one glass of wine leads to a bottle, which leads to the beers in the fridge, which leads to up all night writing instead of sleeping ...

what is it that inspires us? is it a person? an idea? a concept? a feeling? a belief? can we be our own source for inspiration?

maybe, just maybe, are we our own inspiration?

i want to say no ...

the friends i have assure me that what it is that keeps me going some days is not a power that comes from within ... i think of the many faces i have known, the joyous moments created together and shared ... but then why the questioning?

is the questioning just a reaction, a response, a reflective analysis? is it something to be analyzed? when does something become so apparent that it warrants no further analysis? does anything escape the reasonableness of analysis?

again, i want to say no ...

god damn my farts are pungent tonight! i made a pasta dish that was soaked in garlic and my farts, only 4 hours later, are filled with the aroma of that magical herb ...

i've been craving garlic with every meal ... i put it in my sandwiches, in my breakfast eggs, in my thanksgiving mashed potatoes, in my mixed drinks ... why?

because the smell, the scent, reminds me of her ...

again, i want to say no ...

i want to say that there is something else that makes me do what i do ... i don't want to draw straight lines, reasons that seem too simple to comprehend ... i'm aiming for unconventional ... but not to simply be different from others ... just to try and find my own voice ... maybe it's not unique, but it's mine ... and i'm searching, harder than ever ...

law school feels like 4 walls of convention closing in on me, pushing in, getting closer and closer and leaving me gasping ... i feel that way before class, during class, after class ...

and it's not that law school is too hard, the material is fairly simple, it's a fear inside of me that whispers i am heading toward something that is not completely free ...

as i build-up my resume, and re-word it to make it look "stronger" so that someone might notice something and think about interviewing me, i look at that piece of paper and automatically recognize: THIS IS NOT ME!

i am more than my education and work experience ... i have a story to tell ... but of course this response is cliche, no? nevertheless, i fall into it ...

this is where i want to say, yes ...

i think i have a story to tell ... not necessarily my own life, perhaps tales of my life mixed in, but a story ... i want to be a story-teller ... and i look at the formality of law school and i know that there will be an opportunity to tell stories after law school, and i think that law school will provide me with more stories to tell, but RIGHT NOW, law school just feels so suffocating ... intellectually, emotionally, ethically, creatively ...

so i've taken some personal remedies to these feelings ... i've signed up for tutoring through the office of student life, and it is helping ... i'm not so concerned about grades, i'm more concerned with just finishing this damn first-year and getting a job for the summer ...

and i look at these written words, and i feel my own stress, and i know it really is nothing ... one learns from their own stories, and my own stories of conflict make law school look like pre-school ... yet when you are in it, no matter how objectively you explain it as not a big deal, you're current feelings rule, like a master ... to an extent ...

i suppose that writing and thinking and talking about the way i feel now is an outlet that helps me deal with the suffocating feelings ... hell, i've gone and talked to all my professors about my sincere thoughts about dropping out of law school ... they have all been very encouraging, telling me to just stick it out and that it gets better ...

and i want to say, yes ...

i want to do something great ... as foolish as it seems to me to read that statement ... i want to do something unconventional ... and i'm comfortable with being unconventional, but i've found that others are not so comfortable with conventions being disregarded ... but i think that there is something important to doing what you feel burning within you, to cast aside the norm, not to be obnoxious or funny (which is my lazy practice toward convention), but to do something that inspires people, to put time and effort into developing a craft that flows from you ... that is unexpected, that is fresh, that makes people's usual understanding of things get flipped on its head ... again, not for the sake of difference ... but for the sake of betterment, or perhaps even better, for the sake of beauty? are aesthetics reasonable at all at bottom? and if they're not reasonable (fuck kant), then doesn't that make aesthetics such an unconventional choice for pursuing difference?

convention does not inspire ... of this i am sure ... it pacifies, and helps people get by, helps them especially to succeed ... convention is a system that identifies what you should do, what one ought to do, without thinking about why that normative structure is in place ... when there are norms, the first thing one should do is ask, "WHY?" ... sometimes the norms could be good, but don't trust them ... don't trust them ...

and i keep saying yes ...

give me more ... more of this life ... of the love to experience ... of the friendships that bring me pure joy ... god damn, i feel so fortunate to have so many great people in my life ... their personalities inspire me, their attitudes astound me, their actions force me to raise my face skyward and laugh out loud uproariously! a note, a letter, a text message, even a facebook post from a friend can alter my view of the day ... and our families, our beloved families ... the proximate relation of blood ... i look into the night, windy and cold, and wish i could reach out and touch you all, my mother, my father, my sisters, my cousins, grandparents, here and beyond ... and that's part of our human condition ... these relationships ...

yes, yes, yes ...

walt whitman, one of my favorite poets, a yes-saying man to it all ... and i say yes to the feelings i have, to the thoughts of love that i think, that leave me feeling like a worthy receptacle for another person to share themselves with ... and i mean it when i say this, and i've said it before, and i'll probably say it again: love is the passionate possession of an abundance of uncertainty. it's my stab at a definition of love. it is not certain in itself. it circumvents certainty, through its active possession of uncertainty. when someone asks you why you love them, simply answer, with love the why is the what ...

and so more questions remain ...

how does one tell a story within the field of law as a professional within the field of law? the only position that comes to my mind, off the top of my head, is being a judge ... a judge listens to the cases at hand, writes the opinions that tell the story of the plaintiff and the defendant, leaves behind a record of the happenings of the particular case that is heard in a court of law ... so really, the only natural position i could, perhaps, see myself inhabiting within this field of law is that of a judge ... but being a judge ... what a heavy toll ... yes?

a judge holds the life of other people in his/her hands ... what a responsibility! but is it a justified responsibility? should a person, or a group of people, namely judges, be able to make decisions based on their expertise and their knowledge of law be able to make decisions that will effect the lives of people? to put them in prison? for life? to make them pay money in damages? (offhand i want to say that our system of justice pretty good, but i think we should be asking these fundamental questions in law school, where people might actually be judges someday ... i mean christ, let's give law students some good reasoning with which they can defend our legal system! maybe it happens later in law school, i don't know, i don't know much about law school, but i do know that our legal system does not exist without protest to its structure and practice ... shouldn't we be learning about the theoretical basis that the system that we will one day practice in is based upon?

or even a jury?

who says that a jury of our peers is a just way to deal with those who violate our norms? i know these questions have been asked before, and i assume they were asked while our system was created, before it was created ... our system was carefully crafted, or was it? how is it that our system, so carefully crafted, allows for injustice in its current state? murderers sometimes walk free, innocent people are put to death in the gas chamber ... is the story telling privilege that a judge has worth the weight of knowing that decisions that are made could even end a life?

is there another story-telling option within the field of law? the historian tells a story, but not the same way a judge does ... the judge tells the story in a contemporaneous form, thinking in the present, reflecting on the past, but looking into the future as considerations are made ... the historian, it is assumed, only looks to the past for evidence, for accuracy, and then reports ... the judge shapes the way in which things will happen in the future ... what a burden ... a burden i would never want to carry ...

