2 coffees and an O.J.

I cried while driving to work this morning.  I was listening to the song Spotlight by Shakira and driving the same route I take every miserable workday and I simply burst into tears.  One would think the edge would have worn off by now but it still hurts just as much every time I’m faced with the utter meaninglessness of my life.  I wish I could find meaning and satisfaction in all the irrelevant daily bullshit as so many of my contemporaries are able to find but I was not blessed with their capacity for happiness.  I once knew a man who lived entirely to make as much money as he could.  He seemed quite miserable but the funny thing was I don’t think he actually realized he was dreadfully unhappy.  All the same he existed in a world void of WHATEVER….  When faced with his particular brand of ugly part of me wished to lash out quite violently in an act of revolted extermination.  The other part of me only wished to run away and never have any sort of contact with this man again.

During the peak morning hours I put on Marvin Gaye’s amazing classic beautiful perfect 2002 album What’s Going On (the lack of question mark in the title is a key to the record’s themes which occasionally gets overlooked, suffice it to say this work has lost none of its relevancy or potency over the years).  However I removed the disc when I realized it was much better suited to evenings and dead of nights (late afternoons at the absolute earliest) than mornings.  That is no fault of the artist nor is it an indictment of the music itself.  But What’s Going On is an album that begs to be listened in the dark hours, either on busy roads in taxi cabs with swarms of city lights blurring bye or in RUSTIC bars where the air is thick and where the clientale all have a tortured tail 2 drinks away from being told or in the privacy of one’s home, curled up with a glass of wine, love optional.   There was a period in my life where I listened to this album on a nightly basis, often more than once and even now it is difficult to imagine more than a week going by without this music gracing my waxy earholes. 

Instead I slapped on the YEAR album Up! By Shania Twain.  This might seem like a jarring change to some but it made perfect sense to me and I think pundits will look back on it as a masterful move in the overall chess game of life.  Up! is quite simply a pop masterpiece and its central conceit – the album comes with 2 discs featuring the same 19 songs but with one featuring more country instrumentation and the other pop instrumentation – was and is a gaudy and audacious production choice that continues to fascinate and reward on repeated listening all these many years later.  Honestly, just listen to the first single IM GONNA GETCHA GOOD and marvel at that perfect thick slice of pop perfection. 

I recently purchased new copies of Pearl Jam’s YEAR and YEAR albums Yield and Binaural.  I’ve owned these albums for a massive chunk of my miserable life and I’ve listened to them countless times and it precisely this passionate and dedicated listening which resulted in their physical manifestations ceasing to function and necessitating that I work overtime in order to afford new copies.  These albums – indeed, damn near the entirety of the group’s principal discography along with a very healthy slice of their always excellent live “bootlegs” – have helped me through some very trying times and basically enriched so many of the ups and downs of my peculiar and tortured existence over the years.  When I’ve rejoiced they were there alongside me and when I despaired they held me and we wept together.  If I could only listen to one Jam release for the rest of my increasingly dark days I would almost certainly pick one of their live recordings but were I forced to choose my favorite of their proper albums there is an extremely decent chance I would select Yield.  The last five songs on there are about the most perfect sequence of tunes a guy like me can imagine. 

My desires and dreams are exactly the same as countless people who came before me.  I do not wish for anything unique at all for my life.  At the same time I do as little as possible to accomplish these lackluster, worthless shoals.  I don’t truly want the love of a cheeseburger – the fact that I literally do nothing to find it and let it go as something useless on the rare occasions it falls into my hands are testament to this – but the idea of a cheeseburger somehow being crucial coupled with my having witnessed this dynamic in so many others makes me think it is something I want and perhaps something crucial to my having a “successful” life. 

I ate expired yogurt this morning.  It made me feel like a real man for once in my life.  I think there’s going to be another war.  There were two old guys talking on the beach while not fifteen yards away a bird was pecking at the carcass of another bird.  They happened upon the house that Jack built and from there recounted their sordid tale, in so much as it could be recounted under those highly secretive and highly extenuating circumstances.  A painter’s psychic visions have continued to haunt me these recent years. 

I very recently saw the movie John Wick. 

I recently watched the movie Interstellar.

I also watched the movie Birdman at some point in time. 

Jonathan had control of the faith sector.  I think I remember who the writer was but I would have to triple check to be sure.  I keep seeing that figure cloaked in red from the corner of my eye.  I have nearly fallen into the canal on several occasions.  The act in the bedroom may have seemed simulated but it was not. 

Was there someone in my house last night?  How did you get inside my house?  I sing to myself while sitting in my office.  Things walk by and it’s hard to recognize them.  I think I’m losing control but then a tiny but insistent voice always reminds me that I never actually had control to begin with.  I think for lunch I’ll eat a pastrami on rye sandwich with some mayonnaise and mustard.  There are chromatic swans clouding my vision. 

I always pretend it’s you.  Sometimes it almost works. 

