After Graduation

I have headaches and worries

and psychotic blurs of future jobs

and coat hangers holding solemn

jackets, torn from wasted days by

my wasted hands. I'll sit at the kitchen table

argue with my wife

and maybe have a drink. And so it will go.

Rather, I'd be wise to assume now is the time

to find a new route

live for what's to be done awake and alive

rather than skating by on a good salary and

no hope to survive this life of deadlines

specifications, stale coffee and office blinds.

If I remain innately divine, and follow the few last

gasps of true thought and hope I have in these old bones

I might make a right decision, an unbargained trade to my

future self, with a handshake and goodnight kiss.

Goddamn, The pages and pages of online research

bold letters, italicized guides and corkscrew insights

helping me plan a path build on unlit gas, ready to burst

if dropping the match, unless it remains unlit.

All I can do is write to console, and silently scroll

the pages of suggestions and guestimations of certified

educated undergrads who, like I, weep and hope

for a life which loans can be revoked

or at least to wake up and start the day

alive as when your head hit the sheets yesterday.

Distracting Books, Beautiful Sax

Bronze brass breathe deep and stares do seethe

the show before our gazing heaps

of noise and silent gushing cares

praised hallowed reaping notes do creep.

Then silent walls begin to speak

the noise once hidden in the hush

begins to pull and slip unstuck

to frame a noise distracting beats.

Once focus glides towards bolstered horns

now concentrate their blare no more

i focus more upon the floor

which holds the book that broke the score.

Eyes rub roughly upon my back

annoyed I brace now looking at

the same nude head before my face

but lost among a trail untraced.

If only friction fixed the place

of pages held and gravitate

not to the floor but coiled embraced

upon the piano where it was laid.

My Phylum Future

Sparkling waves, glassed bricking brook

poured broken shards of bedrock soot

until the river ran its route

memories settle overlooked

Up ahead glows of red, mean green

paying tolls down the untold creek

which wasted well will surely mean

a few more hours, like jaded peas

my future floats, awaiting me

It passes by the present I

rivulet torrents through my

weathered mind

Instead of knowing, seeing past

I wait and feel its breezing clasp

Hindsight hinders hinged decisions

made in muddy waded marsh

of momentary muddled mishaps

forced to choose among a farce.

It's hard to tell my phylum future

awaiting flushing force down stream

soon it wanes and weans til' sea

accepts the oceaned river's plea

Now I lay knee deep in surf

where I may contemplate marine

amongst the shells and shore horizon

my journey made by gravity.

Psyche

Psychologists are neither artist nor fool

nor doctor nor philosopher

they are a breed of astronomers

trying to look through the wrong end

of the telescope

at an array of dead stars

Rain on the Muskegon River

Truth is a fishless river

Anglers be wary

Overflows, dark soot, no eggs

Autumn Duties

Outside, mellow glass walled in

The world exposes a faltered glow

as hearts do beat I hear the sounds

of fellows steering through puddled roads

Walls warm, though still compelled

while thoughts tugged as though by string

to look among the fields below

ghastly steps twist days to dreams

Words spill across the keys and screen

spirits still, locked and cold

hours spent to ask and know

while life whirls on beyond my window

Breaking leaves off stems and fall

like sifting sand by nature's hand

Though fingers grind for future gold

today is lost indoors alone.

Golden Harvest Mason Jar

Stitched imprints on phial curves

holding frothing malted brew

against the fashioned oak you sit

my night revolves around its use

Nightly, weekly, weakened wills

do capture in your hallowed grin

though used to seal sweet boiled fruits

instead good cheer swills within

Kindly kiln the kindled days

which slowly toast my days away

pious piece of passive glass

let only I be lightly smashed

December Winters

I trench my feet in suede

which the snow will surely bite

The crass cold air will break my breath

spreading it thinly across the morning

Busy business awaits past the white walled highways

while December works well to wash routine

Underneath the sheets wife lies warm and waiting

as the frosted dawn peeks through the brittle shades

Shovels crack the caked wax cloudy water

pushed aside, pushed aside

Crack the car door gently, turn the key

Sigh amongst the wintered ice.

Hello, Sweet Mourning.

Hello sweet morning, behind my blinds!

You creep seeking eyes to find

Lying there i stir and toss

To capture dreams before their lost

Cloaked in slumber, soft and warm

I wish away the day's rewards

To lie and wait for two more days

Until the sun dims away

No ring nor bell can stir me so

To want another place to go

And as i slide into my head

I go to where to the neurons lead

A field a home an ocean shore

Where i may dance for hours more

My lighted mind doth oft' construe

A better life than what I knew

Among the sheets I spend my time

Living only half alive

For men of conscience must've shown

One must reap what they have sown

Yet still I rot comfortably posed

While rays doth shine through my window

Spilling in to wake the soul

Who misses what he'll never know.

Sweet Nothings

Let your mind be drenched in your surroundings

So you may drown in its bliss

Do not fade into the sweet fog of banality

Nor grow into anyone or anything

Be the saint who offends the holy

and a sinner who drinks from Poseidon's pond

Soak in the sun and breath on forever

Exhausting only your insights

May your life be a poem and your death a song

Let the soil sing your eulogy

For if there are no words within the earth you lay

Then sing the hymns of backward angels

As the trees whisper your fate to the sky

And the clouds plot their revenge

I ask you simply to drink down a plain

And forget that life ever began

Land of Salt-less Seas

The sun shines not from sky nor ground

but from the souls of youthful men

I splash and toss in summer lakes

to grasp a moment newly found

Near Lake of Huron I lust and pray

and soak in the sounds of bustling life

my skin become the silky night

for the sacred lies in the profane

O' heart of rivers travel low

to meet me in great salt-less seas

and when I see God in the gaps

I walk the seas glazed from the cold

From northern lights to suburb homes

I know no land more home to me

still splash in play til' bones are bare

while masses from the mitten roam

Flee afar to golden lands

ne'er shall you forget your roots

for mind, muscle, blood and bone

forever shall be Michigan grown

Paddling Through the Sun

Two men approach a small beach crevice. The sandy shore is tinted orange from the setting sun. The lake mirrors a pallet of soft oranges, reds and blue mixed together as if splattered onto a piece of glass. They set down their towels, tackle and worms on a white bench and approach a row of canoes racked close to the water. The rack is nestled between a small forest of trees and alongside four sailboats pulled ashore, chained together, and neatly packed away. They each grab an end of one of the hallowed aluminum vessel and drag it forward across the damp sand, placing the stern two-thirds into the lake. One man walks over to a handcrafted rack secured between two trees located behind the canoes and grabs a pair of paddles. He measures the length up to his chin and looks over at the other man, assuming he'd require a larger size.

