tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-99057312024-03-13T22:53:25.931-04:00:gray matters:i cant find my argument-jkghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11875599352293078581noreply@blogger.comBlogger606125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9905731.post-28052917941664058552011-04-19T16:27:00.002-04:002011-04-19T17:12:42.870-04:00old friendhello emptiness.<br /><br />ive been staring into you for a long time. ive been searching for the answers in you, hoping they would reveal themselves, praying they would emerge from the darkness, like little streaks of light unfolding into great illuminations.<br /><br />but i havent had much luck. not recently. not in the past few months.<br /><br />its strange, emptiness, because you are everywhere. in the television. on the radio. at the bus stop where someone tried to dress you up in meaning but only achieved the dull shock of vandalism.<br /><br />i see you in the conversations i overhear. in the discussions i have. in the text messages i receive and even in the ones i send. i noticed you in the forms i had to fill out when i was in the ER and they told me i had pneumonia. you had stripped me of a diagnosis that would give purpose to what ails me. i thanked you for that, that time. but still it left me with nothing.<br /><br />a pack of antibiotics and some weak painkillers. a pain in my chest that would eventually go away.<br /><br />i like you there, emptiness, but for soem reason i feel we've grown distant.<br /><br />like you dont need me anymore. or maybe i dont need you.<br /><br />i know you are inside me, but i dont think the answers are there. not this time.-jkghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11875599352293078581noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9905731.post-85611451164875785012011-04-15T12:31:00.003-04:002011-04-15T13:51:20.617-04:00great escape<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW49uSJBUBPnKKLtsah_bwlVQyCKW0RuHFwiFun3_H9zklMjKe0j5COcIsiExv6CzRvzLcwigAWRnTV_6-FOrfh_rdFmi5grPilH3oCrXza59HMZHrGSo_wR2Shp4OH9mqtCPtqg/s1600/highway.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 212px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW49uSJBUBPnKKLtsah_bwlVQyCKW0RuHFwiFun3_H9zklMjKe0j5COcIsiExv6CzRvzLcwigAWRnTV_6-FOrfh_rdFmi5grPilH3oCrXza59HMZHrGSo_wR2Shp4OH9mqtCPtqg/s320/highway.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5595869262215826818" border="0" /></a><br />we waited past the silence. first came night and then came lights out and then came the silence, but the silence is too soon. you have to wait until the silence builds into the white noise of sleep, the creaking of beds as bodies twisted in REM, the steady huff of heavy breathing, the drone of the world outside folding into the still hum of indoors. we waited patiently, lying in our beds and staring at the stucco ceilings, and when we felt it was time, we made our move.<br /><br />The window wheezed open slowly and Tasi looked at me with wide, panicked eyes and i hissed at him to keep moving. he took his leg and swung it over the sill and his feet crunched softly on the gravel when he touched the ground. i followed after and we tip toed along the side of the house until we were standing in the street with the moon pouring down on us like a spotlight from a tower. we stood still for a moment, breathing in the midnight chill. we looked at the house, at the windows of the house, searching for movement, and there was none. he spit on the ground.<br /><br />Fuck you, he said, then gave the house a middle finger. i smiled and started walking down the street towards the highway.<br /><br />there was a cold spring wind circling our necks that loosened the further we got from the house. we walked down the hill towards the sound of traffic. all the homes we passed were dark and indifferent, their manicured lawns flanked in shadows, protected by neatly trimmed bushes. it was lights out for Millbrae, past silence for all its residents. the streetlamps buzzed nervously above and it was the only noise there was. we seemed to be the only ones alive in the entire town, as if it were all ours to escape from. no other footsteps on the sidewalk, no cars smashing down the street. the highway was only a few blocks away and the bus would be there in any moment.<br /><br />c'mon, i hurried Tasi.<br /><br />we got to the highway and stood for a moment, watching the cars zooming north and south. there were more lights there, and the air was warmer. we walked along the road, following a knee level guardrail, until we came to a clear passage that would allow us to run across. we waited for a window then scrambled to the grassy median. there we waited for another window then scrambled to the other side, the one going north. the bus stop was in front of a motel, the red neon of the vacancy sign blurred into the florescence of the parking lot lights, bathing the bus stop in a pale orange glow. We sat at the bench, looking toward the horizon for an oncoming bus. Tasi pulled out a marker and tagged the seat next to him and i counted the little bit of money i had.<br /><br />where we gonna go? he asked me.<br /><br />i dont know, i guess ill go meet my friends in the Mission, you can come with me.<br /><br />nah, he said, im gonna go to Sunndale, my aunt lives there.<br /><br />Sunnydale? i said, damn. Sunnydale was a notorious collection of project houses on the edges of san francisco. a small grid of misery forgotten by the city. id never been there and never wanted to go there. their anger reverberated all the way to the pacific ocean. you can chill with me, i said.<br /><br />its cool, she'll put me up, he mumbled.<br /><br />i grabbed the marker and tagged the bus stop sign, then walked over and tagged the bench behind Tasi. in the distance we saw the shape of the bus slowly barreling towards us. i pulled out some money and gave Tasi enough for a one way ride. when we got on the bus it was mostly empty, just an old lady in the front and a drunk in the middle. we sat in the seats furthest to the back, on opposite ends, and opened the windows and let our elbows spill out into the passing night. for most of the ride we didnt say anything. the towns sped by in dim streaks of light. the barely paused as all the stops were empty. we had done it, we had done it. and we were afraid.-jkghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11875599352293078581noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9905731.post-13183335227158934142011-04-05T16:09:00.003-04:002011-04-07T13:32:50.278-04:00three on the house<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuPr41x4g_lbrwE08Khc3Av8HOAXbsgB0b8qb3OQ_BfUd8urycaUWNoSeKWWorlNPwiaQWuhDc_U87bbkNUQcq3AOEGADTenTaJyaT1T2Jb6qwLziquvL3k2R2LWaiyJH4GBQyOQ/s1600/Jameson+Pickleback.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuPr41x4g_lbrwE08Khc3Av8HOAXbsgB0b8qb3OQ_BfUd8urycaUWNoSeKWWorlNPwiaQWuhDc_U87bbkNUQcq3AOEGADTenTaJyaT1T2Jb6qwLziquvL3k2R2LWaiyJH4GBQyOQ/s320/Jameson+Pickleback.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5592895953448163058" border="0" /></a><br />i went to a bar after work the other day. i do that often.<br /><br />it was late night early morning and a guy im familiar with was pouring drinks so i knew it would be a cheap visit. i ordered a whiskey but no beer. i didnt need the suds. he poured it heavy and on the flatscreen was a black and white animated movie with a convoluted plot i couldnt follow. outside the streets were wet from a recent rain. i sat and stared and sipped my whiskey.<br /><br />at the other end of the bar was a girl with short blond hair and a brassy attitude. she was young and thin and insulted the bartender with a clever smile on her face, a knowing smirk that was at once disarming and still mischievous. i clocked her for a moment then turned back to space.<br /><br />me and the bartender started a discussion on food. sandwiches, in particular, and where the best deli's in the neighborhood were. there was the 5th ave deli where they grilled their pastrami sandwiches and had a nice array of cheeses from which to choose from. there was the deli on nostrand ave that served their sandwiches on rye and piled them high with meat and cheese and spicy mustard. there were the multitude of delis on every other corner that served the same fare but were consistent and stayed open 24 hours. there was the acceptance of how limited our options were, especially at night, when the stomach grumbles and the mind wanders and the cash in your pocket burns a hole. i told him about a deli i knew, he told me of one he knew. we decided to deliver reviews next time we met.<br /><br />then the girl came over. the bartender told me her name was shane. she introduced herself and when she asked how i was and i just said alright she feigned interest in why i wasnt stellar. i told her that in life sometimes a rainbow didnt follow the rain and she looked confused for a second then ordered another white wine. she had an attractive face, angular and defined. her eyes were big and her chin was long but it held a proportion that favored her. she let her bangs fall loosely, which i liked. still i didnt say anything. there wasnt anything to say.<br /><br />a guy to my left started telling me about the spiderman musical on broadway. there was no segue, no introduction, i hadnt even noticed he was there. he just launched into how it was getting a bad rap in all the press, how the production quality of it was beyond any other in the theater district. the songs were better. the acting was good, the costumes and narrative and even the high flying wire acts were all executed to perfection. he didnt understand why everyone was so against it. according to the critics, its an epic failure. according to him, its a smashing success. i listened to him gush about it while nodding, indifferent to everything save the whisky on my lips. eventually he turned from me and began talking to someone else about something else, as if he were never talking to me at all.<br /><br />shane then whispered in my ear that he was creepy. her breath was hot and sweet from the wine and when she said the word creepy there was a wet hiss i could feel on my earlobes. she explained that he had tried to take her home one night but that there was something about him, something beyond suspicion, a danger, that she couldnt put her finger on. alarm bells went off in her head. she politely declined and he, to his credit, was gracious and accepting of her rejection, but he watched her from afar the rest of the night. and she was afraid to walk home alone, so she spent her remaining cash on a cab just to circle the block and drop her off a few doors down.