yes, just like the tragic Stone Roses song, "I Wanna be Adored," i really do. i really do. like it's not enough to have a husband and daughter who i dote on regularly, it's like i need fans; i need cheerleaders. i don't think this is irregular; i think most people who need them won't say so... and i think nearly all people need them.
why? why would you need someone outside your immediate circle to cheer you on? well, if you're at all like me, you need people to tell you that the work you've done/are doing is noteworthy, and the way they tell you that is by proclaiming their love for what you've already done, be it yesterday or ten years ago (or ten years from now.)
once you have children you realize you've become extended -- for those with children older than mine it means if your kid does well in karate you feel exonerated for something... though you cannot name what. for me, with a small kid, it means i feel like an ass pretty much all the time because she's two, and people who are two make all kinds of fumbles. these fumbles, for me, are reminders of my own personal "woopsie-daisies" in daily life. the kinds of things that cause me to wonder whether my brain was in my head or not.
whatever the reason, whether it's human nature or just me being me, or just being sensitive, emotional, needy, vying for worthiness, needing to be needed is ultimately human, and in so being, is innately part of trying to both fit in, and stand apart.
if you're one of those who makes an effort to stand apart by making sure everyone knows you don't need them, good luck to you... after all, you were born in a human body for some reason. i find it hard to believe that reason was to be ignored; on purpose or not.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
i thought i knew what to say
but as it turns out i do not. instead, i have thoughtfully prepared absolutely nothing for you.
so take this time to pretend like you're reading something important -- just enough to fool those around you so as not to be bothered. when someone asks what you're doing on the computer, tell them you're reading the latest installment from Maureen Dowd or catching up on your stock trades or whatever the hell it is you do on your computer to make people leave you the hell alone (like for me, right now i am pretending to write a blog as to be left the hell alone.)
now take the next two minutes to think about nothing. if you find yourself incapable of thinking of nothing, think about the last time you played Uno, or the first time you can remember playing Uno, or think about kids in sprinklers in summertime.
[you're off the clock...]
[two minutes later -- take the time damnit!]
now that you have had two minutes to yourself, go do whatever you need to do.
it
was
only
two
minutes.
so take this time to pretend like you're reading something important -- just enough to fool those around you so as not to be bothered. when someone asks what you're doing on the computer, tell them you're reading the latest installment from Maureen Dowd or catching up on your stock trades or whatever the hell it is you do on your computer to make people leave you the hell alone (like for me, right now i am pretending to write a blog as to be left the hell alone.)
now take the next two minutes to think about nothing. if you find yourself incapable of thinking of nothing, think about the last time you played Uno, or the first time you can remember playing Uno, or think about kids in sprinklers in summertime.
[you're off the clock...]
[two minutes later -- take the time damnit!]
now that you have had two minutes to yourself, go do whatever you need to do.
it
was
only
two
minutes.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
lovin' you ain't always easy, fool
i don't mince words. You all should know that by now. so here's a shoutout to a country song i wish i could write, "Lovin' You Ain't Always Easy, Fool."
good love, the kind that never comes in complete packages, is the way to go, i think. it might be that neighbor you've had for so long you've become close enough to criticize one another. it could be your dog -- the lil' friend that's stood by while you've made the most absurd choices... the ones that lead you down lanes of horror. but most of all, the fool who loves you and sticks by your insane choices is that person you'll decide to spend the rest of your life with. And you'll find yourself saying in one way or another, "Lovin' you ain't always easy, fool!"
just remember, the sentiment is not a one-way street. nonetheless, let's focus on how you feel for the time being. because you're right, right! yes, at least long enough to get you through an argument... the same argument you have every single time you have an agrument. tell me i'm wrong. go ahead.