"Should I put on a life jacket?" the taller man asks.

"Yeah, make sure it fits well though," responds the man by the shore, laying the paddles against the front and back seats of the canoe. He joins the taller man by the long white gate lined with blue, yellow and red life jackets. He quickly tightens his friend's jacket and then his own. The sun is sinking near the tree line, with only about an hour's worth of light left. They hear the cheers of young campers gathered at their weekly campfire. The cheers echo across the still lake, forming small ripples which quickly vanish into its totality. Hearing these cheers the two look at each other and at once become aware of their fleeting opportunity. One looks up at the sky to check the sun's position, grabs the fishing poles and steps into the front of the canoe. The other man grabs the worms and tackle box, places them carefully in the middle of the boat and pushes the rest of the flimsy vessel into the lake.

The boat wobbles for a moment and the taller man braces himself, tensing his shoulders, legs and face.

"Don't worry, Gal," the man calls from the back of the canoe, "it won't flip unless you really want it to!" Gal's expression lightens and he helps paddle them out.

"Yes, 'Zen Master'," he replies with a sly grin growing up the side of his face. His accent curves into a strong upward inflection as if always he were always asking a question. Their boat floats out and cutting through the reflection of the light orange sun on the water, creating a wake that spans beyond the circumference of the sun and vanishes. Though the chants continue from the nearby camp, the voices now seem to be coming from an alien world as if they had launched a rocket rather than a canoe. The chants continue echoing off the trees and ripple through the lake, reverberating off the thin steel plates of the canoe before returning to stillness, blending in with the conversations of the crickets and frogs. The men breathe a sigh of relief and smile into the reddish blue sky.

They paddle out about twenty meters before deciding to cast out. Gal struggles to keep his balance as he turns around for his pole and worm. The man in the back keeps his legs spread to properly distribute his weight.

"Make sure you pinch the worm," he instructs Gal.

"All right...," Gal pinches the worm, eyebrows narrow beneath his thick curly hair, in deep concentration. He takes off a fourth of the worm and throws the remaining torso back into the container. They place their worms on their respective hook and cast out. The faint lectures of their co-counselors can be heard coming from the distant shore, beyond four docks and a row of weeping willow trees. They're handing out merits to the campers for their accomplishments over the past two weeks. The two men in the boat try hard to tune the nearby commotion, keeping themselves in the stratosphere of their own activity.

Their boat slowly rotates clockwise in the water twisting their lines and torsos in various uncomfortable positions. There is no wind, nor wake, but somehow the boat still flows with the movements of the seemingly placid lake. Both adjust their fishing poles accordingly to follow the rotation. The sun slowly sinks behind the trees as if sand sifting through an hour glass. The two look up at the vacant tree line and try to focus their attention on the present moment. Their lines sit undisturbed, without a tug or sign of aquatic interest.

"This is really nice, we should have done this weeks ago," says Gal.

"I agree, but next time we should grab a six pack," they agree and Zen Master lets out a chuckle. He calculates the time their nights off begin, when darkness comes, the changing summer hours and the actuality of something like this ever happening. There's a slim chance. Aware of this, he soaks in the moment, continuing to listen to the subtle creeks and splashes of the wildlife on shore. Zen Master paddles out a little further. Gal fiddles with his line, trying to unwind it from around the end of his pole. Zen Master continues to row forward slowly, smiling as he watches his friend struggle with the line. They both inquire about the lack of mosquitoes, and smile gratefully for the rare evening of tranquility.

Zen Master stares off into the dark water reminiscing about the madness and wonder he'd witnessed over the past month. Long days, loud voices, stubborn kids, and daily trips on the same lake he seeks sanctuary. He considers beer options for the night ahead and weighs the price difference between the local bar and liquor store with the price of "good times" and "potential memories". He then wonders if Gal thinks in Hebrew or English while longing for his fiancé to join him at the bow of the boat. He looks down at his sandy feet, torn shorts and dirt covered legs and remembers how he hated sandy feet just four weeks earlier.

"I don't understand where all the fish are," Gal finally lets out, still fiddling with his line, "you would think coming this far out from the dock we would be able to catch something." His Israeli accent shines through when frustrated.

"Yeah, I see a lot of fishing boats out here during the day," Zen Master replies with a sigh, zapped back into reality.

"Maybe they're all asleep"

"That's a possibility." They are silent for a moment. It is almost dark now and they contemplate turning in. Gal reels in his line and places the pole gently behind his back bracing still from the rocking boat. Zen Master stares off a little longer, not ready to return to the responsibilities and irritancies on shore. He looks towards the beach and imagines the process of sneaking back into a pitch black barn to put away the worms and poles and finally reels in his line. They both pick up the light wooden paddles and begin to row back. The sun they had once cut across in the water was now gone. Only a black blanket of murky water remains. It's only interrupted by the small wake of the boat and the gentle paddling of the two men.

Atonality, Paradox, and Spontaneous Expression

"A good traveller is one who does not know the destination, and a perfect traveller does not know where he came from." Lin Yutang

Do you ever feel that you can never get quite what you wanted to express out and into the world? There's an aching in your spine, the nausea moving through your stomach and clouded thoughts sifting dimply through your mind. Life is strange paradox, we have all the options in the world open yet we don't know which one to choose. It's a paradox of freedom I suppose, to be frozen by the overwhelming abundance of choice. There are so many examples, so many individuals to learn from and to guide us. Yet we sit. We stare. We long.