<br /><br />it was getting late and i was on my third whiskey. i asked the bartender how much i owed and he gave me a meager total so i tipped him bigger than i planned. he thanked me and then poured me another. i put a napkin on my glass then went outside to smoke a cigarette. when i went back inside shane was on the other side of the bar but as i sat down she came back over and sat next to me. i could feel my legs beginning to wobble and my head was swimming and even though she was painting a target on her chest i decided not to go for it. she was too young. too blond. too skinny. there was no mystery about her, nothing i wanted to find out.<br /><br />i sucked down my whiskey in one gulp and said good-bye to everyone around me. she looked shocked and disappointed but i knew shed get over it. then i opened the door and went outside and put on my ipod to keep me company. it wasnt a long walk home but i knew it would be lonely.-jkghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11875599352293078581noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9905731.post-65968013373150614932011-04-02T23:08:00.004-04:002011-04-02T23:46:29.444-04:00new shirt<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilryeKUC-IK67A6WzD6YyjFSpFkbizglJsda4aYgd8K_EBsEaBhr-E5RbVXMPCHE3BiCuCPXhr-zyNTgFr4ojKV37esHmMuRBtI6dYEVrx0k2VLt6m7AQ6JEzT7xvtn4WE-2QTNQ/s1600/276642935_9a668bb93f.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilryeKUC-IK67A6WzD6YyjFSpFkbizglJsda4aYgd8K_EBsEaBhr-E5RbVXMPCHE3BiCuCPXhr-zyNTgFr4ojKV37esHmMuRBtI6dYEVrx0k2VLt6m7AQ6JEzT7xvtn4WE-2QTNQ/s320/276642935_9a668bb93f.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591197691130437378" border="0" /></a><br />i was standing at the intersection of broadway and church and the sun was pale and the cars kept turning the corner even though the light was burning red. i stood in front of a newstand being watched by photoshopped celebrities posing on magazines hung by a clothespin. it began to rain.<br /><br />i wanted to buy a new shirt, one with a quiet modern pattern and no obvious logos and buttons and a collar because its time to finally grow up, so i was headed to a department store that was new yorks best kept secret, even though everyone knew about it.<br /><br />i felt like a giant lumbering through the doors. my shoulders smothering the shopping experience for others. i tried to avoid touching people as i walked through the crowd. letting the forces of gravity create an orbit around me, allowing my mass to curve space and time. all our magnetic waves attracting and repelling as see fit.<br /><br />there are voices bouncing off voices and echoing from the walls, the stuttering tone of security tags being scanned. people with headsets squeezing by in stealth precision, saying excuse me only as an automatic response, barely registering their own vocal vibrations. the alarm goes off by the door but not a notion is made by anyone. european tourist calculate the price of jeans in polysyllabic gibberish. and old pan asian couple consider a leather belt.<br /><br />i get to the shirt section but cant take it anymore. it is noon on saturday and ive finished a midterm. it is cold and my tobacco is low. i have to write another paper but i miss her and cant think so i decided to buy a shirt instead. my phone hasnt vibrated in hours and i have to be in class soon. the train is under construction and running local so everything is slower than usual. there is nothing in my size. im on the brink of emotional collapse. i have half an hour to feel new and feel smart and write a paper and be on time and make the right decision but i cant find my fucking size. there is a tie hanging from a rack of hooded sweatshirts. i take a breath.<br /><br />there will be no turmoil. there will be no disruption. there will be no spark inside; no supernova of pain and misery.<br /><br />in my hand is a nice plaid shirt. a clever pattern of earthtones. a subtle statement of colors. the perfect fit.<br /><br />i will look good in this.-jkghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11875599352293078581noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9905731.post-28676644589070819452011-03-28T01:50:00.003-04:002011-03-28T01:54:43.965-04:00friendsyou ever just call up youre friend just to tell them you love them?<br /><br />not just any friend, but a friend you love.<br /><br />not having anything to say or any purpose of the call other than just that. to say that you are the one i love. i love you, my friend. you are important to me. know that.<br /><br />its simultaneously a celebration and a promise. a declaration of faith.<br /><br />you love them.<br /><br />just call them and say it.<br /><br />its easy.-jkghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11875599352293078581noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9905731.post-76545173218563108222011-03-27T10:58:00.003-04:002011-03-27T11:49:22.277-04:00Raising Hell<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihd07XB9LGGVoQWLQ-WDLimUwxYtL0b31aJ-dHxWZsFk6UzmVuvWmqnfRaHSJfMrk2fJF6OubpI5nTNPVIHa6OzohzseFYRXRXBeTT5MDtEX1gQqjHloTMkuV55Wx2K811Aqyvaw/s1600/run_DMC1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 222px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihd07XB9LGGVoQWLQ-WDLimUwxYtL0b31aJ-dHxWZsFk6UzmVuvWmqnfRaHSJfMrk2fJF6OubpI5nTNPVIHa6OzohzseFYRXRXBeTT5MDtEX1gQqjHloTMkuV55Wx2K811Aqyvaw/s320/run_DMC1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5588787359192106002" border="0" /></a><br />when he told me they were doing a show that night i initially didnt believe him. the legendary Run DMC were performing in san francisco and i hadnt heard about it until that night? the possibility of this seemed slim, considering we both worked in the record industry and we were both avid hip hop fans and to see Run DMC live was the holy grail of shows. this, even though they were past their prime and nostalgia had yet to lift them back into relevance (that wouldnt happen for another two years). still, i agreed to go. it definitely wouldnt hurt, and if he was wrong then we'd already be on the town and surely there would be some other shenanigans for us to get into.<br /><br />we go to the DNA Lounge at about 9pm, the show wasnt starting until 10. As we approached the box office i noticed, pasted on the window, a hand made sign that read: Run DMC- $20. it was only twenty dollars? to see the group that changed the landscape of pop music in the 80s and arguably launched rap music into the mainstream stratosphere for good? this seemed, for lack of a better term, too good to be true. the fact that there were still tickets available did not lessen my skepticism either. we each paid for a ticket, got our hand stamped, and walked into the club, my friend beaming with enthusiasm and me wary and kicking myself because i had lost a precious Jackson.<br /><br />the club was packed, which did lift my spirits some. at least i hadnt been the only one fooled that night. the DNA lounge is designed in a very practical manner. there is a fairly large, square dancefloor with a stage at the front, and an upper level balcony that wraps itself around it, allowing patrons to watch the madness from above while sipping on their over priced drinks. we made our way to the balcony as the main floor was too packed, got ourselves some drinks, and began rolling a joint. from where we stood i had a perfect view of the stage. hanging from the back of it was a huge banner bearing the legend: Run DMC, in their classic black and white font. in front of that was set up two turntables, and at the front of the stage two microphones on stands. that was it. i had to admit, this was encouraging, but i still wouldnt believe it until i saw it.<br /><br />slowly the crowd began to press against each other. i wondered if they would oversell tickets then have the fire department come in and shut down the show. that was a classic shady promoter move i knew and had experienced all too many times. my wariness began to kick in again. it was a healthy mix of people, not your usual hip hop crowd, all races and ages, girls and guys alike. we began to smoke the joint and i let the feeling of being stoned wash over me while i clocked the faces and bodies that crowded the area. i wondered if i was the only one that was skeptical, everyone else seemed to be wearing their happy faces. all eyes were wide. the enthusiasm was thick and palpable.<br /><br />thats when he came on stage, Jam Master Jay himself. my jaw dropped to the floor. was that really him? still, my outlook was hesitant. maybe he was just going to do a DJ set. not that that would be a bad thing, mind you.<br /><br />then Run and D came out. the crowd roared in approval. they wore their classic black pants and black jackets and black tshirts underneath, even sporting the hats they were so closely identified with since they early, RUN DMC albums. they looked like they did on the cover of Raising hell, or in the movie Krush Groove. they looked exactly how i, and everyone else in the room, wanted them to look. i marveled at their royalty in silence, letting the crowd do the cheering for me. i couldnt believe it. they were there. i was looking at Run DMC, live, in the flesh.<br /><br />the facetiously introduced themselves, as if we didnt know who they were, and went into the first song of what would be an hour and a half set. the sound was stellar, rare for a hip hop show, and their set was flawless. you could tell they had rehearsed it hundreds of times. hit after hit after hit. not letting up for one moment, keeping everyone in the crowd standing and cheering and aching for more. younger hip hop acts have to take note of this kind of shit. they new how to put on a show better than most anyone id ever seen.<br /><br />at one point, after a second joint, we decided to barrel our way down to the main floor. we wanted to feel the energy they were giving off. we squirmed our way to the middle of the crowd, shoulder to shoulder, hardly able to move for ourselves. thats when Run decided to reintroduce the group again. He sited his alternate moniker, Reverend Run, and pointed to the decks to allow Jam Master Jay to get some love. then he asked DMC, what do they know you as, D?<br /><br />as DMC launched into "King of Rock" a jackpot of excitement erupted on the foor. the whole place exploded as those enormous rock drums, courtesy of John Bonham from Led Zeppelin, thundered through everyone. i was being lifted as the crowd jumped up and down, absolutely mental, along with the track. for a moment a began tearing up. this was easily one of the most exciting moments id ever experience in my concert going career. i was overwhelmed with joy.