once knew…

But he was…no longer with us…

Another interesting point that I’d like to touch upon was the fact that all blood donation facilities were in cahoots with the same linoleum tile-floor makers. I know, that this was at heart a selfish observation, and I don’t listen to Cat Power at night, but, someone had to mention it. Someone has to stand up for the proletariat. Someone has to give blood and notice this utterly pointless shit.

In the end, I ate a bag of shitty cookies, and had some orange juice, which are both part 1 of the only real reason I care about giving blood. Seriously. If it weren’t for the excuse of eating trashy food, the feelings of loss-of-blood-syndrome, and the sensitivity of Alfred, then I seriously doubt anyone would be interested in giving their precious, god-soaked blood to someone not as important as they. Part 2 of my selfish reasoning, is obviously to follow, but below are some of the reasons people give blood. Link provided here.

Giving blood is important, but which of these profiles fit you?

Part 2: Beer.

Moreover, one of my favorite things to do in life is to not listen to people that are smarter, wiser, and more likely to succeed in life. Which is why when Alfred told me not to drink beer, I decided that I should ultimately, drink an entire 4 pack of my favorite beer on planet earth, Boddingtons, Pub Ale. I can’t even believe I am writing this now because according to Alfred, I should be on a ghostly gurney headed to the city morgue. But seriously… how can anyone turn down the silky sunshine yellow and bold blue sheen (or black, blue or black, which is it!? it’s a surprise!) of the can’s quality design?

I answer, “Not I, sir. Not I.”