It seems that creation and art itself is a paradox because in order to authentically express one's self it must come from an absent mind, without intention. The Taoist term is wu-we: to do by not doing. Anything clear and distinct or whenever we have a vision or conviction it seems the outcome is less powerful, at least to ourselves, than unabashed expression. It may be primal instinct, something as civilized as culture may just our urge to thump around on the ground in a socially acceptable way. Another paradox it seems: to lash out because you're unable to lash out. Freud called this neurotic behavior, to express our desires in a way society approves of. Heavy Metal and video games are great examples of neuroses. Instead of a Dionysian and cathartic explosion of our urges, we bury it or try and find that which hits closest to what we would really like to do.

This perspective works well when considering the evolution of western culture of the past two centuries. As man became more and more civilized, his urges for primal expression grew stronger. Capitalists try to develop products to submerge these, to use material possessions as a subterfuge for that which is most natural. As Christianity and guilt's grip loosened the new iron grasp of consumerism swoops in to relieve the forgotten gods and replace them with a new form of diversion. As industrialism developed so did uniformity, blandness and perfectionism. With new technology came new standards. Man began to feel more and more separated from their world, alienated from the dirt under their nails.

When looking at the artistic development of the past few centuries one begins to see the breakdown of artificial barriers and rules while simultaneously more structure and rule began to rise all around. As the ground was paved to roads and skies filled with buildings music and art became freer and looser than before. Composers began rejecting tonality, artists became more and more abstract and social standards began to loosen. Within their constraint man found a way to be free beyond their physical barriers. Neuroses began to evolve. As science developed man was found to be a spec within the whirlwind of the universe leaving him lonelier and in greater despair than ever before. Mankind began its decline into nihilism and has been faced with the paradox of their freedom ever since. Even with God in the picture, more and more paradoxes began to arise.

While we became more civilized externally, internally we remained just as primal. Bigger bullets, bigger bombs, bigger buildings, bigger fires, bigger disasters and yet our hearts remain the same size. Another paradox, how the greater the technology, the greater the wealth, the lower the happiness, and the increase of discontentment (manufactured or not) than ever before. Life itself became a paradox, that meaningless must become our meaning like a phoenix from a flame. Even when the big picture makes all of life seem trivial and pointless, we live on continuing to feel, love and desire. Walking aimlessly in the dark we keep the light in our minds and paint our own canvas.

I've always found the most absurd and chaotic to be the most beautiful, something I find very rare. Somehow in chaos, absurdity and atonality I find harmony. Staring the mess of Jackson Pollack's art I feel for a moment as if the whole world makes sense. All the calculated and formulated art seems so cold and distant. It was as if the artists were missing something or maybe I was missing something; probably a little of both. However, when staring into a smear of paint on the wall, I feel most alive. The same goes with music. When hearing atonal chaotic noise as in a Frank Zappa or Edgard Varese composition I feel as if the world is dancing. Maybe these artists finally caught up with the universe and began to play to the world's tune rather than making it fit into theirs. The music of atonal "avant-garde" artists seems to write music for life that matches the sounds and poetry of the world around us in all its chaotic harmony. Their music and art is closest to pure expression, to a primordial release. It speaks to the heart and mind in ways formulated and civilized culture cannot. There is a very unique emotion to it, an emotion that runs deeper than any other and blankets one's body inside and out.

What's most fascinating in my experience of creating such music and art is that intention can be the biggest hindrance to achieving a potent effect. Like wu-we, creating powerful improvised or spontaneous music, poetry or art one must let go and surrender all will and intention while involved in the creative process. Facilitating this sort of creation becomes a very complex task. Like in Zen, enlightenment or the Zen realization comes when one is relieved of action. To do this is itself hard to explain and even harder to do. This is so because doing is quite the opposite of the intention, and again intention will tarnish the results. Like trying to calm the waves in a pond, the best method is to let it be. You cannot flatten water; to do so would only make the matter worse. Authenticity is much the same. As soon as awareness or intention is brought to the matter, it disappears. You are most yourself when not trying to be yourself, this is when you are most authentic. For a musician, expression is purest when allowed to arise on its own without force or conviction.

These ideas are quite foreign to the Western ideal of things. Work is highly valued and non-action or idleness is looked down upon and a waste of time. Time is given a dollar value and to waste time is to waste money. One must have goals, orientation, and most of all intention. It is no wonder many are walking around feeling hallow, inauthentic, and confused. How can one capture that which can only be capture by not looking for it? Another paradox is that happiness only comes when it is not sought after. This is called the paradox of hedonism. This is not too foreign, just think of all the most compelling and interesting nights of your life. Often they arise when unplanned or arise out of boredom. As soon as an intention is set, the goal is lost. However, it seems counterintuitive to claim life is best lived directionless and without purpose. This is what we consider depression, a state of confusion, despair and lack of direction. It seems we have on our hands another paradox; life is best lived when aimlessly chasing something. Sounds off still.

If our lives are like a Stravinsky composition or a Pollock painting like the Existentialist proposes than how is it we capture our authenticity? We already let go the idea of the aimless life, but is there a way to synthesize the two extremes? To look at the opposite end, a life of rigid rules and strict dogmatic devotion leaves one caged and bored. Routine is the punishment Sisyphus was condemned to, and it is commonly said variety is the spice of life. Too much though may prove too strong for most. Total instability is stressful and begins to turn life into a proverbial whirlpool. However, if we try and mix our lives up it becomes contrived like the middle aged man trying to recapture his youth with hip cloths and a hot rod. So what is the overarching philosophy to be? Can we learn from spontaneous creation?

For me, I feel most at home when writing or performing doing as I am now: making the message up as I go while watching my thoughts and emotions weave themselves through my fingertips and onto the paper or into the air; letting the piece of work take form as it may. Sure, the finished product is not as refined as it could be, but it is as true and real as it gets. It remains authentic so long as intention is kept at a distance (which is hard when intention is the topic at hand). One must facilitate a necessary environment for it to occur without forming any sort of goal, like when opening Microsoft Word or booking a gig, setting up a canvas. One is placing themselves in a context relevant to their mode of expression or catharsis while letting go of a goal. This is very much like meditation where you take position to facilitate non-action.

There must be a way to do the same in life. Possibly to allow for the possibility of happiness and spontaneity without actually seeking it and remaining open to all life has to offer. Like a Pollock piece, one has to take a step back and absorb all the strokes of life. It's in the big picture we are simultaneously lost and found. Could it be the meaning of life is simply to live it, to accept it, and revel in its ambiguity? Is life an end in itself? If so, is seeking meaning, purpose and direction self defeating? Like a guitar solo or poem, maybe authenticity and truth come when we stop trying. Bukowski has two words written on his grave: Don't Try. This is a message to writers looking for inspiration on how to stay inspired. As he so elegantly put it, "A good poem is like a beer shit".