ah, love. it tries to be forgiving. some love is easily forgiving, others kinds... not so much. partnerships are hard as hell, raising kids, creating goals, daily chores, daily hassles, bills, appointments, the friends you have to attend to, the lack of sleep, the overworking that causes you to wish you could be alone forever... seriously, forever in a cool, dark cave. alas, life begs you to pay attention to it, and all its players. stoopid! i'm over it! i'm fucking tired! and then your heart gets involved, and you carry your crotchety ass to the shower and begin anew. begin again. and try to be fresh for those you love, even some you don't love at all. though you may pretend you do. or try to.
lovin' you ain't always easy, fool. it's not just a mantra for the 40-years married couple. it's the truth in surviving humanity, in surviving yourself. being good to people all the time is probably for the best of us all, but it sure ain't the easiest of all.
remembering the true loves of your whole life can help, be they friends, family, old flames, carriers of your heart, the sickness in love you personified years ago. be forgiving. love the lost, especially when you are among them. love the self-indulged, the drifter, the fool, the crazy, the perfect, the lonely, and the attention-starved, no matter how crazy any of them drive you. because guaranteed, you drive at least one -- and i'm being forgiving here -- at least one person crazy all the time. i know i do.
good love, the kind that never comes in complete packages, is the way to go, i think. it might be that neighbor you've had for so long you've become close enough to criticize one another. it could be your dog -- the lil' friend that's stood by while you've made the most absurd choices... the ones that lead you down lanes of horror. but most of all, the fool who loves you and sticks by your insane choices is that person you'll decide to spend the rest of your life with. And you'll find yourself saying in one way or another, "Lovin' you ain't always easy, fool!"
just remember, the sentiment is not a one-way street. nonetheless, let's focus on how you feel for the time being. because you're right, right! yes, at least long enough to get you through an argument... the same argument you have every single time you have an agrument. tell me i'm wrong. go ahead.
ah, love. it tries to be forgiving. some love is easily forgiving, others kinds... not so much. partnerships are hard as hell, raising kids, creating goals, daily chores, daily hassles, bills, appointments, the friends you have to attend to, the lack of sleep, the overworking that causes you to wish you could be alone forever... seriously, forever in a cool, dark cave. alas, life begs you to pay attention to it, and all its players. stoopid! i'm over it! i'm fucking tired! and then your heart gets involved, and you carry your crotchety ass to the shower and begin anew. begin again. and try to be fresh for those you love, even some you don't love at all. though you may pretend you do. or try to.
lovin' you ain't always easy, fool. it's not just a mantra for the 40-years married couple. it's the truth in surviving humanity, in surviving yourself. being good to people all the time is probably for the best of us all, but it sure ain't the easiest of all.
remembering the true loves of your whole life can help, be they friends, family, old flames, carriers of your heart, the sickness in love you personified years ago. be forgiving. love the lost, especially when you are among them. love the self-indulged, the drifter, the fool, the crazy, the perfect, the lonely, and the attention-starved, no matter how crazy any of them drive you. because guaranteed, you drive at least one -- and i'm being forgiving here -- at least one person crazy all the time. i know i do.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Doing better when letting go... a little
right now on the patio table i am writing from the following items are hanging out:
quite an inventory. but what in life is not a crazy inventory? no matter what you may do to organize it, life is an inventory of random goodies, thoughts, things, ideas, people, and other amalgams lesser or better known to you, your psyche, your heart, your brain... and whatever other parts of yourself you opt to acknowledge.
generally i do not do well when working within a cluttered space. that's not to say there is not clutter in my life -- quite to the contrary, i prefer a house with a little too much in it -- to many books, too many gadgets and doodads, too many people and too many pets, and certainly, too much stuff that cannot fit under one single heading. but i cannot have a desk or tabletop with piles of shit on it -- i just can't stop thinking about the shit surrounding my computer and my hands when i am trying to write.
so now you're saying, "but wait, you just listed a ton of shit around you... and you're writing right now... what gives?" well, i'll tell you what gives. i'm letting go. just a little, just for long enough to see if i can. and i am. and i think i'm doing better for it. why?
because sometimes letting what exists around you just be there can lend a level of consciousness ya just don't have otherwise. some call it junk, clutter, a mess, dirtiness, all other labels that make it bad, negative.
an intuitive moment can be brought on by a porpoise figurine or a flashlight. a shock collar or a can of bug spray. so let go a little, all yee lovers of perfect space. perfect space does not a perfect life make, and it does not stop the messiness of time or the disorganized manner in which life will work... the disarray can be the beauty you seek. not always, but just when you can let go... a little.
