About that black cat I met yesterday....

I've become a wretched shell of a man.
Not in all ways, of course. I've just been victimized by my own free will. The decisions I've made (especially those I've made when under the influence of alcohol, an erection, or both) have been for the most part, very poor. Not poor in the way that my life is going badly or poor in the way that they've led to mistakes bearing dire consequences, but poor morally. Mostly meaning selfish.

Now, i think being selfish makes a lot of sense most of the time. after all, if you can't treat yourself, who can you treat. and then i could go off on a tangent of there being no such thing as a selfless act, etc, etc. but that's not the subject of this particular train of though, and i must be careful not to de-rail. the question I've posed is; which is more evil? an inconsiderate selfish act, or a carefully considered, but ultimately selfish act? the question makes little sense, really. when it comes down to it, each scenario could have so many variables that there's no point in even bothering to separate the two. Conscious, unconscious, malicious, sympathetic. It's makes little difference.

I'm still losing track of my immediate concern, but we'll focus on my inability to concentrate another time. This is (as cliche as it may sound) about the battle between good and evil. The angel on my shoulder is no where to be found. My actions are becoming more corrupt and selfish by the day. The long blonde idealist of my early adulthood is fading further into the shadows of the past, and what was once only a mildly cynical spark has become a wildfire of misanthropy. I may start growing horns at any moment, and the worst part is the artistic satisfaction that i get from lamenting my mis-steps. Each seemingly subconscious less-than-heroic act gets looked back upon, devoured, digested, and ultimately shit out again in the form sad song. It's nothing new. Painters, poets, musicians, writers.... They've been creating misery and turning it in to art for hundreds of years.

So what can i do? If movies have taught me anything, the only way to redeem myself is to have a child, preferably twins (boy and a girl) and not have them know that i'm their father while they're growing up. Then i have to destroy my daughter's home and cut off my son's hand shortly before revealing to him that i'm his father. if that plan goes well from there, my son will eventually confront me, and try to convince me that there is still good in me and then i'll prove him right by throwing a nasty old man down a pit to his demise. then, i'll start to die but not before my son realizes i'm actually an ok guy and then he'll cremate my remains on a floating pyre while his friends dance in celebration. finally he'll see my ghost reunited with some of my other ghost friends looking down on him.

Redemption is hard to come by i suppose, but if that's what it takes....

Inspiration Without Concentration

I can't seem to focus. Distractions are everywhere, even on a lonely night shift at a downtown hotel. The wind whistles viciously through the doors, the radio plays Monday, Monday by the Mamas and the Papas, and faintly in the distance I hear some dummy howling at the moon, refusing to let the party die at 4am. Each of these is more than enough to break the small amount of concentration I need to write a full cohesive sentence. We're nearly at a paragraph now, and you wouldn't believe the time it's taken to get this far.

I've always thought of myself as a writer. I've always believed that I'm a great writer, and why shouldn't I be? My mom and my aunt told me how great I was a long time ago. I don't need any training, or knowledge of grammar and prose. I'm a natural. I was born to write. I'm like one of those apple cheeked, potato-faced American Idol contestants. They know they're good singers, they don't have to know about pitch or keys and fuck all y'all if you don't believe in them, because they're gonna show y'all and one day you're gonna line up to see them sing. That's like me, but with writing. The blogosphere is really just one gigantic American Idol audition show.

Where was I?...Oh right! concentration and losing focus.

Really, I just need discipline, but how do you learn discipline? Karate? I still enjoy writing, despite the humility I've gained. I'm going to keep it up and hopefully get better at it. I've even considered taking some university type English and creative writing classes. I probably won't, but I've at least considered it.

I have hundreds inspirations and ideas floating around wildly in the hollow centre of my brain. I just have no idea how to organize them efficiently. Just grasping at straws. I'm a kid with ADD going out frog hunting. Problem is that there's fireflies and minnows and other cool stuff to be caught as well. The ideas fly around like fireflies, hop like frogs, swim like minnows. I can only catch one at a time, but I'm running from lake to swamp to field trying to catch them all at once. I have no gameplan and I'm too excited to make one. I'm used to instant gratification, and I'll be damned if I waste my time getting organized.

Oh damn. Now I've wandered too far into the woods. I've forgotten my conclusion. I had one, I swear. Tip of the tongue, or tip of the fingers, rather. It had something to do with distractions and impatience, I think. Or maybe it was some sort of call for aid.

Oh well. It'll come to me.......

Cyclical Creative Theory

I really don't know. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Fueled by day old coffee, an e-mail that contained only one lousy sentence, and the sheer monotony of the hotel night audit, i came up with this. It reminds me of the Far Side cartoon where Einstein discovers that time is actually money. Picture me with a chalkboard and a lab coat.