the judge is a biblical phenomenon ... the jewish people came out of egypt, and it is not soon after that, that god institutes a system of justice ... judges are appointed to make decisions, to decide between conflicts ... do we really need judges? do we? is the biblical reliance on a system of justice justified in this day and age? can we come up with something better? are judeo-christian-muslim values fair to everyone? do they accurately investigate, nay, do they even attempt to investigate what justice is? don't they just tell us what justice is, and leave us as passive recipients of a concept that governs the way that we live from day to day?

sometimes when i read cases i see some of the obviously unfair results, where a regular person does something that is seemingly not wrong at all ... their lack of knowledge of the law leads them to make a "mistake" unknown to themselves ... and a group of judges (or a single judge), with their legal expertise, can look at and analyze that seemingly small and maybe innocent infraction against the minutiae of the law and bring back a verdict that disturbs us all ... and yet, take the homosexual movement ... the law, the constitutional law, seems clear, absolutely clear that prejudice against citizens of the unites states based on their sexual orientation is unconstitutional ... and courts are starting to recognize this discrimination, and based on a judge's knowledge of the minutiae of the law, they are able to identify and argue that gay people should be allowed to marry (and soon serve in the military) ... how do we balance this precarious use of specific knowledge of the law, so that "justice" truly prevails? it seems that it can cut both ways, the study of minutiae benefiting those regular folk who lack knowledge of the law, while at the same time seemingly punishing them for a lack of knowledge they never, or should never expect to have ...

i want to say yes again, but i can't ... exactly ...

"justice" is a fiction ... we rely upon justice as if it is real, as if it is there, as if the arguments that we make against the positions that we disagree with are grounded in some fundamental understanding of justice ... but this is just not true ... justice is malleable ... a concept ... that we have created to aid us ... and so the judge is left with an un-solid ground on which to stand, on which to judge from ... such a precarious position ... and so judges, like antonin scalia, create another fiction, a solid ground to stand on, a constitutional certainty that allows him to remain, perhaps internally consistent in his logic, but dreadfully inconsistent when compared with another rubric of thought concerning the issues of constitutionality ... so the field of law seems to say that consistency is something that is valued within opinion ... where does that leave truth? isn't truth tied up in justice, in figuring how to delve into what is just? in outlining what we consider to be liberty, freedom, human rights? how can the law straddle two competing views and maintain justice? can it? or is the bigger question that law is precisely that thing that allows us to straddle differing views and provide for a way of disagreeing that still instills order?

but is order in itself valuable if it does not value the truth? is order worth it? are conventions worth getting rid of truth, or relegating truth to the background? does our societal comfort take precedence over discovering what the truth of the matter is? unfortunately, after years of studying philosophy, i would say that our contemporary society on the whole is whole-heartedly willing to sacrifice truth for convenience ... but it's not just contemporary society, this is not a "today is worse than yesterday" stance ... it's always been that way ... that's my contention ... human beings seem to always be willing to sacrifice an investigation of truth for a more convenient explanation, or lifestyle ... that's because, i think, pursuing the truth is hard ... and i mean this in a non-religious, non-spiritual sense ... i am talking about seeking truth, wisdom, and love in the tradition of socrates and nietzsche ... the hardest part, i think, about pursuing the truth is that we will not discover what it is ... the truth, any truth, is always just out of our grasp, yet, i think it is still a worthwhile endeavor, in fact, perhaps the only worthwhile endeavor ...

and yes, i affirm yes, again and again ...

and so, do i have a story to tell? i think so ... i'm not sure why i feel this way, i can only tell you the what of the story ...

(the following is a continuing outline of a story i am telling ... this is the bare bones ... memories, brought back through writing, that will be expanded with a greater amount of flesh ... some are the truth ... some are made-up ... this is a story ... not a biography of my life, though for those who know me it may seem very similar ... i am not concerned with providing the truth of my life here ... i am interested in entering into that powerful structure of fictional narrative ... this is of my own selfishness, and perhaps benefit ... narrative, i think, is one of the most powerful literary tools we have at our disposal, and i suppose that in sharing bits of myself, with myself, but writing these bits into a story that is not necessarily about me will teach me something about me ... isn't that what a good narrative does? teach us? so i share out of purely selfish motives, just to be clear, with the intention, or if not the intention, the idea that writing my thoughts down will benefit me somehow ... this is not unique, this is a practice handed down for ages ... augustine set the bar high with confessions, and i think rousseau raised it even higher with his 'the confessions' ... i have been so concerned with truth, why cast it aside when i choose to share, or write about pieces of myself? i think it's because i already know the truth about myself, how could i not? i want to be learning something new about myself ... we are changing beings, always in a state of flux, and i think it takes effort, real intellectual endeavors to learn more, not just about the world around us (the information that we are bombarded with), but to pursue, passionately, and at times recklessly, more information about ourselves. i think, and i could be drastically wrong, that the narrative structure of our own lives, enlivened with tales of fantasy and self-grandeur, tell us something about ourselves that we might not otherwise know. to imagine ourselves a certain way, with money, with power, with good looks, with a loving family, with no friends, etc. ... by imagining ourselves in this way we are free to explore who we might be, who we could become, to see ourselves in the most positive, or the most negative light possible ... and to learn from these perceptions, to establish ourselves in this real world with lessons that are intimate, and meaningful, strong, and capable of providing us with what we need to survive as rational beings in this crazy fucking world ... yet we can't do it by ourselves, i don't think ... and that's that power of narrative too ... even if we write it for ourselves, like i'm doing here, it still communicates to OTHERS! in the end, i think, i can write and learn from myself, but whatever i write becomes banal to myself without the feedback, input, or enjoyment that others find in my writing and who i expose myself as ... one last question before the story: is life, a meaningful life, a reciprocal practice?

we arrived at my grandparent's house, greeted by open arms. the first memory i have of my new school as a first-grader is playing smear-the-queer on the grass field during recess. the game, smear-the-queer, simply consisted of one person holding a football and everyone else tried to tackle the ball carrier. i'm not sure where the name came from, but it's anti-gay title was lost on us at the age of 6. i remember being pretty good at smear-the-queer. i was hard to tackle and i tackled other people well. soon i had friends. i remember reading and writing assignments in class. not specifically what the assignments were, but i remember writing short stories about animals and reading them out loud to the class. i remember making paper ornaments for christmas, stuffed with newspaper. i remember that our classroom had a loft and that we were allowed to climb up the wooden ladder and read up there if we had been good that day. the loft only had room for about 7 or 8 kids, so it was a competition to get up there everyday. i got up there everyday. i remember that as a kid, even 6 years old, i was fascinated with the written word. it surprised me that the written word could communicate to me in way similar to living, breathing people. i think you could say i was hooked.