- dog shock collar
- flashlight
- bug spray
- porpoise figurine
- more bug spray
- post-its
- three empty beer bottles
- ratchet set
- Bronson book
- bell hooks book
- pencil
- empty french fries bag
- staple gun staples
- liquid nicotine drops
- junk mail
- bottle opener
- my phone
- another pencil
- ashtray
- pirate figurine
- three tiny felt-tip pens
- dried bar of Trader Joe's soap
quite an inventory. but what in life is not a crazy inventory? no matter what you may do to organize it, life is an inventory of random goodies, thoughts, things, ideas, people, and other amalgams lesser or better known to you, your psyche, your heart, your brain... and whatever other parts of yourself you opt to acknowledge.
generally i do not do well when working within a cluttered space. that's not to say there is not clutter in my life -- quite to the contrary, i prefer a house with a little too much in it -- to many books, too many gadgets and doodads, too many people and too many pets, and certainly, too much stuff that cannot fit under one single heading. but i cannot have a desk or tabletop with piles of shit on it -- i just can't stop thinking about the shit surrounding my computer and my hands when i am trying to write.
so now you're saying, "but wait, you just listed a ton of shit around you... and you're writing right now... what gives?" well, i'll tell you what gives. i'm letting go. just a little, just for long enough to see if i can. and i am. and i think i'm doing better for it. why?
because sometimes letting what exists around you just be there can lend a level of consciousness ya just don't have otherwise. some call it junk, clutter, a mess, dirtiness, all other labels that make it bad, negative.
an intuitive moment can be brought on by a porpoise figurine or a flashlight. a shock collar or a can of bug spray. so let go a little, all yee lovers of perfect space. perfect space does not a perfect life make, and it does not stop the messiness of time or the disorganized manner in which life will work... the disarray can be the beauty you seek. not always, but just when you can let go... a little.
Mix-Tapes Across the Planet
I think everyone on Earth should be supplied with the materials and time needed to create a mix-tape for a complete stranger. Rather than making it one for a girl you like or the boy you wish you could kiss, we'd all be given a 90-minute tape, access to whatever songs we needed, and roughly an afternoon to compile. Not knowing who it would be given to, how old, what gender, religion, part of the world, class, color, sick, well, famous, or destitute, somehow, some team would be set up to distribute the mix-tapes, ensuring that everyone made one, and everyone got one. Those who are newborns would have their mix-tape safely held until their second birthday, those who lay dying could listen til they pass, and so on.
By now you've already said to yourself, "Aw, man, I'd HAVE to make sure I get a Miles Davis song on there," or,"Dude, I hope my mix-tape goes to a young kid in a remote village so I can expose him to Operation Ivy!"
While you are cool for liking these groups/musicians, the point of the exercise is not to masturbate your audio library; it's to see what feelings it invokes to remember what it felt like the first time a song painted on your heart and in your mind exactly what you felt when you were feeling something so strong it was surging from your abdomen, melting your brain, having southern bound excursions, delicately thumbing through the pages that are you... not the you that you see in the mirror, but the you that you see when you catch a glimpse of your profile's reflection on the side of a building. THAT. That right there. The songs in your head.
It's the feelings. Not the girls or the boys or the moms and dads or the lack of any of them. The experience, both cerebral and coronary, both in your hippocampus and in your atriums, yes, the feelings. You may tie a certain song to a break up with a John, another song to a breakup with a Jewish doctor, another song to losing your virginity, another to the loss of your intellectual innocence, another to the death of a loved one, or an entire album to finding out you'd have psoriasis for the rest of your life. The events are meaningless to the song -- the song does not know you, YOU know the SONG.