<br /><br />when it was over we stumbled from the place, exhausted yet still thrilled with the night. i cant even remember what we did afterward. most likely went home and talked about what we had just seen and felt. it was one of the most satisfying concerts any of of would ever have, and we knew it deep in our bones, as sweat still clung to our flesh. we had seen the legends. they had delivered.-jkghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11875599352293078581noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9905731.post-5170562226361794422011-03-25T13:06:00.002-04:002011-03-25T13:18:59.843-04:00too muchit is so much easier to not get your work done.<br /><br />to just let it sit in front of you untouched. like peas on a plate. rejected and ignored. my work is unwanted.<br /><br />but it begs for attention. its a needy beast, always haunting me. i need to get on it.<br /><br />but i just cant. there is too much. its work overload over here.<br /><br />serenity now.-jkghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11875599352293078581noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9905731.post-60606080088941888912011-03-23T13:23:00.003-04:002011-03-23T13:57:20.873-04:00to the door<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHYRxD5XI0Ce9ahuJKHNvjE4NMiXRLapC82n3DW_Cp7W4r6jOe56eREW2sWrp2SxuwqMJETlE-tXwg8xcAgimkZ6Z-rjWryOvRcRVO_PdD5UAEIltmpiCLZVEldG-T5L56JdmMlw/s1600/fresh-direct-delivery-box1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHYRxD5XI0Ce9ahuJKHNvjE4NMiXRLapC82n3DW_Cp7W4r6jOe56eREW2sWrp2SxuwqMJETlE-tXwg8xcAgimkZ6Z-rjWryOvRcRVO_PdD5UAEIltmpiCLZVEldG-T5L56JdmMlw/s320/fresh-direct-delivery-box1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587335836497089298" border="0" /></a><br />i could write another post about a show i went to see but its not in me this afternoon. not much is, to be honest.<br /><br />its raining out. earlier snow was falling in big, heavy flakes that melted as soon as they touched the ground. there was a palpable frustration in the city, as no one wanted to see snow again for the remainder of the year. we had enough this winter, and felt we had suffered through the season admirably and deserved a break from the cold whiteness that blanketed us so. our grievances were valid, and it seemed only right that we spend the rest of march marveling at the bloom of spring, as the colors came back to the trees and the tarp was taken from the patio furniture. instead we have one more day of misery. a day of slushy gutters and a night of huddling inside our big coats. the coats we were prepared to retire to the closet, with the hoods and the down filling and the big pockets our lighters get lost in.<br /><br />i cant say i feel very well. my stomach is turning and my heart beats faster than usual. i hope its just a minor cold, a consequence of my drinking habits, or perhaps the result of eating too late. what i dont want it to be is an emotional sickness, because you just never know when those are going to go away. they stew inside you, subsiding at times, then swelling up again in huge waves of anxiety.<br /><br />thats neither here nor there, though.<br /><br />the weather outside is bringing me down. im waiting for a food delivery to come. groceries, not just one meal. i havent had the chance to go shopping in a while and my refrigerator was entirely bare. well, not entirely. there were three apples. a quart of milk. some beer. a can of salsa. ive been living off of takeout and, although im fine with that, it can grow tedious and boring after a while. sandwich after sandwich. the occasional burrito or pizza pie. it became a sad habit i wanted to rid myself of. so i went online and ordered groceries from one of those internet supermarkets you see ads for on the subway. i scheduled the delivery to come between 12 and 2.<br /><br />it is 1:50. the only thing pressing on my doorbell is the pattering of rain. they better show up soon.-jkghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11875599352293078581noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9905731.post-89010202383499719962011-03-21T13:44:00.005-04:002011-03-21T15:17:46.169-04:00wa do dem<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdDQXvBldug3Jw8VBj0opCt8QjQNjVBxhiH7fN8ITi4vypMTIcAYl_3Yt-AsnA9lkbvQO9Fb4Y9GO5-sw8y-yH-CgHBtSbcl9znjT9K4KtrRA8aHu6Klr-39ua9A7hRS0Fo5Sy0w/s1600/Eek-A-Mouse.jpeg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 208px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdDQXvBldug3Jw8VBj0opCt8QjQNjVBxhiH7fN8ITi4vypMTIcAYl_3Yt-AsnA9lkbvQO9Fb4Y9GO5-sw8y-yH-CgHBtSbcl9znjT9K4KtrRA8aHu6Klr-39ua9A7hRS0Fo5Sy0w/s320/Eek-A-Mouse.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586614138551680770" border="0" /></a><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">im</span> going to write a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">series</span> of post about concerts <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">ive</span> been to. this is the first one, hopefully they will get better.<br /><br />i <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">dont</span> know which concert to start at so ill just start at the first one i remember going to. i was a senior in high school. most kids had already been to concerts, or at least all the friends i went with said they had, so i guess <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">im</span> a late bloomer in that regard.<br /><br />my brother had just gotten his first car. a silver <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">nissan</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">maxima</span>. he'd only had it for two days, this was our first outing. it was a good three or four years old yet still looked pretty brand new. the stock stereo had a decent rumbling bass and the windows and seats were electric. there was a moon roof and the back window was tinted. it was a four door, which meant i <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">didnt</span> have to fold myself too tightly in order to get into the back seat. not like i ever would have, since he was my brother i had a lock on the shotgun side.<br /><br />we were already heavy <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">stoners</span> but none of us drank that much. its a lot easier to buy weed than it is alcohol, so we stuck with the vices that were afforded us without trouble. at the time we were hanging around these two guys, jimmy and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">JT</span>, that were big into reggae music. in fact, most of our friends were into reggae music in some capacity or another, but these two guys had a deeper knowledge than most. they were the ones that bought all the old classic <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">riddems</span> to us. the early yodel of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">barington</span> levy, the modern <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">dancehall</span> of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">buju</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">banton</span>, the merciless bass lines of classic roots and dub. we were young and of the idea that the more me smoked the more we connected with the music. perhaps this is true. either way, the first show we went to was a reggae gig.<br /><br />it was in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">berkeley</span> at a small venue not far from the college. the artist was eek-a-mouse. i was vaguely familiar with his music but liked what i had heard. we all piled into the silver <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">maxima</span> and put on one of his tapes and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">vibed</span> on the freeway on the way to the show. we almost got in an accident while making an ill-advised turn into the fast lane and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">everyones</span> heart skipped for a second, then we just laughed again and turned up the music until the speakers began to rattle and opened up the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">moonroof</span> and let the early summer night pour in.<br /><br />i forget how much the tickets were, under twenty bucks <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">im</span> sure. the place was small and packed and i had the skeptical feeling that eek-a-mouse <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">wouldnt</span> show up. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">im</span> not sure why, id never been to a concert and i suppose i just felt it was too good to be true. he was suppose to fly in from <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">jamaica</span>, how could they afford that? why would he come and perform for us? for such a young, sweaty, unknowing crowd. he was a legend. a man with classic under his belt. i was sure at any moment the DJ would announce he <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">didnt</span> make it and we would all go home, frustrated but accepting and happy we at least made the trip.<br /><br />finally he came on stage. i was nervous and excited and the butterflies in my stomach were big and wild. he was taller than i imagined, at least six foot seven. and had this lanky, rhythmic way about him. he swayed on the stage as if it was a boat at sea. nothing else but him and a microphone, not even a stand. everyone new all his songs and sang along and i just smiled and stared and tried to catch the meter and chant with them all. smoke hung above us all in a thick cloud and someone passed me a joint and i took it without question. the crowd were mostly white college aged kids in big t-shirts and baggy pants. there were only two or three people there that looked truly <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">jamaican</span> and i assumed they had come with eek-a-mouse. they had weathered faces with a sheen of sweat and from their lips hung long, fat joints that they just sucked at without flinching.<br /><br />when he finally did a song i recognized i almost burst with enthusiasm. i sang along and tried my hand at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">skanking</span>—the loose form of dancing popular at reggae concerts—and took every joint passed to me and chugged water from a bottle, letting it fall from the sides of my mouth and down my neck. i <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">didnt</span> know where any of my friends were and i <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">didnt</span> care. i was lost in the heat and the rhythm and the smoke falling between us. when he did his encore, a song i <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">didnt</span> recognize but that was a classic nonetheless, i <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30">pogoed</span> a little in the crowd, letting my body flop against others and beaming unconsciously. after he left the stage i stood, mesmerized by the thinning crowd and taking deep breaths, trying to inhale it all.