i was not, necessarily, a passionte reader at first; i had many distractions. i would rather go to my next door neighbor's house and play nintendo or play g.i. joe around the neighborhood, or play catch, or climb on the jungle gym, or look at and organize our baseball cards, or ride our bmx bikes and make trails through the fields, or go down to the corner store and eat hot dogs, and drink soda, and buy candy from hank. something happened, i believe, during a meeting between my first-grade teacher and my mom. i suppose i was underachieving, so they set-up a reading program with my grandfather. my grandfather would read with me every night, and every time i finished a book i would get a sticker up on a chart. when the chart was filled up we got to go bowling. i ate it up. i became a reading machine as a kid. i excelled. in the second grade i was invited to the gate program ... something reserved for the smart kids. i was allowed to stay for a short time before i was kicked out for misbehavior. so i joined the regular classroom, but was placed in an advanced reading and spelling group. i remember that i had a 7th grade study buddy, and we had read some of the same books: the hobbit, the fellowship of the ring series, among others. i loved j.r.r tolkien, but i can remember that my favorite trilogy series of books was by lloyd alexander, the westmark trilogy. a rich storyteller, with imperfect characters who demonstrated to me, even as a kid, the human condition.

my exuberance for acting out in class continued into the third grade. i can remember many instances of being reprimanded by my teacher, mr. holloway. i can also remember that i was acting with intent. i was not misbehaving because i did not know any better; i knew, i knew full well. i think that i reveled in misbehavior, at that time i only reveled in the obnoxious kind of misbehavior, when breaking rules is the only kind of misbehavior available to an 8 year old. when one gets older, one realizes that misbehavior is an asset, a way to counterbalance all of the mindless rule-following ... could it be, that even at that young age, all i wanted the other kids around me to do, and the adults too, was to think?

4th grade was a hard time. we moved out of my grandparent's home; just me, my mom and my two younger sisters. we moved in with a friend of my mom's who was getting a divorce from her husband and had two kids of her own. all the while, my mom and her friend were college students, raising kids as single mothers. whoa. i really have such respect for single mothers, especially, of course, my own mother. it's funny, anytime i meet someone who was also a child of a single parent, but especially a single mother, there is usually this instant connection between us. an appreciation, a treasuring of our mothers; and i treasure that connection. i realize that that connection extends to those who have never had parents, or grew up in a home with problems (problems not meant to be taken lightly ... i mean we all have problems, but i think you know what i'm getting at ... shared feelings from hard experiences is all).

i was alone in a new school at 9 years old. no friends. fights on the bus. fights at school. the bus driver not caring to notice that 3 older kids were punching me towards the back of the bus, me trying to bite, kick, or scratch anyone within reach. that after 2 months i stopped riding the bus. i walked to and from school. i left early from my house so i would get to school on time, and i would pretend to wait in line for the bus after classes got out at school until the teachers who were supposed to make sure we got on the bus got bored, then i would begin my trek home. it was my secret. it was my time to damn and curse everyone who was mean to me. who picked on me for no reason, because i was the new kid at school. an entire school year this went on, and i remember repeating to myself, never again will i be so weak. never again will i let these idiots dictate to me my own choice. i would ride the bus at the next school, and meet them with everything i had. even if that would be my fists, or my teeth, or my screams, or my blood. i swore i would never bow to that kind of pressure again. i was 9 years old.

god bless america. my mom picked us up and we moved back in with my grandparents, and i got to go back to my old school. i can still remember walking back into my 5th grade classroom, Mrs. Bishal was my 5th grade teacher (she had also been my 2nd grade teacher), and within two weeks myself and another kid had secured the prized desks in the classroom: we got to sit, just the 2 of us, with our desks facing each other. everyone else had to sit in groups of four. you see, we were advanced ... or something like that. i mean, we got the top scores on all the math tests, we got tops on the spelling tests, and we were pretty nice kids who didn't get in trouble. you see, i liked and respected Mrs. Bishal, and i knew that i did not want to do anything to disappoint or disrespect her. if i am recalling correctly, i got to sit in my special desk for a little over half the year. but it was too good to last.

i distinctly remember watching a history video on MLK in the 5th grade, and the civil rights movement. i think that this was my initial exposure to that piece of our country's history. i remember thinking how dumb it was that the white people in the videos did not let the black people into the same schools, or the same restaurants, or to drink from the same fountain. i just remember thinking that those people were dumb, they didn't know any better. and yet, after watching the video we went outside for recess and one of my friends was hawaiian, and during the football game i called him a dumb nigger, undoubtedly seeing a shade of skin different than my own and associating it with the african americans i had seen earlier that day in the video. that new word, nigger, was just waiting to leave my lips and i knew that it was bad, and when the slightest bit of anger occurred during a sports competition, i let it fly. his name was reef, and he was a good friend of mine. he let it slide a couple of times. then he started to realize that i was calling him a derogatory term. reef was much bigger than me, in fact the biggest, strongest kid in our class. the bell rang and we went in. then lunch recess. and i continued with the name calling. we got in a fist fight. i remember having to tell Mrs. Bishal what happened and breaking out in tears. she asked me if i understood what i was saying, and i really didn't ... i knew it was bad, and that it meant something bad, but i wasn't sure what it meant and why i had decided to use it exactly, but i did know it was powerful. Mrs. Bishal, bless her heart, told me what it meant, told me how and why it was hurtful to people, and that it was inappropriate to call people niggers. after that day i lost my special seat and sat with a group of 3 other people. a girl got my seat. a cute girl if i recall correctly. and i was pissed at myself for screwing something up needlessly. i had the best seat in the class, and all because something inside of me wanted to test something. and i paid for it. at that young of an age, honestly, i was devastated. i still did well in my school subjects and the grades of everyone in my group improved, as i helped them with their long division and fractions, and spelling assignments. but i had become angry. maybe i hadn't become angry, maybe was i just channeling an anger that hadn't yet surfaced. i think the latter is correct.

i remember the 6th grade for three significant things: our basketball team went undefeated and i got my first F and i got my first detention. our basketball team dominated. i was good at smear-the-queer, but my basketball skills were lacking. i was part of the second team; i got to play about a quarter a game, unless it was a blowout, i would get to play more. through basketball i was formally introduced to social status. i was suddenly cool. i liked girls, and for the first time they liked me back. during that time i just supposed that they liked me for me, but of course it is clear, being a member of an undefeated basketball team gets you girls. and so i reveled in it. i remember the first time i called a girl on the phone. it was strange. we talked about walking home from school, and what we would do that weekend, and what class was like the day before. all inane conversations. but it didn't matter. the newness, and strangeness of talking to a girl on the phone, and knowing that not many other people were doing that yet. you see, this kind of information in the 6th grade travels, and myself and my best friends kevin and kalin were amongst the first to bridge that divide (in reality others might have been doing it too, but we were unaware of them, just as they were unaware of us, making it feel like an original endeavor; not to mention that the class before us, and the class before them had done the same. yet we felt like columbus discovering the americas). the first time i asked a girl to "go out with me" ... my first kiss ... the first time i felt a pubescent breast ... the first time i saw a porno rag ... the first time i tried to masturbate, with no success ... the first time i drank a beer, smoked a cigarette ... 11 years old and feeling like i knew it all ... doing things i conceived to be wrong, yet standing up for things ...

