Stop drinking

Today I am frustrated and very angry. I went to Chris’ school today then we had lunch, I haven’t been eating in peace this affects my stomach. Much like many of the days after smoking a heavy amount of marijuana- I was in a haze. I’ve been paying close attention to the human beings around me and how they and I, I and they, they and they, I and I, relate to each other. I became aware of symbolic speech, symbolic subjects, and reflected on a discussion Brian and I had last night while high.

The topic of identity:

Identity on a superficial level (however still especially important in modern times), is in the form of social standing. Degrees, diplomas, awards, records, credit scores, affiliations. Core identity I’ve come to understand (or what I seem to believe) is the response to aesthetic. An immediate response is linked to a forever developing core.

IE.

A younger man decides to walk through a forest at dawn, the mixture of jasmine and oak together create a very profound effect that relates to his upbringing in a small town having experienced moments of solitude at play during a quiet autumn days with very similar lush vegetation- that is commonly known as smell memory. The importance lies here. During those moments there was no declaration of the moments beauty- it was appreciated with out the notion of why it was beautiful. There were no reasons for liking it. A small child is not able to deem an afternoon “serene” nor is he able to appreciate his first love as “winsome”. He cares not and knows not of the elements of beauty. He can not relate his first experiences to anything else because he has no experience of anything else- therefore he defines what is beautiful to him.

What are the parameters used when buying, or wearing an article of clothing?

Considering that wearing clothing is a socially acceptable form of conduct, and that one is free to design oneself in a vast number of ways, it is reasonable that he/she chooses to dress in whichever manner. This is an enabler of individuality. There are two forms- fashion and style. Fashion is a fleeting aesthetic driven by mass social acceptance (even of the esoteric kind). Style is personified and driven by a persons reaction to certain articles of clothing purchased and worn that accumulate into a particular wardrobe as opposed to a genre of clothing that carries many articles of clothing synonymous to each other.

There are certain things that will never go out of style in the United States.

A baseball cap on a male, blue jeans, converse etc…

For reasons being that they bear an affinity to the American aesthetic (however, dying or stagnant it maybe considered). A baseball cap embodies the American spirit through a game forged in one of the richest points in US history. A game that symbolizes capitalism in its purest sense.

Why not beehives, bell-bottoms, and afros? Fashions.

And now the topic of Love in relation to identity.

Does a man really strive to figuratively “marry his mother”?

Are these buried aesthetics truly in control of what this person defines as his perfect mate?

What about the insecurities that may need to be justified when he “marries his mother”? How much trust is fine for someone? Why is less trust justified in one relationship and not another. It’s only logical that a human be granted x amount of space. What determines x?

There will always be someone more beautiful, more intelligent, and more compatible to you than the person you are with. This is truth- and since it is truth humans should always be fleeting- like fashion.

But unlike the newest fashions. There are the days that were painful and that you remember, and are solemn to the thought. Is it wrong to disregard such a painful memory? Depression is the sore fibers of strengthening muscles. Should I really throw my holeist shirt into the garbage? It was my favorite.

Where to now?

I’m starting to get heart palpitations right now. I think I’ve been drinking too much whiskey.

Today I woke up and took a shower, afterwards I got lunch with Chris. When I got back I lied down on my bed and took in the day with an open window and moving fan. It was in this natural meditation that old obscured memories were unearthed by daylight.

When I was younger I went with my father to Hollywood and saw a black woman dressed in bright colors, she carried a plastic bag on her head. I hadn’t been exposed to her culture yet; at that point she simply appeared outlandish. I was amazed by her balance and concluded that the process of carrying something on ones’ head was a nearly impossible task worthy of admiration.

Around the same time my mother took me to buy a Halloween costume in Hollywood with one of her friends. I remember the entire setting composed heavily of deteriorating concrete. A group of punks walked through the scene. One punk had an enormous mohawk that was bright green. I had never seen such a shape of head. To me, his head was a kind that carried no hair but a sharp metallic substance with protruding steel spikes. His was a type of head that was more so engineered by logical design than human conception.

To see the world as a child.

And I continued in my mind- driving with my grandmother, grandfather, mother, and father. Up the 10 freeway heading west to the place I was born. My father told me at a very young age that it was my freeway. And I continue to look outside towards the gigantic concrete pillars that angle other passes further into the sky. My eyes are half closed allowing the more important rays to sift in through my eyelids gently touching my retinas.

On this Friday, I find myself repeating in my mind:

I am 7…

I am 7…

I am 7…

I am 7…

I am 7…

I am 7…

I am 7…

I am 7…

I am 7…

I am 7…

Lakers’ Lemonade

Having strapped cameras to their chairs they roll and spin quietly in circles. It may be one of the rare times they hear added harmonies to the rhythms of their motorized chair; the gravel rolling under the wheels, bits of confetti quietly tearing away. They don’t mind the arid smell of dust on a surprisingly humid spring noon. The ecstasy of having a camera to record the motion around them. They are rare. After the cheering begins to settle and the masses begin to disperse they find themselves still haunting the groins of the venue long after the celebration dies; the cement temples that tie to the stadium where people park their cars, or the narrow streets nearby that still hold some looming spirit- you still see them spinning and recording simple joys. Spending a day with lemonade. Rolling, steering, and weaving in and out of the event but not the crowd.

Yup...

Right now:

"Eric's Trip" by Sonic Youth.

Enough said.

Why I love the Sun.