In our society and the collective consciousness, being "put together" and holding a clear and distinct understanding are held in high esteem, but maybe being lost isn't so bad. It always seemed to me that the ones who appear to have their lives together that are the lost ones and while the rest end up with something beautiful. It seems that life happens whether we want it to or not. We wake up, the sun rises, things happen, we die and life goes on. Change is the way of the world, and trying to grab onto something will only make its departure more painful.

It seems all of life is a paradox, and most of the truths are backwards. This isn't anything new, which is another paradox: that sometimes the oldest and most primitive end up being timeless and sophisticated. As for expression and the irking under my skin I started with, it seems as if I achieved my goal as always, by not meaning to.

The Gilded Age

Created in the mills by fortune seeking men

a terror springs and's set forth to ravage foreign lands

With metal plated scales and breathing smoke and flames

the new monstrosity of progress seeking victims to claim

The countryside is leveled and green turned to gray

while the sky is scorched and starry nights are hidden away

Homes replaced by castles where serfs are shackled in

to have their daily bread, they must work til' dusk begins

What once was God's country and enjoyed by one and all

now becomes property to those within its walls

Magic, tales, and wonder are lost to uniformity and guilt

the once beautiful plains have now been overbuilt

Forests reaching skyward are blackened by coal and soot

while iron giants level lands where holy relics once stood

What was a land of greenery, flourishing and vast

now drowned in concrete spanning high, shameful of its past

The winged form of innovation does not stop at sea

for it flies across to other shores and ravages their peace

While some took to the hills, others sold their souls

and bought a piece of plated steel to turn it into gold

Concrete forests and glimmering lights shine well on man's mistrust

their fear of darkness in and out lies deep inside the iron's rust

while wise men watch and shake their heads, pleading to the sky

"Why must we burn our gardens to make room for empty lives?"

O' sorrow to the foolish creatures for unleashing such a beast

No weapon can ever stop it's path for it feeds on desire and human greed

It's gilded body shines too brightly into mankind's mind

where the pious are corrupted and third eyed man's gone blind.

Mother will not stand for such a monster on her skin

the cancer which has taken hold will pay deeply for their sins

though once man was part of nature, balanced and in check

now faced to pay the piper with the only thing they've left.

The Wanderer

Across the river cloaked in brown

tall stature old and gray.

A light does shine upon his face

a traveler on his way.

The trees do glow a vivid green

and reflect upon his presence

the wise old man with staff in hand

seeks his way to heaven.

Let not be told the tales that passed

for the future is so dim

His mind acute and sense sharp

to what many may seem grim.

Over the pebbles water flows

and guides the way down stream

He follows where the forces guide

while the warm air he calmly breathes.

Two men approach and look across

blades upon the sides.

They seeks the devil walking near

with vengeance on their minds.

One man raises his sights

to look across the bay.

The other follows swiftly

as they swarm upon their pray.

As trampling hooves gallop forth

across the shallow flow

the gray old man walks calmly

moving with the wind's blow.

As surely he should be alarmed

shortly trampled underfoot

Instead he turns to face them

with a calm and charming look.

His staff is raised and shines

and the hills do tremble forth.

The branches fall asunder

knocking the riders off.

They fall feet from the sorcerer

who looks upon their plight

while the horses quickly calm

and prance to his side.

The kings they beg for mercy

as they came to find a man

who's said to've caused a plunder

and cursed their torched land.

He gave a gaze and smoked his wooden pipe

with a twinkle in his eye.

He said to return to their land

and all will be revitalized.

The hill then swarmed a warm breeze

and carried him away

before the men could thank him

he'd gone upon his way.

Be not quick to judge

the strangers and the odd

they may seem to be demons

when really sent by gods.

Public Service Announcement

"Some people see things that are and ask, Why? Some people dream of things that never were and ask, Why not? Some people have to go to work and don't have time for all that. "
George Carlin

It's wonderful to find yourself realizing the sheer exuberance of life. To blissfully accept it with all your being, becoming open and free to all that is. This phenomenon is become more and more common with me. To go beyond acceptance, but to be excited and almost overwhelmed by life's beauty, this is something you rarely hear people talk about. Most people moan about the trivialities and mundane nature of life, but rarely do you hear people ecstatic about their existence, that is outside of a night of drinking. Sure, ecstasy and joy come easier with friends and beer, but for those of us who feel overjoyed by a simple walk, a gesture by a stranger, or even a good cup of tea all else becomes just as blissful.

I believe there is a necessary stage of denial, anger, and depression necessary to obtain true happiness. In order to claim authority on the subject I must first make the claim to happiness. Yes, I am happy. I am beyond happy, I am ecstatic about being alive. I have bitched, moaned, hated and been overwhelmingly furious with this whole ordeal. I felt life was a gyp, that everyone was fake and the universe was fucked. I do not look back on this with spite or shake my head at my naivety. I rejoice in it. It was entirely necessary; it was part of the puzzle. Few people like to embrace the idea of personal evolution, or accept change in themselves and their life. To me, it seems absurd to try and hang on to yourself. You do not exist, that is the idea that is your identity. Shit, every seven years you're comprised of an entirely different set of cells. You are literally not the same person, and continue not to be. Flux is the only constant in the universe. Anyways, the whole humdrum of everyday existence seems to be complaints, exaggeration, frustration, and dissatisfaction with either who we are, what we're doing or where we are going. I say bah humbug to all of this! If you are to be happy, you must accept all of life, even the crap. Crap is essential; it makes life more interesting and really is some of the most powerful experiences we have. Stress, anger, hatred, envy, sloth, depression and so on are just as vital as joy, love, fun, and drunkenness. They're all part of this big amalgamation called happiness.