my best friend was kevin brown in the 6th grade. i'd say we were pretty much inseparable. his dad ron had bought the corner store from hank (the store was right across from our school and functioned as a hangout). we scored free hot dogs, baseball cards, sodas, and doughnuts on the regular. we alternated weekends staying at each other's homes. one night we were having a nerf basketball dunk contest in my bedroom, complete with rules and a tournament style elimination. we could each choose three player to emulate, therefore we each had three characters to play as in the tournament. i only remember my first choice: larry bird. my friend ryan jones was over too. the three of us. playing in my bedroom after dinner. the adults in the front room. probably around 8pm. kevin tried all his dunks while he was pretending to be michael jordan. but he missed all three. ryan and i both told him his turn was over. he was upset. he started cursing. using foul language. the S word: shit. the F word: fuck. i could feel something twisting in my stomach as i told him he wasn't allowed to say those words in my grandparent's house, (my grandparents were church-going christians and they didn't allow that kind of language in their house. my own kind of hypocrisy never crossed my mind, as i said shit and fuck all the time, but i suddenly felt the urge to protect the rules of my grandparent's home). kevin stopped and concentrated as he stared me in the eye and said, "Fuck you! What the fuck are you gonna do about it?" in an instant i had cocked my right arm and punched him in the nose, while in the same movement, lunged at him and tackled him. i remember choking him and looking at ryan who was sitting on my bed wide-eyed as i told him to go get my mom. i felt something sticky on my arm and looked down. i had bloodied kevin's nose when i hit him and it was all over his face and t-shirt. i instantly felt, not just sorry, but horrible. yet i held him down on the ground, no small feat, as he was PISSED and a little bit bigger than me, but i kept my forearm against his throat tight, keeping him in place. my mom came in and i remember her shouting at me to get off of kevin. i did as i was told, and kevin started crying. he ran out of the room. i started crying too. hard. my mom followed kevin, consoled him. my grandmother came back to my room and told me it would be ok as she held me and stroked my forehead. my mom called kevin's dad. he came to pick him up. ron was a bit more savvy in dealing with fighting boys, as kevin had an older brother, craig, and they would mix it up pretty regularly. ron asked to see me. i was afraid of him, even though he was a very kind man. he asked me what happened. i told him. he asked kevin what happened. kevin denied saying shit and fuck. ron asked him why i hit him then, if he didn't say those words. kevin answered, in typical 11 year old fashion: that he didn't know. ron made us shake hands and then ron gave me a hug. ryan felt uncomfortable and i didn't feel like playing anymore. his mom came and got him too. the next day we had basketball practice. the whole incident was forgotten between us and we were friends again like it never happened. i wonder if that was because of our youthful age and natural inclination of forgiveness, or was it that the conversation was dominated by, even by 6th graders, the war in irag that had just started and was being aired on tv? i distinctly remember us laughing and joking that we wished we could be in iraq fighting saddam hussein instead of attending basketball practice. we were 11 years old.

back to my first F. starting in the 5th grade we had a woman come into class twice a week to teach us french. we also had some hippie dude come in with a guitar twice a week to lead us in songs (my friends and i teased him mercilessly and he eventually quit during our 5th grade year). so in the 6th grade i had really started to realize my potential in making other kids in the classroom laugh by saying or doing things. thus far it had not affected my grades, except my french grade. you see, i saved a special amount of obnoxiousness for our poor french teacher. mis-pronouncing words on purpose, getting out of my seat and walking around, doing whatever i wanted and ignoring her when she spoke to me ... the usual behavioral issues i suppose. my mom got my report card and i remember her being very upset. REALLY upset. you see, she was pretty good friends with my 6th grade teacher (and my mom was working on getting her teaching credential at that time in college. my mom asked me if i would treat her that way, and of course i said no, and felt terrible). and i remember that talk with my mom having a serious impact on me, such that i changed my behavior in the class and improved my grade in french class. WE ARE SO MALLEABLE AS CHILDREN! RIGHT? it seems we lose that as adults. when we hurt someone else, do something that is clearly disrespectful for no apparent reason, as adults we seem to lose that automatic apologetic response to a discussion about what might've been wrong with our actions (of course, as soon as i say an 'automatic apologetic response' i know i have misspoken. kids, adults, elderly, we all carry the weight of not apologizing when it is clearly necessary. maybe we don't lose anything at all as adults. maybe it's an individual choice, not based on age, maturity, or gender. maybe we are all socially reprehensible at times? i vote yes. and i'm not trying to suggest that social reprehensibility is necessarily a bad thing. maybe sometimes it's against the law, but other times it might serve as the way that we evolve as a species. that's all to say that the uncoerced apology seems like it could be something special). that's one thing i will take away from my mom when it comes to discipline: she usually sat me down and talked to me about why she was upset with me, and why what i did was not ok (for the most part my mom did that, but of course there were times when i drove her sooooo crazy that she reacted with that parental anger that so resembles a child's anger).

i also got my first detention. i had to sit with 7th and 8th graders after school in a classroom. this was because, prior to the talk my mom gave me, ms. cox (our 6th grade teacher), stuck her tongue out at me. i can't remember why she did that, i think it was because i got an answer wrong when i raised my hand. so when she stuck out her tongue i told her, "no thanks. i use toilet paper." you know, just an 11 year old telling his teacher to lick his asshole after taking a shit.

...

to have, and to hold ...

it's not that i have principles that i won't ever stray from ...
it's that i just care ...
i am willing to to put myself out there, to put my ass on the line when there is a threat to justice ... to what i perceive as justice ...
there is a phrase, a cliche ... i'm not big on cliches, but you know, building character ...
when one goes through a sacrificial act for what they perceive are the right reasons, maybe good reasons, maybe just reasons ... the person comes out the other side ... a bit different ...
to hold onto something when it hurts ...
to hold onto something when the holding on is causing pain ...
to hold onto something when the holding on is hurting others ...
to hold onto something when it kills your career ... wrecks your marriage ... flunks you out of school ...
to hold onto something because whenever that thing that was trying to get you to let go is gone, you still have a hold on something ... and then you can let it go ... but it will never leave you ... it stays with you forever ... and the different you, is you.

it's not too late ...

i don't have to think too hard to realize that i am not too far from saying: this law school shit is a waste of my time.

it's the way the way they make you want to try and think, which is to say, not think much at all ...

but i got my BU law school review journal in the mail the other day, and i read Aaron Garrett's paper and it made me re-think my precarious position as a law student ... there's something to do here that matches up with my intuitions about justice, philosophy, politics, love, etc. ... i think ... i'm hanging my hat on hopes ...

heretofore

rather the wind, rather the time
passing on the wings of my spirit

into the dreams of our innocent moments
we pull out our insides
to breathe into them
a nuanced reclamation

cover the child, cover the senses
rolling on the rocks of the bed

onto the thoughts of our incensed beginnings
together we drift
another quickened pace
a twilight opens and closes

words ...

i sent this to one of my professors. he talked about it in class. not many people seemed to think it was worth talking about ...