So when you're mix-tape winds up in the hands of an eight-year-old in a Kenyan village, she is not most likely to appreciate that you were tattooed for the first time at 15, living a life revolted by and in revolution to your parents, sneaking out to sing the entire digitally remastered Ziggy Stardust album with extra tracks in your best friend's hand-me-down Taurus. Any child with that much insight belongs on Montel Williams. No, they will not get that about you, or from the song(s).
We've all had the experience of loving a song/album/band/musician that we'd tout to our friends as more magical than every carnival ride and Dairy Queen in history combined, only to have them listen to it... and talk over the entire song about how they are hungry, how their parents are dummies, how so-and-so blew them up, how they cheated through college, and so on. Why is it that that people cannot shut up for a 3:12 track? WHY? Because they don't know the song, and the song cannot make them know it.
So instead of focusing on being sooper kewl and making sure all those bootleg tracks that NOBODY has are on your mix-tape to a total stranger who may be an 88-year-old grandmother of four in Liverpool, focus on what words, what instruments, and what elements of the music transcend all times and cultures, all logic and space, all momentary things.
Make a mix-tape and send it to a random person's address, I don't care where you get it from, juts make sure it gets to someone, someone who doesn't know you. I'm going to start mine off with this:
By now you've already said to yourself, "Aw, man, I'd HAVE to make sure I get a Miles Davis song on there," or,"Dude, I hope my mix-tape goes to a young kid in a remote village so I can expose him to Operation Ivy!"
While you are cool for liking these groups/musicians, the point of the exercise is not to masturbate your audio library; it's to see what feelings it invokes to remember what it felt like the first time a song painted on your heart and in your mind exactly what you felt when you were feeling something so strong it was surging from your abdomen, melting your brain, having southern bound excursions, delicately thumbing through the pages that are you... not the you that you see in the mirror, but the you that you see when you catch a glimpse of your profile's reflection on the side of a building. THAT. That right there. The songs in your head.
It's the feelings. Not the girls or the boys or the moms and dads or the lack of any of them. The experience, both cerebral and coronary, both in your hippocampus and in your atriums, yes, the feelings. You may tie a certain song to a break up with a John, another song to a breakup with a Jewish doctor, another song to losing your virginity, another to the loss of your intellectual innocence, another to the death of a loved one, or an entire album to finding out you'd have psoriasis for the rest of your life. The events are meaningless to the song -- the song does not know you, YOU know the SONG.
So when you're mix-tape winds up in the hands of an eight-year-old in a Kenyan village, she is not most likely to appreciate that you were tattooed for the first time at 15, living a life revolted by and in revolution to your parents, sneaking out to sing the entire digitally remastered Ziggy Stardust album with extra tracks in your best friend's hand-me-down Taurus. Any child with that much insight belongs on Montel Williams. No, they will not get that about you, or from the song(s).
We've all had the experience of loving a song/album/band/musician that we'd tout to our friends as more magical than every carnival ride and Dairy Queen in history combined, only to have them listen to it... and talk over the entire song about how they are hungry, how their parents are dummies, how so-and-so blew them up, how they cheated through college, and so on. Why is it that that people cannot shut up for a 3:12 track? WHY? Because they don't know the song, and the song cannot make them know it.
So instead of focusing on being sooper kewl and making sure all those bootleg tracks that NOBODY has are on your mix-tape to a total stranger who may be an 88-year-old grandmother of four in Liverpool, focus on what words, what instruments, and what elements of the music transcend all times and cultures, all logic and space, all momentary things.
Make a mix-tape and send it to a random person's address, I don't care where you get it from, juts make sure it gets to someone, someone who doesn't know you. I'm going to start mine off with this:
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