There has always been this nebulous question of happiness hanging over humanity's head. Philosophers, religious leaders, and now scientists and psychologists are trying to figure out what exactly happiness is and how to obtain it. They're looking at the chemicals, attributes, and personality traits of people who generally view this whole shindig as a pretty good deal. All the while everyone else if frustrated with raising taxes, republicans, democrats, poverty, AIDS, the holocaust, war, and yada yada. Now i'm not brushing any of this off. I cannot offer solutions, all I can suggest is looking out on a clear day (or night) up at the vast expansion of the sky. Take a good look at just how big it is. Now look around you. Lots of stuff going on. Things just happening, just existing. If you're like me, something will begin to click, something so profound it's kind of stupid. So obvious it's beautiful. That is, the meaning of life is to simply BE, that existence itself is enough. Everything that encompasses human existence, and the universe is a mere fluxuation of energy. To some this is nihilistic and depressing. However, imagine the possibilities. No failure, no success, no purpose, no perfection, no good, no evil. Only Being. Every aspect of existence has its place in this absurdity, and all are equally beautiful, truly beautiful. It is what all the Buddhas and Jesuses were going on about. That the "Kingdom of Heaven" is within. It's all you.

There's this deep seeded disconnect with our surroundings. This illusion persists that we are somehow separated from everything else. Because of our cognition we are able to objectify ourselves from the world, forgetting that we are actually part of the whole. Like the trees, the stars, the chair, the computer screen we are comprised of atoms and deeper still, of energy. We are bound together, constantly interacting with our "Self" as the Hindus put it. Therefore, everything and everyone we encounter is our Self, we are all one. With this understanding we begin to appreciate the totality of our experience. The people we meet, experience we have, and life we live becomes enriched. Everything is beautiful and almost magical. It is chaotic, ordered, contradictory and yet harmonious. For many, this is God. For me, it just is.

As I lie in my bed I feel consumed by joy. Nietzsche asks us to allow for more joy in our lives, and I see so many people pushing it away so that they may pursue some goal, some purpose always just out of our reach. We all overlook the most precious and limited of our assets, and that is time. You can laugh this off as hippie dippy or touchy feely crap; it is of no consequence to me. Your misery to me is as beautiful as your happiness. I just thought I would share this, as I am compelled to. You are free, so do as you please.

"I think people should be allowed to do anything they want. We haven't tried that for a while. Maybe this time it'll work."
George Carlin

A waking dream

“Punk is musical freedom. It's saying, doing and playing what you want. In Webster's terms, 'nirvana' means freedom from pain, suffering and the external world, and that's pretty close to my definition of Punk Rock.”

Kurt Cobain

I woke up to find

that everything I'd been led to believe

was only a passing waking dream

I woke to find

myself flat out on the ground

immobile while the world

was spinning round

I woke up

I woke up to see

a world of endless possibility

where life is what we make

and what we choose

I woke up to find

that people weren't as pretty

as they seemed

but yet more beautiful than any dream

I woke up

I woke up to find

the universe within my palm

That we are not at all who we seem to be

Now I stare at all the dreamers

the lifeless eyes blind to their infinity

waiting for their lives to start

when they began before they fell asleep

Infinitee

is it beauty? so fine and empty

I seek God in words and phrases

look alikes and disjointed cultures

a fantasy world held up by warm feeling and hope

and then I feel my ego irking, screaming for recognition

truth and reason drag me down from my abysmal cloud

and dampen their shine

I am alone. Alone in my walk

surrounded my travelers

all searching for a path to contentment and ecstasy

we swim in the dreams of greener pastures

looking into each others lives

and yearning for a day in

someone's shoes, only to find them worn and fading

I am not a holy man, not spiritual nor lavish

though i am persistant in my searching.

Let me never breathe a day without asking

the sky and dirt why I must

reach for one only to obtain the other.

I forever wear masks, forever drink

forever slouch so that I may one may

stand straight and look my life in the eyes.

To grasp her warmly and make feel the radiant

spell of her mystery. I am a pastor of emptiness

and minister of nothingness.

Let us pray only to our freedom, to our capacity

and the infinite nature that is our Being.

Dance on, dance on into oblivion

so we may decompose and be reborn into

beautiful accidents. Just as we are, so we will be.

Music of the Common Life

The morning comes like a strong draft, bursting through the curtains of an uptown hotel bedroom. Its luminosity demands the attention of the sleepy occupant inside. The man lying in the bed stares sharply at the ceiling, waiting for the anxious morning light to drag his reluctant body out into the world. The sound of bustling outside the window and through the door opposite him serves as a neurotic reminder of the day ahead.

He haggles himself out from under the warm sheets, promising his reluctance the day will hold something worthwhile. The light flickers on as he stares in the mirror, reflecting an unsettling expression. His hoarse face, brooding eyes, and scraggly hair shine back. The man does not move for a few moments, debating on his course of action. He switches the light off and walks back into the bedroom, looking out the window, again haunted by his reflection. This street below is bustling with figures, cloaked in pea coats and hoodies scrambling to their many destinations.

"What's the rush?" he asks, "they will only fall back into their beds again, they're all running only to go back to sleep." With this the fate of his day is decided. A paper is slid under the door, USA Today boasts urgent messages of economic trouble, job loss, murder, celebrities and scandal. He continues to stare out the window, looking across the way for signs of life in the gleaming widows. Another man rushes himself into his suit, a woman packs her children's bags and readies them for the buses. He stares coldly, longingly. There is nothing to do, nowhere to go. Nothing, that is, he will bother himself with.

On the desk beside the window sits a laptop, yesterday's newspaper, an automated coffee maker along with an assortment of half eaten snack bags and jewelry. He sits down and brings up the computer. The screen shines right through him as he scrolls through his emails.

"Why must they bother me? Why can't I be left alone for one day? Just one day of silence, damnit." His voice is harsh, tired with a hint of helplessness. The sun shines brightly into the room, illuminating all but his conscience. He breathes in, feels his back crack, and still remains blanketed by his neuroticism. The sirens begin, earlier today than the day before. He hears the woman shouting at her children as they are rushed off to the bus stop, echoing between the buildings.

Across the way a woman awakes and brushes the crust from her under slept eyes. She stares out the window from her bed, wishing away the morning. Her room smells of stale chips and vodka. Shattered martini glasses rest along the wall just below the stained wall paper from whence they shattered. She rolls over to check the time, anticipating disappointment regardless of what it reads. She hears the woman next door shouting at her children, rushing them down to the street below. Her head aches from the noise, among other things. Sitting up, she looks around the room at the disaster around. Its origin remains a mystery for a moment, which is met with horror until flashes of the night before rush back to her consciousness.