The first few weeks of law school are ethically and morally alarming. In a place where people are attempting to learn how to be the administrators of justice, there is a callousness to the concept of justice that is, quite frankly, offensive. Instead of an education in whether the law is right or wrong, or just or unjust, law school has encouraged us to get away with what we can on behalf of our client as long as the law allows for it. This kind of moral bankruptcy and questionable ethical practice disguised with the word “professionalism” is alarming because lawyers, with their privileged position of service within society should be at least minimally engaged with the questions: what is just and should I pursue this argument simply because the law allows for it and it will make myself and my client money? This is not meant as a kind of higher calling to justice, per se, but a promotion of the thought that striving to do what is just, while seemingly a longer and harder road than evaluating everything through a practicality lens, is actually more practical in the end. That is because justice solves problems, while doing what is allowable under the law for immediate benefit prolongs problems. This is alarming to me, because I thought that lawyers were supposed to be problem solvers, not obfuscators.

Left in One

patterns, cycles
of past into present
repeating itself
again, and again, and again, and again

reverse, circumvent
the promise of staying
inside yourself
once, just once, just once, just once

background noise

you are a product of me
a dream landscape
filled with memories and make-believe
and when we speak our words buttress each other

folding, collapsing, rolling
the motion freezes our thoughts
our eyes meet and narrow
a feeling stands between us, bridging the gap

i stand and realize
all the mistakes i've made count for something
they brought me here
and i belong to you

why should i be afraid of fear?

Help Help

Tell me what I wanna hear
This shits too good to be true
My dear

Tell me lies
Tell me lies, tell me
Tell me lies, tell me

Help me

Storybook keeps from hurting me
You see
Shell of the man from the sea

Tell me lies
Tell me lies, tell me
Tell me lies, tell me

Tell me why
Tell me why, tell me
Tell me why, tell me

Tell me lies...

Help me

Reservoir
Of hate and fear
Invisible
In repair
A hundred thieves
Cast a spell
This is hell

Help me

The man they call my enemy, I've seen his eyes
He looks just like me, a mirror

The more you read, we've been deceived
Everyday it becomes clearer...

Clearer.

Not my enemy.. no, not my enemy..
Don't speak for me. No, not my enemy.

- jeff ament, eddie vedder

tell me

i'll tell you how i feel all right
sundays, into mondays
surrounded

repercussions exist to qualify our emotions
to represent something in the night
introduced to something new
a heat wave of light inside of the fear

absolute, definite
not predetermined in the least
god weeps
for something better than this

heartbeats slowly to this
another lullaby in a heart of bliss
take it outside
for another go round

presence relaxes

i have to write, i have to
to bring out the inner truths
the soft spoken, tissue drenched substance
to feel, and to be, totally alone

bring about a change of heart
turn away from something else
to take heart in the moment

anytime we reckon, we study the lines
to reach out toward love
to cast away our deep ends
and approach a way in time

bring about a change of heart
turn away from something else
to take heart in the moment

i ask myself to listen
to the fragments of silence
to bring about a new thing
to produce just one more smile

and we bring about the new things
and a smile's just a mile

in the dawn that is approaching
we cast a glance that resonates ...

Summer Reading

House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski ★★★★★

Still Life with Woodpecker by Tom Robbins ★★

For Whom the Bell Tolls by Ernest Hemingway ★★★★

Slaughterhouse Five by Kurt Vonnegut ★★★

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce ★★★

Naked Lunch by William S. Burroughs ★★★

comedy

a thank you of sorts ...

Dear Jeff, Matt, Stone, Mike, and Ed,

I’m sending you a copy of the thesis that I wrote for my Master’s degree in Philosophy. Your music has inspired me over the years, and specifically inspired me during the writing of my thesis, and I hope in some way that if you get the chance to read it, some piece, some part of it might inspire you too.

I guess I’ll share a bit about myself, to put into context the ideas that I wrote about. I’m currently 30 years old, getting ready to attend law school at Syracuse University. How did I get here? Well, I’ll start with what I see as relevant in regard to your music. I was a freshman in high school when I got my hands on your second album, Vs. That was the first one I listened to, as I was a big Nirvana fan and being a Nirvana fan at that time in high school meant not listening to Pearl Jam! Finally my friend Tyler convinced me that I was missing out on something and he let me borrow his Vs. cd. I took it home and recorded it onto a cassette with my little boom box and even cut out some construction paper and re-drew the album cover and slipped it into the cassette case. I was instantly hooked on ‘Leash”. And soon I was sold on the whole album, literally overnight. I returned to school and told my friend Tyler about staying up all night listening to the album and he said, “Oh, well you’re in luck. That’s their second album, their first album is called Ten.” I bought Ten the next day, and ever since I had that initial encounter with your music it has had a lasting, profound impact on my life.

I joined the Army as an Infantry soldier right out of high school. I didn’t have to see any combat, but I spent the first 18 months being brainwashed and looking forward to war. I spent a year in South Korea & my second year began at Ft. Campbell, KY where we were prepping to go to Kosovo. Around that time something in me began to question what the hell I was doing with my life. Part of it was being in a relationship with a college girl who dumped me after a month because, as she said, “You and your fucking friends are all crazy!” And she was right. We were all crazy. Drunk every night, looking for a fight, or to get laid, or do some drugs; anything I think not to think about what we were involved in. Her breaking up with me served as some kind of wake-up call, as I started to reflect upon the things they made us say and do. They were training us to kill people. It wasn’t a light-bulb going off in my head or anything, no great epiphany, but I did know something wasn’t right about who I had become, and I didn’t want to continue down that path. So I went AWOL from the Army. I was eventually caught in California (where I’m from), and to make a long detailed story short, I ended up serving two weeks in Mendocino County Jail in California until the Army came and got me, and eventually served 30 days at Ft. Knox Prison in Kentucky. I was ultimately discharged with an Other Than Honorable Discharge, though 5 years later it was upgraded to General, Under Honorable Conditions.

I got out of the Army still pretty much a wreck, intellectually, emotionally, and maturity wise. I surfed a lot, traveled, worked some jobs, and partied really hard. Saw my first Pearl Jam show in Sacramento at some amphitheatre (must’a been 2000). Went to community college, but I flunked out. I picked up my guitar in earnest and fooled around trying to form a band, but it all just ended in goofing around. I even tried to commit suicide once. Then I jumped on the religion train for a while. Started going to church and soon became a Youth Director at a church. Saw you guys’ play that year in Irvine, CA twice and the San Diego Sports Arena show, where Ed did ‘Arc’ (2003 I think). Got married too. Got kicked out of the church (church can be a pretty un-forgiving place). Tried to commit suicide one last time, but thankfully failed. Went back to school, the same school I had flunked out of 3 years earlier. Re-took the classes I had failed. And while I was there I discovered the academic discipline of philosophy. I had found my niche.

I transferred to UC Berkeley and double-majored in philosophy & rhetoric with an emphasis in public discourse, and studied Ancient Greek. Once I got there I knew I wanted to continue my studies and I began looking at grad schools for philosophy. Went and saw you guys in LA at the Forum and in San Francisco at the Bill Graham Civic Auditorium (2006, I was right up front in SF and had glow in the dark necklaces that we threw to Sonic Youth’s kids on the side of the stage). Got divorced as I finished my undergraduate degree, having grown apart while she worked a professional job and I went to school full-time. I was accepted to a couple programs, and chose Boston University. Worked my ass off in grad school and just finished a few months ago. Got to see you guys play Buffalo and Boston in May, both awesome shows!