Life Inspires Art
/ \
Inspiration Gives Art Life - -Art Imitates Life
\ /
Imitation causes Inspiration

I'm also working on one about how indignity leads to nerdiness.
maybe next week.

With Prairie Eyes

I seem to be split in two.

Maybe split isn't the right word. Rather, there seems be a divide in my psyche. After glancing over a brief internet definition of Freud's theory of personality, it seems evident that the "split" is between my Id and my Superego. The id seeks pleasure without thought to what is practical or moral, and the Superego is essentially a moral conscience. Theoretically theses two parts of my psyche should be moderated my my ego. My sense of self. However it appears that my ego has a bias. A bias that seems based on weather or not I have a moustache.

it sounds strange, I know and it's only a theory. However, there is evidence that supports when I port hair on my upper lip, my ego seems to favour the id. In turn, sans moustache it seems to favour the superego.

Another theory suggests he division may be related to time spent in the Yukon Territory, with the id being favoured during time spent there.

In any event, it all comes down two the two extremes. Hedonism versus asceticism. Thats the divide. There's an old saying "all things in moderation, including moderation". seems a very reasonable way to go about things. Whats happening here i can only really put into a simile. It's like getting really drunk, smoking, staying up all night, taking someone home with you, and then waking up going to work, feeling guilty, sad and nauseas and swearing that you'll never do it again. the only thing is that its on a much larger scale.

Spring and Summer, Fall and Winter.

I won't get into my moustached/Yukon escapes of 2009, suffice to say they were pleasurable and viewed without consequence. The last few months however have been a different story. there was no cutting back on the things i loved to do. There was a rejection of them, if only subconsciously. A complete abstinence of worldly pleasures.

Cigarettes. I stopped. I didn't really want to. I love smoking. My body fought the withdrawal hard, but the superego did not let me crave cigarettes. Alcohol. October saw me touch not a drop. Coffee was only an excuse to leave the house. As for sex, well abstinence truly is the driest sex of all. But I digress.

All of this was brought on by a memory. A memory brought on by a video clip of a beautiful woman singing a disdainful song to a "moustache-d man with the prairie eyes". She goes on to rhyme that much to his surprise, she found out what he did last night.

The memory is of that woman, and of me shaving my moustache shortly after the events she sang about took place. I shaved it because to me, it was a symbol of of my lifestyle at the time. A lifestyle that had just hurt someone very close to me. I hoped that she too would see the symbolism in my gesture. I still wonder if she ever did.

Free jazz, from all directions.

-or-

Saxophones? You gotta fucking be kidding me.

There's no reason for this. Elevator jazz from the radio that i am forbidden to touch, and modern lounge jazz coming from the bar that shares my wall. Here i am, another day, hard at work. Here i sit, behind a narrow desk. Here i sit bombarded by jazz scales. my mind starts to soften. i start breathing through my mouth and i fear i may start drooling at any second.

They play this music for cats at the SPCA. Cats in tiny cages. it makes the cats feel like their not in a cage. puts them in a limbo between conscious and unconscious. it makes the cages and the boredom less cruel. or such is my understanding of it. i don't think that's the idea behind my jazz overdose.

My heard hurts and i feel like i could doze off at any second. i try to drink coffee but it just makes me more and more aware of the jazz. "is that a muzak version of fire and rain?" i'll think to myself, "or is is wild wild west?".

No, no!

I'll lay low and just take it. i'll make my move when the time is right.....


.....The new shift has arrived! Time to make a break for it.

Just in the nick of time too. i think the band next door has just broken into a bebop version of Black Magic Woman.

Ebb and Flow

Its getting harder to look inwards. movies have been telling me for years that people don't change. what they forgot to tell me, and you for that matter, is that we grow up and evolve and leave things behind. sometimes even passion can get left behind. every passion is different. each one requires a different method to rekindle. what that means is that if you've lost 3 or 4 old passions, you have your work cut out for you. you can run yourself ragged trying to be what it is you thought you used to be, which really is never as good as you are now anyway.
i love to write. sometimes i forget how much i love to write. sometimes i just lose motivation to do so. getting that motivation back can be tricky, especially when you're not sure why you did it in the first place. is easy to be cynical at times such as those. say i'm just trying to form an image for myself. its all for vanity or some other superficial cause. and maybe it is. but not %100.
so what is it then?
i suppose its a conversation with myself.
getting to know myself a little better out loud.
and putting it out there just in case anyone is intersted.

an unpublished post from march '08

theres a few different ways to explain such a collapse in physical health. they range from side effects of a common cold all the way to malnutrition and withdrawal symptoms. not being a medical doctor or at all educated in the finer works of the human body, i'm left as a lump, filling space in box roughly 16x10x10.
my personal health has always bee a huge mystery. not a pressing mystery, usually just a basic curiosity. i would call myself an apathetic hypochondriac.