The man closes his computer, met with a deep sigh. He stretches and walks to the window, looking back out into the abyss of the city, searching for signs of life. His eyes scan the rows and rows of windows and balconies. Each window a screen into a distant world, existing as if in another reality. He feels the distance shrouding him, locking him away, making the room so much smaller and constricting. Objectivity takes over as he leaves his own body, observing his being from a far off perspective. It all seems so clear, yet distance. Flawed. Subjectivity returns, and with it a deep sense of nothingness released by a deeper sigh. The man decides to get ready for the day, yet still without a clue as to why.

The door slides open, and out steps the half asleep woman. The twenty degree temperature fails to wake her up as was hoped. As the city circles and breaths around her she stand peering out into it as if it were a barren field. A cacophony of sirens, voices, barking, and wind. Bustling and rushing forwards and backwards, around and around again. In between each sound, a silence. A silence rarely heard and never spoken of. It is the city reflecting upon itself, affirming its own existence. The man washes his face, places his hands on the shower wall and leans into it. Staring at the water roll down the drain he feels the water stream through his hair, down his cheeks and off his chin. He is for a moment free, calm, and with purpose. In the warm embryonic vacuum of his bathroom he attains peace. The woman looks down onto the street. She wonders how bothersome her blood on the pavement would be, and to whom, if it would be worth the city dollars.

She makes a choice.

The man dries off his body, wets his face and stares through the mirror. Searching. The sirens outside roar north, their volume getting louder and louder. He slowly dresses himself. A suit, fitting for the formality of the day ahead. He puts on his pants and buttons his shirt. The sirens grow louder. Ties his tie into place and tightens it around his neck. The echoes now ring through his window. He adjusts his suit coat, buttons it and admires himself in the mirror. The ambulance is now outside his apartment complex. He walks out the door, and locks it behind him.

The police rush into the building, up the stairs and towards the eighth floor. The men outside hold back the onlookers outside concerned with the commotion, some only annoyed by the obstruction. They reach the hallways and surround the apartment door, knocking violently. They call out a woman's name hoping for a response. Nothing. As they burst in the door the hung-over woman cracks her door to inspect what has occurred down the hall. The firemen rush an old woman out on a stretcher as her husband rushes behind. "She had no choice," the woman thinks to herself. The woman stares blankly as they rush past her. She stares off for a moment after they pass, soaking in the silence of the moment. The calm after the storm. She lets it breathe.

A crowd of distraught voices call out from the street. The woman strolls over to look out over her balcony. As she draws the curtain a black blur drops down from atop the building across the street. It makes a blunt noise as it hits the pavement almost exactly as the crowd of onlookers gasp in horror. The woman rushes to the edge of her balcony and looks down on the street below. A splatter of red paints the pavement. All that can be made of the one who left has left it is a black suit and shoes.

He made his choice.

The ambulance frantically tries to hold back the crowd, while they try to make sense of what had just happened. The woman on the balcony nods at the man's remains and utters to herself "I suppose he wanted to get his tax's worth." The city continues to revolve in circles. The wind blows, and another is lost to the music of the common life.

I am a fucking Hipster

I am a hipster. I said it, and it may make me more of a hipster for admitting it. I've kicked and screamed trying to run around the fact. It sickens me to see such fashionable and trendy folks with the same values and tastes as I do. I've searched for some subgroup of people who share the same passions as I do and then bitch when I find it. We're all looking for something real while trying to hold on to some "working-class" credibility. We see behind all of the shit sold to us, the images, lifestyles, and expectations placed on us. Made to feel guilty for not reaching some standard we never agreed to. A large number of people like me reached the same conclusions, adopted the same values, and dealt with theses issues in the same way. We value frugality, desperately seek authenticity, want to rebel, are angry, educated, and seeking individualism. However, much like anything else in an industrialized society, individuality becomes mass produced. Just like punk, new wave, emo, metal, and whatever other counterculture/music genre becomes attached with a fashion, lifestyle and set of values. Since this tendency towards trends has become a trend itself, Hipsterdom has evolved into a rejection of such. We seek out new way of expressing ourselves while falling into the same trends as before. A lot it has to do with big business getting a hold of the fashion and publicizing it, thus destroying it. American Eagle and Urban Outfitters have both taken the fashion and values of Hipsters and sold it back to them as higher prices. You can buy "vintage" clothing and furniture at upscale prices and find the items in high class malls and shopping centers. Like Grunge and Punk, once the mainstream gets a hold of counterculture, it becomes itself unhip and destroys any authenticity left.

This is also in part due to the large number of people drawn into the trend. What was once an inside joke or shared interest with your group of friends (such as strange catch phrases and grandpa sweaters) later becomes adopted by a number of onlookers hoping to capture the creativity and originality of your creation, often making the irony of their appreciation twice as ironic and thus making it lame. This is later picked up by large marketing firms and the fashion industry, tweaked, placed on better looking people and sold all around the world. What was once your way of standing out turns out to be your greatest insecurity. You find a number of shallow, small minded fucks wearing your cloths and speaking your lingo, making you a poser in their eyes and resulting in insurmountable amounts of anger. The key to the problem here is not the fashion, nor the ideals behind them, but the scale on which they're acquired and means of marketing. What was authentic is made to be superficial, leaving the true individuals and creators seeking another way of expressing themselves.

Such phenomena occurs in any trend. Punk started as a way to stick it to the man, with strong, practical ideas, firm individualism, and fantastic music. Later it was commodified and sold as cheap, spiky haired pussy shit making the real originators look "uncool" or outdated. The same happened with Grunge (the Melvins probably look old and worn out to Nirvana and Alice in Chains fans) and will continue to happen. There becomes so much irony, so much hipness that all that was good and pure is wiped away in the name of profit margins and trendiness. That hot girl and asshole guy in Math class become trendy fucks, sporting Black Flag t-shirts and $50 would-be-thrift-shop-jeans. You, the guy or girl that hated them with all your might, must now change your style or face the horror of looking like these fake motherfuckers. Sure, you can stand strong and hold on to your sense of identity, fashion, and attitudes. Though, you will face much criticism during and after the trend. Trends kill authenticity and those who strive towards it.