<br /><br />outside i met my brother and the rest of them and we all stumbled to the car swapping stories and individual adventures that the night had given. jimmy had seen a guy getting a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31">blowjob</span> outside as he left. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_32">JT</span> had rolled a perfect joint <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_33">with</span> one hand and shared it with one of the hulking <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_34">jamaican</span> dudes. my brother had gotten a free drink from a drunken girl who looked like she was about to vomit. i had experienced my first concert.<br /><br />i <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_35">dont</span> remember getting home, but we made it because here i am. it was just the first of many concerts we would go to, most of them transported by that silver <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_36">maxima</span>, and hardly the best one. at the time though, for the first, it was a gentle and satisfying experience. a nice popping of my cherry.-jkghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11875599352293078581noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9905731.post-80689031548084340152011-03-19T00:25:00.003-04:002011-03-19T00:33:17.250-04:00super moon<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKI_wh-lgQJByij1hrraGxlZLpJhmTjzuK3DjofFZddkhy6tpjupOeS5TJm9HgU4Xs4zTUxZFHmwpHqL9BkdVEK-bdgkDX2i2DsNvG3lxcJM43iB8bTlEtrXAGzp2CgSAlJcK4fQ/s1600/supermoon.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKI_wh-lgQJByij1hrraGxlZLpJhmTjzuK3DjofFZddkhy6tpjupOeS5TJm9HgU4Xs4zTUxZFHmwpHqL9BkdVEK-bdgkDX2i2DsNvG3lxcJM43iB8bTlEtrXAGzp2CgSAlJcK4fQ/s320/supermoon.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5585644286755399042" border="0" /></a><br />its been like, forever. amirite?<br /><br />the moon is super and tomorrow its going to be even more superer.<br /><br />and its elliptical orbit will continue on. as it was and always will be.<br /><br />glory be la luna.<br /><br />people say—at parties while sipping wine and eating soft cheese on crackers—that the moon affects the tides, and the tides affect us.<br /><br />and that the bigger it is the more heavy the sensation.<br /><br />and that the closer it is the more profound.<br /><br />i dont know if that is true or not.<br /><br />but i sure do feel funny.-jkghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11875599352293078581noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9905731.post-25522682412106686752011-03-16T16:22:00.004-04:002011-03-16T16:31:47.007-04:00ten minutes.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizLn0LLh2GXP6HI3177-obhx0mX9pYrUOW-LVxWloLJslTH4rGAaW2OroC_bWtpbi4NAPT8a8qi_qcbuIxXJeB080Nd8cU6ekTA-J2kzesoVZFJxfOGGiS1ANiswLoglNaR5mdCQ/s1600/10minutesweb.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 265px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizLn0LLh2GXP6HI3177-obhx0mX9pYrUOW-LVxWloLJslTH4rGAaW2OroC_bWtpbi4NAPT8a8qi_qcbuIxXJeB080Nd8cU6ekTA-J2kzesoVZFJxfOGGiS1ANiswLoglNaR5mdCQ/s320/10minutesweb.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5584778166569645986" border="0" /></a><br />ill take ten minutes out to write a little something here.<br /><br />on the black space, the empty room, the crevice in the internet.<br /><br />ive actually been pretty good about trying to write something every day. if not here than on a word document. sometimes i use an email for practice. sometimes i just try to be clever while chatting. but thats a cheat, i know.<br /><br />i try to write in my journal, the one thats always in my backpack, with the flowery pattern on its cover that my mother gave me for christmas. i pull it out when in a quiet bar and i sip my whiskey and jot down random phrases.<br /><br />sometimes ill write a whole paragraph and sometimes that paragraph will have meaning. i dont want anyone reading my most intimate thoughts so i try to find a balance between code and prose. im still working on that.<br /><br />sometimes it'll just be a thought that burst through my skull and i try to get it down before it dissipates like smoke into the atmosphere. im not always successful at these, but sometimes i am.<br /><br />usually though, it ends up being like this post, just a series of insignificant sentences that, when strung together, create a meager excuse for purpose. its all i have now though. maybe more tonight.-jkghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11875599352293078581noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9905731.post-45635177911874569502011-03-15T18:21:00.002-04:002011-03-15T18:55:22.170-04:00poked<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4jYgSaxpoVYIXPcV7OSAisVvIXJxhjVNwGUA0hTekCkeWhjXORrr_kQXJrfyu_qr1W9yNiKkMp6t5ZGjX7viA32sJS1nTA96in6olmEDY_f1DjtX81166v_uy2Ltg5iJz3YtOJA/s1600/ba-facebook_ghos_SFCG1235077402.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 319px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4jYgSaxpoVYIXPcV7OSAisVvIXJxhjVNwGUA0hTekCkeWhjXORrr_kQXJrfyu_qr1W9yNiKkMp6t5ZGjX7viA32sJS1nTA96in6olmEDY_f1DjtX81166v_uy2Ltg5iJz3YtOJA/s320/ba-facebook_ghos_SFCG1235077402.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5584444093509127666" border="0" /></a><br />i am sitting here at my desk and it is early in the evening, much later than i originally planned to do my writing, but not so late that im too flooded with alcohol to actually get something down.<br /><br />the black cat is tearing at the trash bag in the kitchen. i can hear his claws ripping at the plastic, the pokes and prods of kitty destruction. without turning around i just holler at him to stop and he prances into my living room and rubs his head on my ankles. so innocent, the evil creature.<br /><br />i was thinking about facebook earlier, because i got an email alerting me that a cousin of mine sent me a "poke." i personally am not fond of pokes, they are a passive way of saying hello and, unless in a context that has been established long before, only send a sentiment that you find the person you are poking alive, yet not important enough to send an actual message. im sure im not alone in this idea. poking is probably the most frowned upon feature in facebook. and it is only this one cousin of mine that ever pokes me. if this doesnt explain the fractured family dynamic ive endured the past decade or so, than what else will.<br /><br />i grew up with this girl, we were the first and second grandchildren, respectively. i was just slightly older than her, but we made a friendship out of consequence, being the only two kids at any large family functions. we explored the brick neighborhoods of newark, new jersey together. we dared one another too eat strange foods, then giggled and winced at the outcome. we swapped blame upon one another, taking the fall for our numerous antics. we would speak with our eyes when one of the adults grew mad, and tried to protect each other if there was any outside threat. we werent best friends, we were family. we were also children, maturation loomed.<br /><br />we lost contact when i lost contact with the family, but that doesnt mean we didnt share a history. when i reconnected she was one ofthe first people i was excited to see. but the burden of our lineage had made her weary. she was sullen and aloof. i didnt take offense, we all carry our issues with us.<br /><br />but once we became facebook friends she started poking me. i would always poke back, just so she knew i wasnt ignoring her, but they keep coming. she pokes, i poke back, then she pokes again. i just cant, for the life of me, understand why she wont just write the word "hi" on my wall. its almost as if shes afraid to cross a line and start an actual relationship.<br /><br />that being said, i have another cousin on facebook, who post all the time. i actually have a few, but we'll get to the rest of them later. this cousin is a guy, and is the son to what i believe was my best and definitely favorite uncle. unfortunately, this uncle committed suicide and left behind two sons. one, the cousin i speak of, was named after him. the saddest thing is i dont know him at all. we only became friends because we have the same surname and were friends with all the other family members, so it made since we should be friends too. ive never even met the kid, and i couldnt quite tell you how old he is. im not sure what music he is into, what he does for a living, where he lives, what he strives for. i cant tell you anything about him except that hes my cousin and his father committed suicide and every now and then he goes to florida.<br /><br />then i have a cousin who lives in new jersey. she is young and beautiful and i believe wants to be an actress or model. sometimes she speaks in a language that i can assume only the kids can decipher. extra letters and abbreviations and acronyms that havent made it into my lexicon yet. she also post a lot of strange, cryptic status updates that i suspect are directed at a boy she likes, or that likes her [which would be a more accurate assessment] but which mean nothing to anyone else who reads them. it bugs the shit out of me, and i found myself almost disliking her based solely on her status updates. i realized that was being crotchety though, and now i just ignore her.<br /><br />there are other family members, a cousin in Washington state that likes to snowboard and once posted a picture of his name written in urine on the beach at dawn. there is the cousin that im not sure how im related too that changed his last name to X, recently. seriously, like malcom x. im not sure what the meaning behind it was. there is the cousin with the big mouth who always tries to call but we never see each other and she barely ever post so our meager friendship is waning. there are a bunch of aunts who i avoid like the plague. and perhaps there are more im not even aware of yet.<br /><br />facebook is a strange connector. it serves its purpose to some extent. i find it strange that even family members of mine are so distant even with this great technology bringing us together. oh well. just dont poke me.-jkghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11875599352293078581noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9905731.post-12254868581163613382011-03-13T01:45:00.004-05:002011-03-13T03:01:49.975-04:00what can you do?