I love absolute zero

Hey I just met you.  This is fucking psychotic.  But here’s my hand in marriage.  Call me neurotic.  That’s what I would say to her if only I could.  If only I had the guts. 

If I could I would fill a giant vat with waffle batter and then jump into it, letting warm, thick and smooth batter caress every inch of my body.  I can imagine few things as pleasurable as that.

I was as shocked as anyone to find that I’ve become a massive fan of the Counting Crows.  In the past month or so I’ve purchased four of their albums, including their newest release.  Maybe it’s age catching up to me.  Suddenly Duritz’s words are hitting me deep and making me reconsider everything I once thought to be true.  Their records speak to me!  I love them!

People are always asking me why I don’t watch more television and I always tell them I find it to be a heartbreaking medium where even the best and most promising programs often devolve into cheap stunts, progressively rote characters and needlessly extended storytelling.  That’s just one man’s humble opinion of course.  I strongly suspect one day I will become an avid TV zombie and catch up on all the shows everyone in the entire world has raving about for these past two decades. 

However one recent show I absolutely could not resist watching no matter how hard I tried was The Flash which premiered some 5 weeks ago on America’s favorite CW network.  Those who know me best know of my deep seated love for the scarlet speedster and that he is second only to a couple dozen other characters in the pantheon of my all-time-favorites.  I was happy that this particular incarnation was spinning off the show Arrow as I had found that show to be of a high and consistent quality in providing very satisfactory superheroic romps on a weekly basis. 

So with a potent mixture of mind shattering terror and giddy anticipation I watched The Flash and have found that I’m enjoying it to a dangerously high level.  The tone is perfect for the character and his adventures and I feel the creators have really nailed the heart of his mythology. All the teases and Easter eggs and the near certainty of Zoom presenting himself have filled me with girlish glee and I genuinely look forward to each new installment.  Last week’s episode introduced Captain Cold – one of my all time favorite villains – played by Prison Break’s Wentworth Miller and he was written and portrayed to icy perfection and set up to return throughout the season.  The episode itself was titled Going Rogue and that alone was enough to make me weep with crocodile tears of joy and ensure that I will stay with this series for the long haul. 

Regarding American Horror Story, lots of folks have been commenting on Twisty the Clown (played by John Carroll Lynch) and how scary he is so I watched an episode and was disappointed as ever.  He looks hip and is a great visual but is not scary in any way.  I so want to like American Horror Story and I’ve seen several episodes from various seasons but it always seems to be trying too hard and still coming up short.  The situations, acting, atmosphere and effects feel very much to me like what a child might find frightening and I am often reminded of the Goosebumps series of books.  It is a very safe brand of horror and horror should never be safe.  What the hell do I know though?  It’s wildly popular.  I did like when Jessica Lange sang the David Bowie song Life on Mars in a recent episode because that is one of my all time favorite tunes.  Maybe if every episode featured a Bowie song I would like it more.   

My dream of seeing all Mark Rothko’s paintings in person is one step closer to completion after a recent trip to the amazing Walker Art Center in Minneapolis, Minnesota and standing mere inches away from Rothko’s 1953 painting Untitled.  This is a truly beautiful piece of work and seeing it – swimming inside its color and being devoured by its heart – was an honor.  This also happens to be the first one I’ve seen in person so the projected completion of my dream is still quite a ways away.  Still, my passion is equal to the task. 

Naysayers are predicting I’ll die before my quest is complete but I plan to prove all of them wrong.  I plan to see them all dead and buried and then I will promptly perform a jig on their graves and laugh all the way to the bank where I will open up a joint checking account with my long lost twin brother.  I would like to plan trips to Houston, Texas to visit the Rothko Chapel as well as New York, New York to visit the Museum of Modern Art as they both house several of Rothko’s paintings and my checklist would be able to amass quite a few more checks.  If anyone is interested in making donations for these trips please let me know.  Who knows?  Perhaps I would able to assist in fulfilling one of your dreams as well….

I thought the green dress shirt I put on today after showering and shaving was clean but I may have been in error.  I have smelled myself all day and have not much liked what I’ve smelt.  I also ate yogurt this morning for what it’s worth. 

Next I plan to tame the beast and watch him fall.  Love conquers all.  I remember vividly a summer in my formative years when I was madly in love with Lynda Carter.  Although even now I’m still not sure if I was in love with her or with Wonder Woman.  Even that is a bit of a puzzler because it would be difficult – maybe even impossible – to further deduce whether I was in love with Wonder Woman or with the Lynda Carter actualization/version/interpretation of Wonder Woman.  Where does one end and the other begin?  Am I even able to separate the two as distinct entities in my tortured mind?  Carter’s Wonder Woman is still definitive and a glorious take on the character.  DC recently announced a new comic series which would feature further adventures of that specific iteration of the character (similar to their successful Batman 66’ series which are adventures of the Adam West and Burt Ward version of Batman and Robin) and I am pleased as punch by this.  But nothing will ever replace the real thing.  She’s the real thing.  Even better than the real thing. 