You may at this point be thinking "Kris, it's only fashion, true originality is in the mind!" I wholeheartedly agree. This is what should matter most. Fashion is only an outward representation of one's beliefs, and often falls short of expressing what one really feels. They are, of course, mass produced items and are bound to end up on someone else somewhere. True individuality is in the mind. However, this is dull at time. We have to wear something, why not have fun with it, right? There is no harm in this, until it is copied and made a joke of. Then it is no longer fun and one becomes defensive. "I really DO like Judas Priest! This guy is wearing the shirt to make a joke of a very talented group of musicians, and the passion they have!" This is where it starts, and the anger only grows. It is stupid, I admit it. It should be shrugged off, but goddammit you have to believe in something! You can't just fold every time someone steps on your shoes! If you are of the creative persuasion, you know how hard it is NOT to express yourself. NOT to write things down, print them on some blog and let the world have at it. The same goes with fashion and lifestyle. It's an expression of your life.

It hurts most when your situation and lot in life is made a joke of. Hipsters are mostly, like myself, from a well off background, well educated (that is, go to college), appreciate an array of music, are liberally slanted, and creative in some way. This is just how we turned out, a whole lot of us. So many people sneer, and deny, and get furious over who or what they are. Who cares!? So you're ironic, great! Irony is hilarious. Well off in life? Fantastic! You have more power to make changes. Appreciate fine art, jazz, indie music, strange pop culture, cult movies, cheap clothing and beer, and enjoying life? What is so bad about this? Hipsterdom is a fight against pompousness, but becomes pompous by its own efforts. We don't want the ivory towers, the slick look, nice car, and fine wine. We're cheap, reckless and fucking witty. We're lost, angry and searching for something to ground us-just like everyone else.

I've hated on hipsterdom for so long and I'm tired of ignoring the blunt truth. I am a hipster, I am just like the other pissed off, lost youth of my generation. We don't share the same values as our parents, we don't know what's real and what's a joke. I don't know who to believe, what to believe in, or who to trust. It's a post-post modern world of ironic irony of irony. Of ads trying to sell us products by not trying to sell them. It's a world where revolution and rebellion are dead, and the machine has become too big to fight other than making everything an ironic joke. We're sold rebellion, manufactured rebellion, to make us feel like we're making a difference. The best efforts we had, to live cheap, be frugal, and try alternatives has become a trendy joke of itself. It's still real, and still an option, folks.

We have everything mankind has to offer and still feel empty and pissed off. We have a million problems on our hands and can't seem to find a solid solution for one. We can't even try to save our species without looking like a bunch of crazy liberals. We're trying to hang on to some middle class fairy tale, making our humility noble, while hiding our true emotions and ideas. Instead of taking hold of our new found identity, we shun it, trying to become proletariat supermen. Our heroes failed us, parents failed us (divorce, materialism, false hopes, existential crisis- you name it), and now we're expected to run shit.

I wrote this as a confession, spilling my guts all over the floor. If you think I'm lame, fuck you. Chances are if I'm friends with you, you're a hipster too and I have you in mind. It's time to move on, to find something new. We're rocketing through our youth denying it, getting lost in contradictions and confusion. So fuck it. Time to start over.

Jam Econo, Stay True

It's a ShamE

Runnin from the truth

self loathing

and seeking perfection

look in the mirror, you skinny

son of a bitch. You're anxious

anxious of the next day, anxious

of what people thinks, advice they give

and lies they tell. You trust no one

you don't trust your instincts and

are a defensive, manipulating fuck.

Welcome to the depths. The core.

Life is a bore, always afraid of change

of possibilities. You've achieved so much

and want so much more. Drinking yourself out

of the everyday stupor. Sobriety is for the dead.

I wait for the next drag, the next time I have nothing to do.

Nothingness is key. It's what everybody is so afraid of.

We're all stacking each other up against

one another. Dick sizes are nothing to what

we're really measuring. Are you questioning it?

Are you loathing it? Are you excited?

Fuck man, too good to give up.

It's too fun. I'm too insane.

It's a pity we're told to do so much

so often. To be paralyzed by fear.

Out with religion and in with medical science.

Both try to keep us scared, away from

the devils of life. Away from truth, from

feeling anything genuine. We watch our heroes burn

and they burn so beautiful.

Up all night, sleep away the day.

Up all night, sleep it all away.

I'm afraid od life, to live vividly.

I'd rather muck up the view

Blind leading the blind.

Stare and stare at what we can't have

and ashamed of who we are.

Its better to fess up to being a bum

then lie to yourself and be a success.

So afraid of pain, of connection,

of death. It's a shame.

Ideas On Nature

Here are the videos that prompted this.

True Life: I'm Living Off The Grid

George Carlin: Saving The Planet

I find the idea of returning to nature a bit...off. For one, we're in nature already. Man is a part of nature, we use natural things to create new amalgamations of different "natural" materials. Nuclear bombs are as natural as olive oil or dirt. They are comprised if atoms, all of them, and thus are "natural". The psychological barrier we place between us and nature is because we fail to recognize the above stated fact. When the natural order of things is arranged in a way that harmonizes with human understanding and intervention (such as a building) we feel alienated from it because of it doesn't look or "feel" natural. It has been processed through human thought and thus able to be interpreted through human understanding. A painting of a sad face or war scene is tinged with meaning, emotion, and intention where as a forest is without such mediums. Much like an abstract painting, nature has no meaning, no order, and no true interpretation. In both there are randomly assorted colors (that is, we cannot interpret them to symbolize anything, although we often do) and are open to interpretation as well as appreciated for the experience of their physicality rather than "message" or "meaning". I am a firm believer that humanity applies essence to existence, that is to say that we name things, give them meaning, measurement and purpose. Nature just happens, or occurs and what the result is becomes what it is as we experience it. This idea is profoundly important on how we view our existence, relationship with nature and quality of lives.