I moved out to Boston and I fell in love with a girl. Love. Whether it be romantic love or the love of friendship, or the love for knowledge … I do believe that love is the most powerful force in the world. More powerful than hate, violence, anger … more constructive than compliments, convention, or conviction. I have been lucky enough to experience love with someone and it really opened my eyes to what’s possible in this world. We can do things, we can change things, we can struggle to make the world a better place, but it really only is possible through love. All this is to reflect that when I sat down to write my thesis, I wanted to write something that was important to me personally and hopefully to others. I was not out to write an academic treatise per se, though I was bound by the academic rules of writing, I wanted to write something from my heart. So I wrote it in dialogue with two of my favorite philosophers: Socrates and Nietzsche.

Like I said at the beginning, you all have contributed to my life in a very awesome way, and I wanted to say thank you. My way of saying thank you is by sharing what I wrote in the hopes that it might inspire you in some way, so you’ll be able to keep inspiring all of us who appreciate what you do with your musical talents, and your political voices. ‘Cause everyone needs a little inspiration …

All the Best,


James Marvel

early edition

I remember the first time I ever had a philosophical thought. I was 8 years old, in the third grade. I was riding in the front seat of the family car, a light blue 1984 Datsun 200sx. My Mom driving, my two younger sisters in the backseat asleep. We were on our way to a weeklong family camp with the Arcata Nazarene Church. I remember driving out on the long, narrow, twisty highway surrounded by redwood trees and a clear star sparkling sky. Looking out the window, my head tilted upward I distinctly recall this line of questioning: is this real? Are the thoughts that I’m having really mine? Who am I? What am I doing here? … These questions came and went in an instant. At 8 years old they were suddenly upon me and I didn’t have the wherewithal to answer them. They passed somewhere into my consciousness to arise years later. But I do remember that initial moment when those questions first arose. Questions I assume everyone has asked themselves at some point, only to shuffle them away without revisiting them or recognizing their existence but ignoring the way in which struggling with these questions could effect their lives.

The Datsun 200sx. Our family car. Given to Mom by my grandfather. But I’ll talk about it more later. First some history.

I was born in Eureka, CA at St. Joseph’s Hospital. My birth was supposedly a rough one. My Mom was in labor for 72 hours before she got that big needle stuck in her back. I came out with a big bump on my head. I went in for surgery. There was a lot of fluid build up from all the pushing. I wore a big bandage on my head as a baby. I don’t remember any of this. My Mom was 21 years young, and I think my dad must’a been 21 or 22. I was their first child. Mom. She came from a Mom and a Dad. With an older sister and a younger brother. dad. He came from a Mom and a dad. My dad’s Mom was a prostitute back in the day and his dad was a customer. Never met him, never even knew who he was. So he had a step-dad. My grandmother on my dad’s side was a prostitute. I ended up purchasing services from prostitutes as an adult. How fitting.

My very first memory as a child. I must’ve been around 2 years old. It was a fight between my Mom and my dad. My Mom and I had just gotten home from the store. My dad was lying in bed. They were arguing. As they argued I remember having a pack of Big Red bubble gum in my hand. I walked up to my dad and gave it to him while his voice rose in volume and aggression towards my Mom. I remember him throwing that pack of Big Red at her. Screaming and shouting now. I began to look for the pack of Big Red. I ended up crawling underneath the bed, sure that it had gone under there. I don’t remember how long I was under the bed, but I do remember I stopped looking for the pack of gum and stayed under the bed crying. Their voices were angry. And just like that, that’s where the memory ends.

I never crawled as a child. One day I just started walking.

A sister comes. They name her Frances. It’s about that time that dad raids the bank account and sells both the cars to pay for his coke addiction. A divorce follows soon afterwards. But not before dad kicks the living shit out of Mom and puts her in the hospital. The next three years are a blur.

Mom gets re-married. Another sister comes. They name her Kathryn. We have left Eureka and moved south to Napa, CA. Wine country. 2 years there: enough time for dad2 to get into some debt with the drug-dealers across the street. Watching Saturday morning cartoons, Mom making me blue pancakes shaped like Mickey Mouse, and making Frances red pancakes. My room was also painted blue. A knock on the door. A man and a woman’s voice asking for dad2. He’s still asleep in bed. Mom tries to wake him, but he refuses to get up. Mom has padlocked the door and they are threatening to break it down. Mom calls the cops. The drug-dealers leave before the cops arrive. Later that night they return. dad2 isn’t home. I watch Mom confront them in the front yard. I stand up on the couch with my hands on the back of the couch balancing myself as I look out the window. Mom is engaged in some kind of dance with the drug-dealing lady. They are grabbing each other’s hair and moving in circles. The drug-dealer lady ends up on the ground. She gets back up and they are swinging at each other briefly before the hair-pulling dance repeats itself. The drug-dealing guy tries to separate them, but they are a tangled mess. The cops come back. Some kind of order is re-stored. No one goes to jail. dad2 comes back later that night. He has a gun. We (me, Frances, and Katy) stay at a neighbor’s house the next day. Mom pulls up in a Uhaul truck that evening with our house packed up. We drive all night to Grandpa & Grandma’s house in Arcata, CA. They meet us in the driveway with open arms.

moving stills

i still think about her everyday
i still want to be with her
i still wish i could wake with her in the morning
i still can't be with another woman

i still love her.

Where Did The Night Go

Long ago the clock washed midnight away
bringing the dawn
oh god, i must be dreaming

time to get up again
and time to start up again
pulling on my socks now

where did the night go?

should have been asleep
when i was sitting there drinking beer
and trying to start another letter to you

don't know how many times i didn't write again last night
should've been asleep when i turned the stack of records over and over
so i wouldn't be up by myself

where did the night go?

should go to sleep now
and say fuck a job and money
because i spent it all on unlined paper
and can't get past: dear baby, how are you?

brush my teeth and shave
look outside
the sky is dark
think it may rain

where did the
where did the
where did the

-Gil Scott-Heron

Going Anywhere

think i'll use the space inside
keep the words where they belong
no, i'll never write a letter, sing another lonely song

if the sky would fade to black
or disappear when you come back
'cause you left me in the city
where i stayed for far too long
oh no, i stayed for far too long

have you seen the shooting stars
while our silence filled the sky
the distance had derailed and i couldn't even try
to show i could be cool, ya know
to show i didn't care, ya know
to show it didn't phase me to be sitting with you there
oh no, not me
not me

keep the highway in your sight
count your change and watch the light
i can't imagine you are going anywhere
i was never here to stay
there's never been another way
i can't imagine never going anywhere
i'm going anywhere

felt the nightmare's 'un-event'
felt the poison drain out slow
saw your eyes when they were empty
found my hate and let it go

if the sky would fade to black
or disappear when you come back
if i broke you with my absence
you would never let it show
oh no, not you
not you

think i'll use the summer light
try to leave here feeling right
no, i will not save my grudges that i've sheltered out of spite

if the sky remained the same, ya know
i'd remember your name, ya know
you broke me with your trying, i would fade into the night

keep the highway in your sight
count your change and watch the light
i can't imagine you are going anywhere
i was never here to stay
there's never been another way
i can't imagine never going anywhere
i'm going anywhere

i'm going anywhere
going anywhere

-Allison Francis

Backspin

Gotta put a little backspin on it
Gotta put a little backspin on it
Gotta put a little backspin on it
Gotta put a little backspin on it

crushed, hit it too hard
been walkin' round the table without any regard
noticing the things that are important to me
but it feels good to be standing on my own two feet