The Old Testament of the Bible is very interesting.  I need to read more of it and conduct copious amounts of research to increase my understanding.  

Right under my nose new albums were released by Los Tigres del Norte and Elida y Avante.  I was a fool not to realize this sooner.  So many things have been escaping my notice recently.  Today I will hitchhike to a local Mom & Pop (or is it Ma & Pa?) style store to purchase both albums.  Then I will listen to them and reflect on the truly meaningful life I almost had.  Both great bands.  I’ve seen Elida twice now and Los Tigres zero times.  I would love to see either of them again. 

I’ve been thinking of buying an upright bass (or double bass if you prefer) but I probably won’t.  I don’t have any of the skills necessary to play one.  But I imagine it being a very satisfying instrument.  Like water through a sieve. 

I recently started reading a new book.

O (Part 4 of 10)

This is the end.  In those final moments I am able to learn so much.  Where did this boldness come from?  Did anyone forget about anyone else?  I don't believe it is possible that such luck exists.  But in the end you understand the awful truth behind it all.  You understood but you'd found a way to beat it at its own game.  You pierced through all the lies and found meaning where there should have been none.  

You touched me just once and I felt such love and desire and pure ecstasy that my body began to twist and contort and I started grinding my teeth and I wanted to scream at the sheer joy I was feeling, my soul was in a state of rapture and your light was passing through me and I breathed it into my lungs and submitted my entire body to it and I was bleeding and it felt wonderful and I was twisting and trying to reach out once more and you started to sing and my eyes were unable to stay open as pleasure erupted through my every nerve and rational thought become impossible. 

Somewhere there are teacups shattering and two men kissing and everything imaginary is wonderful and I desperately wish I could stay inside my mind.  I know you speak to me at night while I am dreaming and I always look for you in those moments.  But so often that euphoria is forgotten, taken from me by the cruel morning. Where is all this domestic joy?  Why I only receive illusions in exchange for my trouble? 

I saw your radiance while in the park where you cradled life in your arms.  I laughed at my pretensions.  What if I confessed that every time I look out that shared window into the streets I imagine stepping in front of any oncoming truck in the hopes of a swift demise?  What would you tell me if I expressed that?  For two straight hours this morning I did nothing but beg for your forgiveness.  I heard echoes of your fallen tears from so many years ago.  I saw statues made of gold and briefly I was able to traverse all those dreams you once had which never came true. 

I have realized that indifference is the most awful thing.  This entire confession - every single word I have ever written or ever will write - is utterly meaningless.  There is a picture in my room and I am able to going inside and enter a new planet that has orange skies and the ground beneath my feet is made of glass and stretches out untold miles in every direction.  I can feel electricity in the air around me and my whole body pulses with its current.  Sometimes while I'm there I fall down on my knees and put my hands on my head and my temples feel like they are being drilled into and all I can do is scream and I want to break the glass beneath me and see where it is I would fall.  I crash again and again and I beg your forgiveness, I beg both of you for forgiveness and you both have heard my cries and I wonder when I will run out of second chances.  You should have thrown me out and left me there.  Why didn't you just leave me there?   

Your lights paint the landscape for me in shades of purple and blue and pink.  I see you step out into the rain and when it is dark you wrap your arms around me and tell me everything is going to be okay and I close my eyes and it feels so good and like I don't even exist.  For a few fleeting seconds I am completely absent from this or any world and it is complete bliss for everyone.  Then I am back but I am still with you and the tide is coming in and I hang on to your robe and I am crying and you have your hand on me but you don't say anything at first.  The colors in your eyes change every second.  

All those letters we wrote however many years ago are just mountains of words I’m throwing into the fire.  I have burned everything away a thousand times before but it always comes back.  Every time I promise myself I won’t read them again but my heart is a liar.  There was such hope in those words and somehow I am able to feel it all over again.  But inevitably I keep reading to the end.  All I can ever find is emptiness. 

There were vanishing angels and you spoke in language I had never heard before.  It was soft and melodic and I imagined you there at the end of everything.  Sometimes we’re sitting at a table together and sipping wine and talking.  The sun is setting and the ocean is nearby and the night promises everything.  There is nowhere I would rather be.  Other times we are alone and I am always on my knees.  Have you ever been truly blessed with freedom?  Do either one of us know what fulfillment feels like? 

I realize this is all so ugly.  It would be far better for there to be glass between us.  Everyone knows someone like me.  There is a network and they all pass this information along as they should.  

Most of all I recall in this final moment truly feeling as though you cared.  You said it not once but many times and I would have gladly made a fool of myself for the rest of my days if that was to be my reward.  I see you in white with a red flower in your hair and even as my life slips away I am able to leave in peace.  

You will see every one of them with me and at the next millennium we will be dancing together.

He says this is the end but he knows he'll be back again.