Throughout time is can be found that humans often wish for simpler times, and wish away their contemporary lives for the romantic simplicity of the past. There remains an assumption that the generations before them had it better, understood life more profoundly, and explain away the common troubles as unnecessary products of technology, godlessness, youthful carelessness, and social change. This is where conservatism preys and wages its battle on those "damn liberals". On the opposite end, those forward thinkers often abandon the traditional ideas and cling to new trends, technologies, art, etc as a key to greener pastures. This is most readily recognized in 20th century values and the cheering of progress, or rather PROGRESS! Each end of the stick clings to their end seeking ways to to improve the human condition, seeking solutions by either reinventing the wheel or clinging to its simplicity. Both are hindrances to happiness and contentment and both are nay saying to the life, time, and peers they exist within. Life cannot be apprecieated with eyes on the road ahead or rear view mirror. It is the drive itself that matters, and it is all we have. We all share a common destination and a common starting point. The upholstery and model of our vehicles may be different, but only in superficial ways.

As stated earlier, nature is viewed as a distant thing and often as a purer form of existence. Our ancestors who struggled, suffered, and died by the hand of nature have grown into a civilization of ungrateful nay-sayers wishing away the great feats of mankind by mistake of ignoring the examples left for them. In the age of information, with texts and wisdom from a countless number of brilliant, experienced human being we remain unhappy, suicidal, wrathful, hateful, bigoted, and anxious. We are richer in knowledge, opportunity, comfort, and resources than ever before yet we are also more miserable and lost. Though we may still possess the primitive demons of our ancestors we also hold enough history and examples to guide us to utopia. How many more times will the Visigoths overturn Rome? How many more Nero's and Hitlers will we give power to? How many more Galileo's will we chain to their homes for trying to help humanity? We are more enlightened than ever, 5th graders know anatomy that only the elite doctors knew three hundred years ago. We have access to Buddhists texts only read by monks outside of Asia up until two hundred years ago. There is no excuse for our behavior other than fear. I do not say all this standing atop my podium looking down, but from staring through my own eyes here on the ground. I see you. You see me.

We are now threatened by extermination by our own hands. This has hovered over us for the past century. We could wipe ourselves out thousands of times over. This reality has caused so much strife, paranoia, revaluation, revolution, and an all around change in the human psyche. But I ask you, when have we not been threatened by asteroids? By an ice age? We have always been threatened by the sheer randomness of the universe. We are blobs on a floating rock. I don't mean to sound cynical, but are we not ourselves on a cultural and psychological merry-go-round? Do we not suffer the same pains from generation to generation to generation? We've made greater enemies out of ourselves than nature ever posed simply because the trouble we create can be avoided. Asteroids cannot, ice ages cannot, solar flares cannot. We distance ourselves from these truths. We either hide them or are simply not aware of them. We've put ourselves in a psychological bubble, and feel dirtied and liberated by the unclean world beyond our creation. What do you expect the walls are made of? The plastic that wraps your bread isn't drawn in from another dimension. It was made from earth, will return to earth and the universe will go on. We have created an alien world out of our home.

Living in the woods, not leaving a "carbon footprint", "saving the planet" these are all insane objectives of a species so afraid of the unknown, so disconnected that we've put ourselves at the center of the universe to try to make something of it. The objective is not to save the planet, it is to save our species. It is delaying the inevitable. Its understandable, modern life is complicated, it can drag you in and make you psychotic. However, you have control over the very thing that creates all these problems. Your noodle. We're our own best therapist. Look at your desk, chances are its made of something from this universe. Hell, i bet its from this planet, eh? Your in nature. You are nature. I'm not going to tell you to be one with it, so what if you realize it? You're going to be either way. Don't go frolic in the woods, go shopping. Buy more stuff made from nature. Throw it out. Let it decompose. Hell, in a 10 billion years the sun will swell into a red giant and evaporate it all anyways. This isn't the best solution for OUR survival. However, it is a nice perspective to start from. Our ancestors had just as many problems as we do, just different ones. They solved them, moved on and turned into us. Let's solve ours and turn into something better. Without all the smog, pollution, and nonsense of the past few hundred years we wouldn't have had the capability to discover cures for polio or get to the moon. We're learning from our mistakes, and if we don't we're dead. Universe goes on. We become particles, get made into something else.

Simpler times do not exist, different times do. Not afraid of the plague? Bears attacks no longer a fear in your apartments? These were once as scary as mortgage payments. So what's my solution? Can I preach without offering up some brilliant scheme? Well, yes. Though, I have a few suggestions. Laugh, be content, find something to live for, love your friends, enjoy the little things, eat a damn twinky. I'm sick of worrying and picking out all the flaws of my time, my life, my friends. Criticism has its place-like on a blog :). I have a hankering that the best thing for us is to relax, enjoy life, do what matters to us, and be excellent to each other. A way between meaninglessness and seriousness, a middle way.

“Ignorant people see life as either existence or non-existence, but wise men see it beyond both existence and non-existence to something that transcends them both; this is an observation of the Middle Way.”

Seneca, Roman Philosopher

Jam Econo, Stay True

Mud

I'm on a quest for purity

for something tangible

that won't slip through my fingers

as soon as i get a good glimpse of it

and without anytime to feel its texture

its a constant reduction to the unbreakable

to try and sift through all the unnecessary

add ons and baggage. I just want the diamond

--or at least the coal so I can crush it into something

I feel dirtied, directionless

lost at a four way stop

with each perspective staring

dead on a red light. Goin' Nowhere.

So many choices, so little value in each.

Is happiness a game? Is it a perspective itself?

A change of seats

if you will

to get a clearer look at the stage?

Or is it being quite fine with where you are

seated now?

Shouldn't we revel in the madness, the chaotic mess?

To embrace every thought and emotion!

These questions are over our heads, rhetorical, and this is

the biggest trouble I have. What is rhetoric and what is truth?

I'm bombarded with claims to both; they are justified both my experience

and emotion. Anger, Joy, Love, Hate, Authenticity, Acting, Fear, Strength.

I'm uninterested in the happiness written in books, its so...boring.

Joy is best in small segments, anger when appropriate, and happiness

when left with one's thoughts.

Everyone has some advice, insight, tidbit of knowledge.

But where did they get it from? Did we read the same Wikipedia page?

Or is it real, deep, rooted, and earnest .

I'm looking for purity, but only walk away filthy.