Gotta put a little backspin on it
Gotta put a little backspin on it
Gotta put a little backspin on it
Gotta put a little backspin on it

honey, when i think of you
you go scootin' away with your heart on cue
and i see you flash a smile as you draw aim
but you're scratching up your life and collecting pain

Gotta put a little backspin on it
Gotta put a little backspin on it
Gotta put a little backspin on it
Gotta put a little backspin on it

god, not the father, not the son
just a trickin' little devil let's you know it is done
whispering sweet nothings into your ear
as you pick up your stick and swallow your beer

how did we get here?
what do you want?
just a shiny white ball that don't wanna stop

Gotta put a little backspin on it
Gotta put a little backspin on it
Gotta put a little backspin on it
Gotta put a little backspin on it

Soldier of Love

Lay down your arms, and surrender to me
Lay down your arms, and love me peacefully

Use your arms to squeeze, please
I'm the one who loves you so

There ain't no reason for you to declare
War on the one who loves you so
So forget the other boys, cuz my love is real
Come off your battlefield

Lay down your arms, and surrender to me
Lay down your arms, and love me peacefully, yeah

Use your arms to squeeze, please
That's the way it's got to be

The words that you're usin'
Are hurtin' me bad
But someday you're gonna retreat
Cuz my love baby is the truest you ever had
I'm a soldier of love, that's hard to beat

Lay down your arms, and surrender to me
Lay down your arms, and love me peacefully

Use your arms to hold me tight
Baby, I don't want to fight, no war

Baby, lay down your arms, baby baby
Oh, please, baby lay down your arms
Cha cha cha

-Tony Moon, Buzz Cason

Secret Garden

She'll let you in her house
If you come knockin' late at night
She'll let you in her mouth
If the words you say are right
If you pay the price
She'll let you deep inside
But there's a secret garden she hides

She'll let you in her car
To go drivin' round
She'll let you into the parts of herself
That'll bring you down
She'll let you in her heart
If you got a hammer and a vise
But into her secret garden, don't think twice

You've gone a million miles
How far'd you get
To that place where you can't remember
And you can't forget

She'll lead you down a path
There'll be tenderness in the air
She'll let you come just far enough
So you know she's really there
She'll look at you and smile
And her eyes will say
She's got a secret garden
Where everything you want
Where everything you need
Will always stay
A million miles away

-bruce springsteen

Chloe Dancer/Crown of Thorns

Chloe don't know better
Chloe's just like me, only beautiful
A couple of years' difference
But those lessons never learned
Did you know?

Chloe danced the tables in the French Quarter
She's always been given so I can't always make her laugh
But I'm proud to say and I won't forget

The time spent laying by her side
The time spent laying by her side
Dreams like this must die
And a dream like this must die
Dream like this must...

You ever heard the story of Mr. Faded Glory?
Say he who rides a pony must someday fall
Talkin' to my altar, life is what you make it
And if you make it death well rest your soul away
Away, away, yeah child

It's a broken kind of feeling she'd have to tie me to the ceiling
A bad moon's a comin' better say your prayers, child
I wanna tell you that I love you, but does it really matter?
I just can't stand to see you draggin' down, again
Again, my friend again, oh yeah

So I'm singing
And this is my kinda love
It's the kind that moves on
It's the kind that leaves me alone, yes it does
And this is my kinda love
It's the kind that moves on
It's the kind that leaves me alone

I used to treat you like a lady, now you're a substitute teacher
This bottle's not a pretty, not a pretty sight
I owe the man some money so I'm turnin' over honey
See Mr. Faded Glory is once again doin' time

And this is my kinda love
It's the kind that moves on
It's the kind that leaves me alone, yes it does
And this is my kinda love
It's the kind that moves on
It's the kind that, it's the kind that
It leaves me alone

Like a crown of thorns
It's all who you know
So don't burn your bridges woman
Cause someday...

And this is my kinda love
It's the kind that moves on
It's the kind that leaves me alone
And this is my kinda love
It's the kind that moves on
It's the kind that, it's the kind that

Baby i said com' on, com' on, com' on,
com' on
I said baby
Don't burn your
bridges woman

a.w.

a bridge to nowhere

walking in-between streets, bars, and bathrooms. shooting pool. concentrating on the feeling of the present. we were visionaries. we made love our focus. circling, repeatedly. conversing into the early morning air, the feeling of breath with a trickle of nostalgia burning the backs of our throats. we overcame our fears of each other and exposed our lives underneath streetlamps, gave up our security for freedom. what a tasteful moment. what this night was for. a choice. between fear and love.



the sun rises before our eyes and the fleeting feeling of understanding makes its last gasps heard. we marvel at the warmth, the light, the moment. and we realize we're crossing paths. but we can't stand on this bridge forever. bridges were made for movement, to travel across. yet we can use them for so much more. for stopping and wondering, and thinking aloud. for balancing between two points, to walk a tightrope. sometimes to fall. to death. bridges are places where sometimes things go to die.



a cure for sadness? maybe. a cure for pain? no. there is no cure for pain. we simply fall prey to the experience of pain. no drug, no feeling, no belief, no conviction, no god can cure pain. we feel pain, we have pain. we live with pain. and that is all. so live with it, and make use of it. mix it with your creative forces to make something beautiful. let the sun rise again in your life.

Peace and Love

Found love (found ...?)
Saw my mistake
Broke walls of pain to walk again
I saw the dream
I saw the wake
We shared it all
But not the take

I took it all
I took the oath
I took it all
Til I had most
I took what's left
I gave it breath
I had it all once
I gave it back

e.v.