So I ate a brownie today. You know the kind-more green than brown. A good friend came over and we discussed our lives elaborately in terms of self-doubt, self-unawareness, numbness etc.  I gave him my experiences. At times I stayed quiet while he talked and reflected negatively upon myself. The sky was a painted limbo of doubt and security. Rain and shine.

 

I doubted when it was cloudy. When he left and I was alone I lied on my bed closed my eyes and heard the shapes of my music. The hue of my room tinted into a rich yellow from gray like somber eyelids raising to jubilance.

And so was I.

 

Over the past year I have realized through countless memories of drawing sun soaked pictures at young age; my heavy concern with lighting; my questioning the origin of my serenity, my affinity with the sun.

So I traveled towards it. I pushed myself out of my comfort zone and ushered my bike out of the backyard. The place I entered was a changed homeland. Rejuvenated and made fresh through doubt. The day had humbled and reassessed itself-

-the sky was clear like freshly cried eyes that allowed its beautiful essence to shine through.

I biked for a long while- weaving and combing through rediscovered streets. houses painted in calm comfortable colors, planters, palms, 2 car garages, yards with 3 second memories and vivid emotional attachments however subtle. Then I neared home- I rode through a full but static parking lot

The sky still beaming. I let go of the handle bars and closed my eyes. I became miles and miles above recognizable ground. The sun as my guide pulling me into an apex of warmth, happiness, bliss, contentment, self-love. I became winged by navigating blindly.

Refreshed like a day that doubts itself to strengthen the good that it sees with eyes cleared by tears.

I whistle A LOT.

What You Say Isn’t Good Enough

At times I can write a letter. Bone, skin, muscle, and ink- sweat and tears are optional. These times call for an absence of the modern toys that grow from my body as man made extensions. These are objects that produce a cold symphony of beeps and alerts which even if adjusted to emit soothing tones end up jarring in their incessant repetition. They are the growing pains of modern life. Though when they are gone they enable me to enjoy the moment.

Everything should be gone. I used to be more elusive.

I cannot write a letter right now. I can be honest with my voice but most are unaware of why I am so honest and so passionate about being. It only exposes my sensitivity; though without sensitivity there can be no true enjoyment of life, no knowledge, no courage; no pain, no tragedy, no stories to tell, no history to remember, no grand love to be admired. Without sensitivity to life there is futility.

I have strived for logic and realize that it will keep me content but never ecstatic. Reason (rather than logic) is more abstract. Only in an idea’s abstraction can it be considered human. A being who is reasoning with his life experience is fully aware. However, the application of systemized thought is brought about by societal teaching of proper human conduct, it creates a cage surrounding a growing, beating heart. Reasoning may be more fitting for a soul like me. I can find proper reasoning for the things I love and can explain my backwards priorities as well. Logic is a design for a societal being. Inspired by politics, science, and an importance of human physicality. 

Although considered synonymous, it should be seen that reason is man’s ability to form design, and logic as the cage drafted for mass production. Logic as tested processes are in themselves  human achievements, but like all other human achievements such as works of art, literature, scientific advancement, they should be continuously, organically tested and reinvented.

Maybe I ought to sleep more. I should delve into my subconscious to find deeper understanding. Perhaps the farther I plummet the more I will understand that forgetting is necessary for growth. Holding on to a past rich with good, bad, romance, misery, shame, arrogance is unnecessary because they are simply a collection of indistinguishably singular tiny moments sewn together in an intricate tapestry that has led my footing from birth to the isolated present-a present in which carries no physical remnants of a past or future. Perhaps I should omit the moments I was wronged, or accept them as they lie…in the past.

To live in the present I should ignore my past anguish and jubilance, I should not focus on the dreadful things the future may present. Having considered love in my past I realize its insignificance to me now. Yet as a human I strive out of desire to attain it once again. This simply means I have a desire to be satisfied or am content at the moment and aspire for some illogical purpose to be even more satisfied. If it simply finds its way into my life without any aspiration on my behalf then it can only bring compromise and complication. Is this necessary? No. Every moment is fleeting. Life is an immeasurable sum of fickle moments. Loyalty is unintelligent, marriage is death, Love is unnecessary.

Can I choose to live this way? Is this what I truly think? No. This is not my reasoning.

I can only write a letter when I live inside a moment and understand that I am a mentally stable being but a being that is aware that the way he thinks is not socially acceptable. It is then that I am able to be uninhibited in thought, it is THEN that I am most frighteningly honest and secure in my insecurity and it is then when you may know me.

It should be known that a person’s consistency of character is a form of death and an inhibitor to growth and honesty. It is a flaw in societal trend that a person should not be accepted as a paradox. Man as the most complex living organism should be simplified and made less intricate?

I must attain balance but find no in-between with a self of symphonic of beeps and emotional inhibition and passionate animal impulse and freedom of expression.

I can write a letter to you explaining loyalty, the ill-use of labels and over-categorized terms for human relations. I can explain to you the falsity of you calling me ‘friend’ though if you’d like I will explain to you the cracks you and I fall in between. There is no logic to put such concern into something like this- a matter that I should not be affected by but I have given you my reasoning.

In being so honest I can tell you the shocking truth of how fickle and loyal I can be, how hateful and loving, self-confident, self-deprecating, afraid, fearless, angry, or ecstatic I am.

I can love or I can not.

The truth: I hide the fact that if I have become acquainted with your character I love you. It can be within weeks, days, or hours.

Unfortunately, I have a grudge against socially acceptable laws of conduct that inhibit a human being from loving another human being before set schedules of time passed.

Fucking cowards.