<iframe title="YouTube video player" width="640" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/4VlbdBZ4LCs" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br />i can do a lot of things.<br />i can sleep in late.<br />i can ponder a dawn or a dusk.<br />i can find a phrase and turn it.<br />i can work every hour of the day.<br />i can be too cold.<br />i can be too hot.<br />i can strip and be naked or have a sweater near by just in case.<br />i can go without sleep for days on end.<br />i can figure out why you should or you shouldnt.<br />i can stray upright after a shot and a spike.<br />i can drink you under the table.<br />i can read your bones and tell you how old you are.<br />i can have my heart broken make it break your heart.<br />i can be the shoulder you cry upon.<br />i can find us food know matter what time it is.<br />i can give you advice even if you dont need it.<br />i can give you advice if you do.<br />i can sort through your tunes and make a good playlist.<br />i can make you feel good about yourself.<br />i can make the day scream mercy.<br />but what i cant do is<br />ride a mountain bike down the streets of Uruguay without shitting myself.<br />and that dude did.<br />bravo.<br />link courtesy of <a href="http://busblog.tonypierce.com/2011/03/be-awesome.html">busblog</a>-jkghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11875599352293078581noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9905731.post-34494753949319985762011-03-09T12:43:00.002-05:002011-03-09T13:15:44.052-05:00kung fu theater<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTHomqg-3TLEUy-LyCEpQP1OijNDs3jb-NS_hyphenhyphenlY5PajVTVYIquZQ1ufC6KJ9IGd2oBWXQCMRo7yWGw8RgGeu7NWgqQK8Css5GrdTnEER5c0wHER97KpOyxtk6bQponG72ksqHjA/s1600/bruce_lee_ip_man.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 216px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTHomqg-3TLEUy-LyCEpQP1OijNDs3jb-NS_hyphenhyphenlY5PajVTVYIquZQ1ufC6KJ9IGd2oBWXQCMRo7yWGw8RgGeu7NWgqQK8Css5GrdTnEER5c0wHER97KpOyxtk6bQponG72ksqHjA/s320/bruce_lee_ip_man.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5582145506616038434" border="0" /></a><br />of all the people to get me into kung fu movies as a kid, i never would have thought it would be my grandmother, but thinking back to it now, it was her and no one else.<br /><br />its not that she was a woman too gentle to be entertained by the art of combat, in fact, she was a stern lady that, as the creases folded more on her face, had a fight inside that matured with her. a woman who could grow cross at any moment and who, although filled with a cold, distant love, inspired a slight fear in everyone she met. so after considering her more, it makes sense she would be the one who sat me down every sunday afternoon and while writing in her recipe book or stitching a piece of clothing, watched the four hour block of martial arts flicks that the local stations promised us.<br /><br />every sunday after morning mass we would all come home in one of grandfathers large luxury sedans. i would race to the kitchen and pour myself a bowl of cheerios with a pile of sugar on top, then eat it while watching the remaining cartoons on television. when they were over i would go upstairs and climb from my church clothes, still stiff from being ironed that morning, and get into my jeans or a pair of shorts, then pull on a tshirt.<br /><br />when i would get back downstairs she would be sitting in the large easy chair closest to the tv, under the portrait of a dying jesus christ, with her hands already busy and the tv tuned to the station. one of my aunts might be there too, adjusting her glasses in anticipation or buried in a book, waiting for the fights to start. id lay on my stomach facing the tv and like the rest of them, i would begin to wait.<br /><br />my grandfather would never be there, he'd be off working with his hands, involved in his own wars. and most of my aunts would be off enjoying the weekends final hours with friends or other family members. the quiet hustle and bustle of a large family would fill the background with a pleasant din, but id be focused on the tv. id be waiting for the scratchy horns that signaled the beginning of Kung Fu Theater, the mix up of colors that alerted the viewer that the show was about to start. it was always the same, and the movies would sometimes be repeats. there seemed to be a finite collection of 70's kung fu movies but i loved every single one of them. so did my grandmother.<br /><br />during the show i would get up and try to imitate the moves i saw on screen. for me, it was like a training camp, the movies were my sen sei, my teacher, and i was the student learning the art of kung fu. i think i figured if i watched enough of them id be a martial arts master eventually. and lord knows i tried to become one. but every afternoon, like clockwork, id get too rowdy and start distracting my grandmother and she would hiss at me to sit down before i broke something, so i did. perhaps if she would have never interrupted my training id have become a regular Bruce lee. who knows?<br /><br />i only bring this up because recently i saw a movie called <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ip_Man_%28film%29">Ip</a> <a href="http://www.traileraddict.com/trailer/ip-man/trailer">Man</a>. i dont watch kung fu movies much these days, but i will go ahead and declare that it is one of the best ones ive seen in years. if you like kung fu flicks, check it out. it delivers.-jkghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11875599352293078581noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9905731.post-60238859925113064852011-03-07T12:37:00.003-05:002011-03-07T13:28:34.707-05:00casper<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHxDY_5mP0b2rJ9lj5TZZLO-G-VZkKT420vRezXx_FvtZ98a93Gq0OtcNDaaWUHj2qxMUoI-s4a5d3DhQ2YapKQyogyLImPCGFO-WJA6YnO-Tisi7Z8mFCVh4Hs-srcyDSxx1Orw/s1600/minivan_wild_ride_030111.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 241px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHxDY_5mP0b2rJ9lj5TZZLO-G-VZkKT420vRezXx_FvtZ98a93Gq0OtcNDaaWUHj2qxMUoI-s4a5d3DhQ2YapKQyogyLImPCGFO-WJA6YnO-Tisi7Z8mFCVh4Hs-srcyDSxx1Orw/s320/minivan_wild_ride_030111.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581406612307823938" border="0" /></a><br />i ran across a lot of people back when we were raving. our apartment was a halfway house for almost every raver in san francisco at the time. there was rarely ever a point when it was just the flatmates there. the doorbell stayed ringing and we stayed answering it. in the morning i would step over young and exhausted bodies, burned out from the night before and the night before that, piles of human ash and stain. strange faces greeted me when i got home, most were oblivious that they were even in someone elses house. i could hardly keep track of everyones name and im sure only half of them knew mine.<br /><br />one name i did remember was casper, though. he had been over a times and was a fixture on the scene. there was nothing remarkable about how he looked or dressed. he was an average white kid form the suburbs of california that always wore a hat and never had a jacket. i have one distinct memory of him sitting cross legged on the floor in one of our rooms, his eyes closed and his neck rolling in rhythm with the music playing. we were no doubt on drugs but he seemed to be simultaneously in control while being lost at the same time. it was mysterious. i was fascinated by him. he was strange in an impressive way, like an artist that had yet to find his medium. we sat there alone in the room, both of us not speaking, listening to a mix tape and dancing in place.<br /><br />at one point he mumbled something and i asked him what he said and when he repeated it i still didnt understand but nodded my head in agreement anyway.<br /><br />its been forever since i thought of him and what ever became of him. i assumed he moved back to the suburbs and tried becoming whatever it is he was aiming to become. i suppose i was half right.<br /><br /><a href="http://sanfrancisco.cbslocal.com/2011/03/02/central-valley-woman-survives-wild-ride-on-minivan-hood/">this is what he did over the weekend. </a><br /><br />i didnt know his name was chris until i read the article. its sad to think this is where hes at and its even sadder to think its not surprising. but such is life. we all made our choices and we all meandered down our paths and sometimes the rut we dig ourselves into is one we cant get out of. that dot on the map that tells us "we are here" is sometimes in the most awful place.<br /><br />i think its time he made a change.-jkghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11875599352293078581noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9905731.post-3259407471383034032011-03-04T12:31:00.002-05:002011-03-04T12:50:25.808-05:00form and function<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_lva7kSHQgwOM9WoX-vgLuKdiuZk1oqY2g8JnLEUU7O5bqOCxikb9DcHAb2OLobuSVd5umHUX3I4K3QKr9df0BhtMqP43ESXPmxu8z61HYYjncDTiFuhRJwgwNjwbmSx33wOhQA/s1600/goa.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_lva7kSHQgwOM9WoX-vgLuKdiuZk1oqY2g8JnLEUU7O5bqOCxikb9DcHAb2OLobuSVd5umHUX3I4K3QKr9df0BhtMqP43ESXPmxu8z61HYYjncDTiFuhRJwgwNjwbmSx33wOhQA/s320/goa.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580283521243345282" border="0" /></a><br />if anyone is reading this and you were a fan of electronic music in the 90's then you should probably listen to Benji b's show on radio 1 this week.<br /><br />well, you should probably listen to benji b's show every week, but this week especially.<br /><br />its a retrospective of photek, the legendary drum n bass soldier from the even more legendary Metalheadz crew. the first hour is all his old classics from the heyday of cut up drums and gut rattling low ends.<br /><br />listen to it for nostalgia or listen to it for the tunes or listen to it because your interested in what the good stuff sounded like when the good stuff was being played and made.<br /><br />i never got too into drum n bass, i was a house music fan, but that doesnt mean i couldnt appreciate a good tune. and photek made nothing but good tunes in those days. he would chop up his drums in the most clever way, being simultaneously spare while still filling every void. he used other worldy sounds that seemed to be beaming into your head from a distant galaxy where they had more colors than us and the air was always clean.<br /><br />i remember i saw him at the justice league in san francisco when that club was the center of the universe and he played a set that tore off everyones ears. i left that night and the next day went to a record store and bought about five photek singles and a photek album. they all delivered and i still have them on my shelf.