conflict/ed

the reality of being cut-out, and cut off from her passionate desire ... it feels like the taste of the metallic-y beer she shared with me the other night. it rolls around inside your mouth, an alkaline sensation, your taste-buds working in a different way, dealing with the difference between the full, hearty hoppy flavor of an IPA and the cheap carbonated mixture of water and aluminum. how did this happen? i'm now at the point where understanding that question may only be out of curiosity ... but, no. if i'm being honest, i want to know how and why. did she ever love me? yes. does she still love me? only in a metallic way. do i still love her? yes. i'm working at falling out of love with her. i have to. for my own well-being. it doesn't make sense to pursue someone who doesn't want me. but what about love? if i love her, and i do, doesn't love push through and compel me to do things that may not have my own well-being in mind? but the reality, the metallic reality of her denial of me as her lover, sets in and reminds me that she has given me an answer. and the answer is no. she doesn't want me. she has spoken it to me, written it to me, but most of all her actions and non-actions have spoken volumes. i'm not a priority in her life. i come after scrabble and climbing trees. and despite what she says, she says she loves and cares, her actions are inconsistent with her words. but really, this is all from my perspective. it seems so confusing to me because of my love for her. and i forget when i'm thinking these things through that she is not conflicted about her lack of consistency; she no longer loves me the way she used to and it seems that to her my behavior is confounding. i imagine that from her perspective i seem a bit silly, loving her, wanting her, when she treats me the way she does. she said i don't love you. she said i was never her boyfriend. i treated her poorly for the first time and brought her past back into her life. i intentionally hurt her because i have been in pain for 2 months now. i wanted her to be in pain, because she didn't seem to be experiencing any, or at least if she was, she wasn't sharing that with me. she has things she needs to change if she wants to have and maintain healthy relationships with people. i think she even recognizes this, but she wants to live her fucking life the way she wants to fucking live it and she is not going to change for anyone but herself. that's not something the person i met 9 months ago would have said. the intense girl who asked me what i wanted in life. who asked me interesting questions. who so willingly shared herself with me. and as open as she was for 6 months, and as free as she was in sharing herself, she always kept a piece of herself hidden from me. parts of her i was not allowed to know. and now it's as if she is hiding her whole self from me. she accused me of being desperate, and she is right. i am desperate to be with her again. she knows what i want in life. i want love. and i felt that love with her. my experience tells me it was real. and now the closest i get to that feeling is when we sleep together. she wrote me a list. 10 years down the road, what will i have done? i can't be somewhere 10 years from now and look back and have any regrets about her. i have to know that i exhausted every avenue in pursuing her, in letting her know how i feel about her, because love deserves this kind of attention. i don't want to look back on my life and know that 10 years ago i fell in love and there was something i could have done to change her mind. but i know i can't do that. i can't change her mind. she is explicit in her desire to do what she wants, when she wants. and perhaps my love for her does look desperate to her, foolish to her. just as a beer goes flat after it's been left out too long, my love for her will dissipate as she continues to keep me at a distance. all this is to say, i suppose, a repeat of the conclusion i have already reached. i have to force myself to stop loving her in a romantic way. i'll always love her, for the rest of my life. that's just how i operate. i don't cut people off or shut them out. i know the pain of that happening to me, people have cut me out of their lives in the past. my own father. i won't do that to someone. i won't do it to her. i'm still in love with her, and she is not in love with me. what a weird fucking life. now i suppose i need to concentrate on not falling into complete cynicism; i'm already enough of a cynic. now pain is present in my life and it would be so easy to do that.

i love her.

another day

feeling much better today. i made a simple realization: i am right and she is wrong. and there is nothing i can do to change her mind, so all i can do is move on. hard pill to swallow, but it's really the only way to go.

being careful

it's hard not to think that every word that comes out of her mouth is complete bullshit. i try and keep aware that i may not be judging fairly, that whatever i hear or read is being clouded by pain. but then i return to her reasons, and bullshit is confirmed. and it makes every other syllable that she produces, in the lovely way that she does it, seem like shallow nothingness.

fuck III

how do i not do what i want? i want to pursue her, i want to be with her. she doesn't want to be with me ... how do i not pursue her? how do i not want her? how can i go against my clear desire to want her, to want to be with her?

fuck II

fuck. i should be working on thesis revisions right now, but i can't stop thinking 'why?'. why doesn't she want me? i've received some answers, but they never answer that question 'why?'. i guess even if i did know why, it wouldn't improve my state of mind. i guess i just have to digest the fact of it. but fuck ... it is fucking painful to love someone, to want to be with them, and have them not reciprocate that desire. coupled with no clear reason why, my mind can't stop running and re-running everything about her through my memories. i can't focus on anything else. i am in love with her.

fuck

i am so fucking frustrated right now. i met someone, i loved her and she loved me back. now i love her, but she doesn't love me in the same way. i don't understand it. repetitive human condition. i'm part of it for the first time. art makes more sense to me now.

picture me rollin' ... am i clear to you?

Our valiant warrior, hero
dismissed, weakened, despaired
residual loss and consequence
a textbook analysis of the cross

How close can we get
to an understanding
no lack, no void to guide us
to build a life of inspiration

He bends down, tired of carrying it all
it fell, and he falls
down, down, down

No forever, no beginning
a loss of substance says it all
to melt away the hardened edge
to glimpse the sweet surrender

To travel toward something
together ... not in the jest of things
so in the absence of certainty we slither into
the colorful colors of spring

He bends down, tired of carrying in full
it fell and he stops
down, down, down

To take another approach
to begin with a weekend morning
in mourning, taking a breath
but your eyes don't cloud your perspective

And so we coalesce in the night
excited, fatigued, running up the walls of improbability
takin' it up, takin' it in
surrounded by the beats that shake us

He bends down, tired of carrying the load
it fell and he supposes
down, down, down

Almost careless in the palm
so how many hands keep laying on
the prayer to god that falls beside
until we realize ... it falls inside

All I ever wanted was your life
said we would never lie
and it took a miracle to reveal
that instead of light ... there was a sky

He bends down, tired of carrying the plight
it fell and he imagines
down, down, down

Taken in a million chances
concrete stances, littered with objects
tough, take it all, the experience of the street
it's so serious i'm laughing

spaces taken into manipulation
contemplation of what it means to be
walls constructed, folded into themselves
how long will the walk reveal the form

He bends down, tired of lifting it all
it fell and doesn't settle
down, down, down

When walking away seems seasonable
to accord with the change in weather
to assimilate the brethren
of an ancient skin tone

To reach heights that color seems to miss
to base any conclusions on a rhythm
a lesson to be applied
to take an amendment

He bends down, reflective of having it all
it fell and he pretends
down, down, down

An instance of separation
takes its toll upon us all
to find and decipher any past regrets
as it's seen through the present tense

To take to wild, bearing rituals of precedence
and destroy what's beleaguered, manufactured
all within the minds of men
our way of meeting in the middle

He bends down, satisfied with the strain
it fell and he remains
down, down, down

the day i tried to die ...

is honesty all that hard to come by,
forthrightness in a sea of maybes

to ask and not to tell,
to give all and to quell ...
a sea of desire and long lost camaraderie
it's all been decided beforehand,
and i'm lost in the process

to be seen, but not be heard
the word of children
subsumes the conversation
and truth never bubbles to the surface ... as it should

one word, once spoken, forever broken
never told, was it once?

i'll take you around the trying
to give and to have and to hold
another subject willing,
but another year's spellbound in the mold

of love, of trust, of states of breath
and i'll hold this ammunition
i'll hold it tight around my neck
to gasp, a last 'i told you so'

yet it doesn't seem to complicate
the simplicity, with which you choose to lie

for all & none

go away some place with me
you and i
spread your wings
learn to fly
to crash, to burn
a fire in the sky
and it lights up your life

two birds, one stone
away in the night
distant skylines, horizons are fine

lose your fear
live out your dreams
don't commit to what can't be

strengthen your love
don't kill your dreams
commit to what could be ...
what would be ...
what is ...
when you go away with me ...

i feel better ...

for a while there, almost 2 years, i felt bad ... about myself i suppose. i think that's just one of the after-effects of a divorce. a broken relationship of that proportion eats away at who you think you were, who you are. it took time, but i feel better. i also feel better because i met someone. knowing her has made me realize that i am not broken, or damaged ... that i can be myself and love someone, and they can love me.