<br /><br />but the thing to do in drum n bass was to play dubplates before they ever got released. it was very serious business. you couldnt be a drum n bass dj and just be playing the tunes that came out that week. they were already old. the crowd took this very seriously. i always wondered if this practice helped be the downfall of the genre. how can you ever be a good d n b dj without being able to just buy the tunes first. how could you ever be cool enough?<br /><br />these days photek lives in los angeles instead of london and he makes house and dubstep instead of drum n bass. i dont follow him much anymore but hes still revered by electronic music standards. maybe ill check out some of his new stuff. maybe it will still move me, have me sitting in front of the speakers asking <span style="font-style: italic;">how did he do that?</span><br /><br />check out <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b00v4tv3">benji b</a>-jkghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11875599352293078581noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9905731.post-88870627532710073122011-03-03T11:29:00.003-05:002011-03-03T12:00:39.960-05:00early riser<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAOMq7BPIL5adQekGRyqwGh6p1plDtL5kqkkjZtdzsklHc2a4ifF1PN0ZhVcY7nPv4h-rP-heE5wXLkiceNJ0GEY726kyIkUspbdU-rgfhN-RBKQ1Oh3JtjxHYbMJd49FAPT-Qcg/s1600/rooster.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 170px; height: 110px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAOMq7BPIL5adQekGRyqwGh6p1plDtL5kqkkjZtdzsklHc2a4ifF1PN0ZhVcY7nPv4h-rP-heE5wXLkiceNJ0GEY726kyIkUspbdU-rgfhN-RBKQ1Oh3JtjxHYbMJd49FAPT-Qcg/s320/rooster.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5579899646051499522" border="0" /></a><br />ive been waking up earlier and earlier. soon ill be rising with the sun and the disappearing cold. greeted by the warming sky, a breakfast of bird chirps.<br /><br />this is good. my biggest complaint about living has been there just isnt enough hours in the day. and i knew this was my own doing, that i was sleeping away the time i need, that i was wasting the time i had.<br /><br />id been told before that i should just wake up early but im a stubborn one that scoffs at advice and always has an arsenal of excuses on why i cant live any other way than the way im living.<br /><br />but the solution was obvious and even though i turned a blind eye to it i guess sometimes the solution just folds into you.<br /><br />first i began waking up an hour before i used to, these days i find myself waking up two hours before i used to. if this pattern keeps up ill be waking three hours before i used to and then the only option will be to finish work earlier and have more room to breathe.<br /><br />i still lay in bed for a half hour or so before i actually get up. this way the dreams have faded and the worry has simmered and the day is a little more clear as i climb into uniform.<br /><br />it also gives me time to just jot down a few words every morning before i begin to do that which has to be done.<br /><br />and it gives me a little more time to think. a little more time to find my place in the matter.-jkghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11875599352293078581noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9905731.post-44466131042773749252011-03-02T14:00:00.002-05:002011-03-02T14:45:53.205-05:00bags<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv8KwgpEKP6Dk10FOU60chlufM1wiJIIGOpdOzdvnAv3LnSioX6UarCa1KGiLVR4khRBzgfKt7P8S5HVX4dM6LQvEbAbJj_6UmLt3_fIx0KlaXdTothEvvpv1MfiYtJeFglSl7Vw/s1600/traintracks.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv8KwgpEKP6Dk10FOU60chlufM1wiJIIGOpdOzdvnAv3LnSioX6UarCa1KGiLVR4khRBzgfKt7P8S5HVX4dM6LQvEbAbJj_6UmLt3_fIx0KlaXdTothEvvpv1MfiYtJeFglSl7Vw/s320/traintracks.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5579571074430650994" border="0" /></a><br />when it rains it pours and from the looks of it, a storm is brewing.<br /><br />or perhaps its here and im soaked to the bone, so wet i cant get any wetter. and i dont feel it falling upon me anymore. is that a good or a bad thing?<br /><br />and ive been through enough to know this storm will pass. the winds will push it behind me, or carry it forward where it will patiently wait.<br /><br />ive had to make adjustments in myself recently. in life we reach crossroads and when you go down one road you cant go down the other. a sacrifice had to be made and sometimes those sacrifices can fill your heart with loss. this was one of those sacrifices. one for the greater good. one that threatens to stay, that you may carry with you for a long time.<br /><br />and it isnt as if i dont carry with me the burdens of my past, but ive learned to cope with them, to fit them into places where they only teach me instead of beat me.<br /><br />but the decision to take on this loss grinded my head into the dirt. i was shredded and lost it for a bit. and in the process of this burden i created another loss. and it seems too much to lose at one time. but perhaps this is how things were supposed to play out.<br /><br />i dont make the rules and i dont think anyone else does either, they are just what they are. there is no divine parent wagging their finger at you. no ethereal force sending you signs.<br /><br />its tough but right now a lot has been taken out of me. even my words are simple and plain. the words will come back though. they always do. they always do.-jkghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11875599352293078581noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9905731.post-12829240526595600922011-03-01T12:22:00.004-05:002011-03-01T13:34:04.856-05:00march of the martini<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieI1rKJN6tiu6Ob_GGJe_i_2_yrPtV6TGRxm4-bTqw4uMHFrLjusCva6rNxhaG-cb3FzEO1BFmERp6xI5IWXilpj94ltxxdxSps8zIWf3S4Nt6SxE08tyPz9mBnMvbAvtcs8SH9w/s1600/dress-like-a-stoner.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 212px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieI1rKJN6tiu6Ob_GGJe_i_2_yrPtV6TGRxm4-bTqw4uMHFrLjusCva6rNxhaG-cb3FzEO1BFmERp6xI5IWXilpj94ltxxdxSps8zIWf3S4Nt6SxE08tyPz9mBnMvbAvtcs8SH9w/s320/dress-like-a-stoner.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5579181588546333842" border="0" /></a><br />its been two weeks, maybe more, since i last smoked weed. this is less of an accomplishment than i thought, as it has come quite easy, but the novelty of it is hardly lost on me.<br /><br />i was a daily smoker for many years. too many to count or admit. the first few years i was what you could consider a stoner, and i mean that in the most literal sense. smoking weed was part of my identity. i wore shirts with pot paraphernalia, hung posters on my wall that displayed my allegiance to the leaf, would bond with strangers based solely on our shared habit, and could smoke all day until i passed out. i hung around a group of kids that were also stoners, and found those that didnt smoke nervous squares, cowards of modern society. i would get excited when, in films, characters would smoke weed. i would feel a special connection to them, as if they were written that way for my benefit. when movies would come out that used smoking as a pillar of plot development, id be first in line to see them, and id be the first to point out any inaccuracies in how they practiced it, as if i were an expert. of course, all songs that were about weed i immediately liked, and would add to my soundtrack to play while having a session. i was dedicated to smoking. it gave me purpose.<br /><br />then i got older and i grew out of appearing like a smoker, of letting myself be defined by weed. i didnt smoke any less, but i took down my posters and rarely wore my pot themed clothes. some of my friends went further into the character, eventually turning into hippies, and i still hung out with them but we werent as close as before. i wasnt a stoner, i was just a smoker. id begun to cling to other drugs anyway, so no one substance could be my legend. still, i smoked all day, almost every day. waking up to a bong load and passing out with a spliff in my mouth. my roomates sold weed at the time, so it was always in abundance. i didnt think anything of it, it was just something i did. something everyone did. it wasnt a way of life, it was just another part of it.<br /><br />back then smoking had a few different effects on me. sometimes it would inspire me. i would get these unorthodox thoughts or poetic sensations. it would help me think through my dj sets, sometimes mixing records in my head before i even put them on the turntables. when i ate food i would devour it, absolutely ravenous by the time it hit my lips. and sometimes it would calm me down and help me forget my worries. it was, without a doubt, a helper, not a hinderer.<br /><br />as i got older and my responsibilities grew, i smoked less (much to my chagrin). i had learned that, no matter how beneficial i thought weed was, i got spacey when i was high. and being that i worked a high pressure job that i didnt want to lose, i had to stop smoking during the day. i couldnt be blanking out at my desk if i got an important call from someone. then i began school, so i had to push my smoking time back to even later in the evening, because studying or writing, although doable while stoned, wasnt the best way to get an A. my papers would get too creative, and i wouldnt retain as much of my reading. i got used to this, and smoking at night before i went to sleep became a pleasurable habit. it helped me to unwind, and it made getting to sleep easier.<br /><br />then i got even older, and my brain became filled with all the worries of the world. i still smoked only at night, but not just because of school or work, but because i would start to panic if i smoked during the day. i would grow concerned about bills, about deadlines, about ambitions. i would let an impending sense of doom suffocate me, and want to curl up in a fetal position instead of doing anything else. id always thought i was the kind of person who would never let weed make me paranoid, but i suppose life wound me up, and unwinding was just harder to do.<br /><br />recently, with everything in my head and heart, i just havent wanted to smoke. it frightens me, what ill think of were i to get stoned. i dont want to panic, or get angry, or worst of all, grow sad. so im taking a break. i have a few drinks and the solace of silence. its working so far, and ive even begun to get up earlier in the day. i will probably pick up the habit again, but it'll be much more infrequent, and ill probably only want to do it while on vacation. this is reasonable. i dont dislike weed, at all. i just dont love it anymore.-jkghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11875599352293078581noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9905731.post-10188988968142816482011-02-27T12:08:00.003-05:002011-02-27T12:49:32.640-05:00emergency meeting<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmt4xJJR7AtFJILktPmYIGUNlwDE5b8sjJPZadVWmKW0mUKUeRXb93CM55FJCgVNZIRf6b9gxD-KBCY-07V8UmKUFcKYxrLAgm-IAH8zftsWdCtye0fljCnzYzlhrAX-PzxxCg4A/s1600/meeting.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmt4xJJR7AtFJILktPmYIGUNlwDE5b8sjJPZadVWmKW0mUKUeRXb93CM55FJCgVNZIRf6b9gxD-KBCY-07V8UmKUFcKYxrLAgm-IAH8zftsWdCtye0fljCnzYzlhrAX-PzxxCg4A/s320/meeting.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5578427838109757282" border="0" /></a><br />we have an emergency staff meeting today. the boss <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">texted</span> all of us twice about it. once yesterday afternoon and once this morning. i guess she wanted to make sure we got the message. i have to work today anyway, so its not as if i would have missed it. but its not as if i want to go to it either.<br /><br />i know what its about, shes going out of town for a few weeks and is nervous about leaving the bar in our hands. fair enough. we are a competent group but we all let things get a little casual every so often. so she will have to go over the things we are and we <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">arent</span> to be doing.<br /><br />we <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">shouldnt</span> be giving away liquor. this is obvious, but in our <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">environment</span> sometimes the lines are blurred. its easy to just give away a beer from the tap, or a drink from the well. its a courtesy, but sometimes it gets out of hand. i know there have been times where a friend or a pretty girl has sat at the bar, gotten shit faced drunk, and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">ive</span> only charged them for a few things. of course, this leads to the fact that we are drinking as well [or at least i am], and the sense of judgement gets scrambled, and the job goes second behind having a good time. obviously, when shes gone, this cant happen. we cant be <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">getting</span> drunk and we cant be getting people drunk for free. this should go without saying, yet it needs to be said. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">ive</span> actually learned how to not buy too many drinks for people. there is a way around it, while still taking care of the customer. its mostly going to be a matter of me not drinking as much, which i <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">shouldnt</span> be doing anyway.<br /><br />we have to be aware of the health department, and make sure all our bases are covered in terms of keeping the bar clean. this is really important because we are due for an inspection soon. a few bars in the neighborhood have been hit recently, one of them receiving a low grade, which they have to prominently display on their front window. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">thats</span> not, as we say, "a good look." so the water in the sink should be hot and the fruit should be free of any signs of flies. the bar should not be sticky and the towels should not be covered in grime. we must make sure the bottles are all capped so no bugs crawl in looking for the sugar. the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">thermometers</span> in the fridge should be at state assigned temps. no spoiled milk. no spoiled juices.<br /><br />the regulars need to be checked so that there are no <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">shenanigans</span>. no getting to rowdy or making a scene. no heated conversations that may scare of the other customers. voices at a reasonable level. no invasive behavior. hands to themselves.<br /><br />and as for me, i need to find the focus to make sure it all runs smoothly. at least on my watch.-jkghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11875599352293078581noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9905731.post-26879108860768336902011-02-24T12:55:00.002-05:002011-02-24T14:13:25.310-05:00greater goodlaying down on the cold surface with your shirt off and your pants off and wearing a paper gown with no back to it. waiting. listening to the whirr of the machine as it grinds itself into power. the ticka tacka ticka tacka of it working, of it studying you, looking inside, at your bones. searching for the poisons that are eating away at your blood and muscles and infecting your organs. you are surrounded by the machine and the noise is loud and miserable. ticka tacka ticka tacka. it is like a panic exploding in your head. you try to be patient but cant wait for it to be over. even if it is for the greater good.<br /><br />***************************<br /><br />you take her to the vet to get blood work and the secretary says they will call you in a couple days when the results are back. you coddle her in your arms instead of putting her in a cage. the air is cold and her fur is thin and matted but still feels warm on your cheek. you whisper in her ear that it will be ok. everything will be ok. when you get home you place her on the bed and go to the kitchen to get her food. after pouring it in the bowl you go back to your bedroom, where she still lies. hushed and unmoving. her eyes blinking slowly. she wont eat. she hasnt eaten in days. this is the end. you know it. before the vet calls back you call the vet and make an appointment. you have to put her down. you have to put her out of her misery.<br /><br />**************************-jkghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11875599352293078581noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9905731.post-72898710251431198312011-02-22T11:44:00.003-05:002011-02-22T12:37:35.608-05:00hungry<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgHeO8oEWzyp_5ox9hE23PZAbBfe3_jDj6BgBXQUxn5SJDDfbNI32rDDl4lIaoyjWsgCwEwGBR9XhasvMNqj8ANvKzP_915YhLzP77h8VLzL31BYSD6dmGZ1Sk4TtF6PTkap-UJQ/s1600/hungry.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 215px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgHeO8oEWzyp_5ox9hE23PZAbBfe3_jDj6BgBXQUxn5SJDDfbNI32rDDl4lIaoyjWsgCwEwGBR9XhasvMNqj8ANvKzP_915YhLzP77h8VLzL31BYSD6dmGZ1Sk4TtF6PTkap-UJQ/s320/hungry.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576569336736558098" border="0" /></a><br />everyone calls him Hungry. at least those that know him do. i dont call him anything really, save maybe generic titles of recognition when i have to tell him to get out from in front of the bar. its not good to have him in front of the bar, and its especially bad to have him in it. so when he comes around i keep an eye out so that he doesnt start to linger too long. its just bad for business.<br /><br />i used to always see him on eastern parkway, near grand army plaza, waiting at the corner for traffic to stop so that he could approach the car windows and solicit for money. i usually dont pay this much attention but i noticed he always wore a different set of clothes, he didnt much look like a homeless person. he looked like a guy that took showers, had a roof, and housed a wardrobe of decent threads. i couldnt tell if he made enough begging for change to do all this, or if he just did it for the hell of it. i didnt think to hard about it though. i would just walk by and look curiously.<br /><br />then i started seeing him on his bicycle a lot. he would be riding around the neighborhood, saying whats up to people while going or coming. this is how i found out his name was hungry. a friend told me that he grew up in the neighborhood, that he was addicted to drugs, that he lived with his mother. it made sense.<br /><br />after a while he stopped posting up at grand army plaza, id only see him on his bike. i wondered if he had found another place to solicit money, a more profitable corner. winter came and he started to sport a big black coat. i noticed his clothes didnt change as often too.<br /><br />he'd drop his bike on the ground and walk into the store next door. he'd say hello to everyone, addressing them as Fam'. he even tried to get on my good graces a few times, seeing as we recognized each others from the area. i was steely though, i nodded to him but at the same time my face was impenetrable. i wouldnt allow him to think we were friends, that could just be dangerous.<br /><br />he started getting jittery. youre not looking so good, Hungry, my friend said to him. he just laughed a wild, unhinged laugh and said, i'm alright fam. his hat was dirty and his clothes were getting dirtier and he started getting a crook in his body, as if he was always bent to the side. his shirts became oversized, even more oversized than the fashion warranted, and his pants grew baggier. they looked like they would fall off.<br /><br />over the course of a year id seen him decay, but he never completely went under. he still wore a smile and still said hello to everybody. he still rode his bike around the hood. he just got thinner, more brittle, and the dirt upon him grew. his smile, which was always there, got blacker and more crooked, and his eyes became glassier and less aware.<br /><br />the other day he came into the bar. we were closing but there were still a few people in there. when me and the barback saw him we both groaned and rolled our eyes. he walked to teh corner and plugged in a cell phone that im positive wasnt even on. he danced a bit in place, as if hearing loud music in his head. i stared at him while wiping down the bar. finally he turned to me and with that crooked smile said, lemme get a shot, fam.<br /><br />no, i said, were closed.<br /><br />he smiled even wider and said, ok i get it fam. hey, you want to buy a bike?<br /><br />i looked outside where his bike was leaned up against the wall. i wondered how he would get around without it. it was a nice bike.<br /><br />no, im good, i said.<br /><br />a'ight fam, holla at me, he said. then he unplugged his phone and walked out. i looked around to see if he had left anything or taken anything, but there was nothing in that corner. as he left i could hear the swishing of his arms in that big black coat, which engulfed him almost entirely. it was cold outside, maybe 20 degrees in the wind. he got on his bike and rode away.<br /><br />what was that about? my barback asked.<br /><br />nothing, i said, guy just wanted a drink.-jkghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11875599352293078581noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9905731.post-16069105680574420142011-02-21T14:14:00.004-05:002011-02-21T16:07:11.732-05:00navigating the chasm<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp-d4Sob0T-MuvbWGXp1nQ4bX7uYwheP73DEDSQlh4qLGL5TyPZhT0ARUIjVfOZOb93ZMxWHDrvLb_YTlVW83Im6gvab9gfuf3Zj1ILTAfape1-XbWsdLdPThHlh97XVb83VjbtA/s1600/Old_man.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 243px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp-d4Sob0T-MuvbWGXp1nQ4bX7uYwheP73DEDSQlh4qLGL5TyPZhT0ARUIjVfOZOb93ZMxWHDrvLb_YTlVW83Im6gvab9gfuf3Zj1ILTAfape1-XbWsdLdPThHlh97XVb83VjbtA/s320/Old_man.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576250748917780290" border="0" /></a><br />the art of being alone is a delicate one. Americans that practice the craft usually suffer from the inevitable side effects, some more than others, and that can get dangerous. but it is something that is inevitable chosen, no matter how much the lonely try to spin it in a way that blames the rest of the world on their solitude. being alone takes a certain degree of courage, of self hatred, and of focus. probably the only ones that are alone that transcend these petty traits, which are centered around the ego, are monks. they are masters in the medium of loneliness.<br /><br />monks are, of course, usually not american. i speak of the monks that perch themselves on mountains and let their mind go blank and release their desires into the wind. those are the only monks i really know of; those holier than though individuals who wear long dull robes and shave their head bald. monks who rarely, if ever, speak, and never feel the need to. these monks are beyond the trappings of our society, they have no reason to hate commercials or love popular music or wonder why their pants feel tighter than usual. these monks are never bothered if no one calls them all day, they dont anticipate a response from a text they've sent, they could care less if someone doesnt return the affection they give. to them, it isnt about wanting. wanting is for the weak.<br /><br />but we are americans, and to want is practically all we know. we are wrapped up in our desires. we want to see that movie or wear that shirt. we want a pay raise and to be respected. we want to look like the people that seem to have everything. we want to be thrown surprise parties where all our friends are there waiting for us in the dark and when the lights turn on we want to actually be surprised and feel the rush of joy and elation and the swelling up of tears because we are so lucky to have friends like this; so lucky to be loved. we want to be left romantic notes from secret admirers. we want to get handmade gifts on our birthdays. we want to be looked at from across a room. we want to be wanted.<br /><br />when we dont get these things, when it seems we cant get anything we want, we feel as if we are defeated. we feel as if life has cheated us out of a decent existence. as if the universe and all its celestial bodies have conspired against our happiness, and what we are left with is the empty vessel of our bodies. running with blood, filling up with oxygen, feeling only the intellectual pain of abstract misfortune. this, of course, is a privileged sensation. especially when it comes to material items. we dont necessarily deserve all the things we want. in fact, most of the things we want are equal to the meaninglessness of us wanting them. but when it comes to being alone, that is a different story.<br /><br />it is two different beast, wanting companionship as opposed to wanting a thing. companionship—at least genuine companionship—can not be procured at will. it cant be bought, it cant be borrowed. without a doubt, for some people, even if they have nothing to show, no material items to exhibit, if they have the love of someone else, they can feel content in the world. they can feel fulfilled. some would argue that all you need is love. some would even sing a song about it. but that is where the art lies and the question arises, do you need love? is that really all you need? and to go further, aside from sustenance and protection from the elements, what really do you need?<br /><br />well, obviously being intellectual primates—especially the american, who lives in a society where those who are most loved are deified by the media, which has been deified by us—being wanted by another is the ultimate goal. and in a culture where this is the oil that runs our network, to feel unwanted is to feel as if there is nothing to live for. and the art is living here, in this space, in this void. of navigating the chasm between nothing and wanting.<br /><br />for many this will drive them insane. and to the rest, if they are ok with it, they already are insane. we see them as hermits, potential serial killers, social retards and weirdos. the irony of seeing them in this manner, is that is just helps cultivate their loneliness, and as i stated earlier. you must chose to be lonely. because no one has to be.<br /><br />i am not good at this art. it is not my craft. i realized this long ago, and grew what you can call a talent for meeting people, for being social. but right now i feel lonely. right now i feel unwanted. it is, as i am well aware, a passing feeling, but i wanted to explore it a bit, because if i cant be comfortable being alone i probably will never be comfortable at all. i think that i actually equate loneliness with loss, and to me, the worst thing in the world is a heart filled up with loss. but i know i havent lost anything, deep down i know this. sure, there is a profound desire in me to feel wanted. by the world, by my circle, by certain individuals. but i know that im not that special, that im a regular guy with reasonable good looks, a modest intelligence, and a decent demeanor. so i dont need a bunch of shit, i just need to accept that sometimes, in this life, i am not the most vital cog. that in the mean time, i can just write. that nothing is wrong with that.<br /><br />oh, i just got a text from a friend who wants to go have some drinks. guess ill write more later.-jkghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11875599352293078581noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9905731.post-54547224602681101842011-02-19T00:03:00.002-05:002011-02-19T00:27:33.332-05:00i gotta cut down on smoking. its not just for my health, its for my entire being. my health i do care about, but its almost secondary to the fact that i consciously have begun to realize i smoke too much. i do it out of habit. i do it out of addiction. i do it out of boredom. i do it out of anxiety. i find myself smoking cigarette after cigarette even when i dont want a cigarette. my hands just motion to the bag, an almost involuntary act, and without even noticing ill have a freshly rolled cigarette between my lips. the flame ignites the tip. im blowing out smoke again. over and over. too much.<br /><br />and too much of anything is an inevitable disaster.<br /><br />my face hasnt gotten leathery, my gums arent black or brown. my lungs, im sure, are a measly beige color, but according to my last check up im in no danger or anything. i do cough a lot, but i attribute that to nerves and drinking. and im sure i am stuffier than id normally be, but i was always a sufferer of congestion, even before the pack took hold.<br /><br />its not like im totally going to quit, at least not yet, but i need to cut down.-jkghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11875599352293078581noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9905731.post-66605289777215175352011-02-15T13:40:00.003-05:002011-02-15T15:32:25.588-05:00waiting for the light to change<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgms5knCGSlQLBdzk0z1B7y2aKB_wyZD204fiQPEV_2EergRYzcI481L9hoYmzh-xS-R023pq3aMcgakGm2QwjNn_ugLIjB9JG3P7X-XNSuxQYNr_kTn66qZEwuuCJ9O7UK4ffeog/s1600/vegasdesert.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgms5knCGSlQLBdzk0z1B7y2aKB_wyZD204fiQPEV_2EergRYzcI481L9hoYmzh-xS-R023pq3aMcgakGm2QwjNn_ugLIjB9JG3P7X-XNSuxQYNr_kTn66qZEwuuCJ9O7UK4ffeog/s320/vegasdesert.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5574016892186975922" border="0" /></a><br />it was night and the strip grew sparse, much more sparse then i ever thought it could get. i could walk freely on the sidewalk without even taking a small step to the side to avoid anyone oncoming. the sky was dark but the stars were hidden in the luminescent glow of all the signs and advertisements. it was just a deep blackness with no end. i was alone and wanted to be alone and i had decided to keep walking until i was too tired to walk anymore.<br /><br />it had to be 3am by this point and my head was still buzzing from the events of just a few hours before. my skin still crawled with excitement. i had my hands in my pockets and shivered in the warm wind. the ringing of slot machines lifted out onto the street but here was no longer any romance in their jungle. there was just the cold metallic song and the promises that were never kept. there was just the faces left before them, waiting for the prize.<br /><br />i walked into a casino and sat down at the bar and ordered a drink. the people around me were no longer tourist. the anxious air of vacationers had dulled into a faint scent. what was left was the simmering desperation of career gamblers and the perfume of hungry prostitutes. there were a few drunken out of towners at the craps table, flanked by hookers in short dresses and thick make up. the dealers stood with wary eyes, no doubt counting the seconds on their internal clock, waiting for the shift to be over.<br /><br />i sipped my beer and then my whiskey. i didnt want to gamble, im not much of a gambler, but i still took a seat at one of the slot machines and put in a ten dollar bill and lit up a cigarette while i watched the night grow thin. a few young men walked in on rubbery legs and drunken grins and a man in a suit with salt and pepper hair counted a wad of money and then put it down on the table where the most action was.<br /><br />i finished my beer and walked back out into the street. the whiskey and beer had warmed me up, i could feel it in my blood, moving through my veins, settling into my stomach. i had a light jacket on and the weather had dropped a few degrees. i couldnt tell how long id sat at the slot machine, but i didnt win any money and hadnt expected to. i looked out onto the horizon of the strip and saw where the lights ended and the dark endless desert began. i walked towards it. i wanted to be alone and i was alone and i was going to keep walking until i couldnt anymore.-jkghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11875599352293078581noreply@blogger.com0