reasons n reasons
pile up round the frame,
like,
kids on stairs on christmas morning

but we're mom and dad, too:

scurryin round in dead dark night

to keep the secrets safe

to keep god's will pure

when we should really merge lanes

on the intersection of the good life and sadomasochism

pedal to the me d/t al

there isnt a moment to lose

i can't stop thinking about

what has to be done
what has to be done
what has to be done
what has to be done

i know and
then i don't
i won't and
then i will
i will and
i don't wait
for the kids to go to bed

rough amalgams
of Christmas' Past
line my longjohns
i'll never escape them
don't want to escape them

constricting...

...invigorating

like,
some psychic primae noctis,
i can't help but bow to my Lord.


_________

"did i?"

"should i?"

"are you?"

a woman's pov (from within a man)

i'm beautiful
i'm pretty
i'm gorgeous
i'm something new

i'm an epiphany
i'm a star
i'm the first pick
and i dont want to play

i'm your antidote
i'm your toy
i'm your poster
i'm a stone

i am a human being
i speak in sentences
i speak in paragraphs
i am not your thing

i am blinding
i am not a present
you cant see me
i am a human being.

prospective portfolio poetry

Vole-Human Ontology

i haven't sat in the dark

if we write about ourselves,

let's not lie please
let's not dress it up
shred it
make it carouse with others

i haven't sat in the dark in months

since ive moved to the city
not one night in complete darkness

or at least not many
none memorable

what in darkness(')ence

brings me closer to myself

unifies, silences:

is it the illusion of anonymity,

the basking in self-obscurity,


like lovers that think

it's always best when the lights are off


like the stuttering beauty

discovering her brain


like an elderly leper finding jesus

or happening upon sorok island

likelikelikelikelikelikelike
something else at all times
and never pavement
only a breeze, a whisper
an abstract's abstract

mounts me
and carries me through the day
desperately seeking a night
in which no one can see me
in which my own dissident, diurnal critics
can't intrude on the small

fractious yet fracturing

dense morsel of beauty
living somewhere off the grid

yet there, too,

among the fears,
the scientific studies
left unpeerreviewed

(dubbed peerless)

prior to canonization.


____________
on the possibility of ethical domestic abuse

writing, please meet the drug I-can’t-seem-to-quit-long-enough-to-determine-the-effects-or-intensity-of-usage-but-suspect-that-I’m- addicted-to-in-a-maybe-innocuous-but-certainly-more so-than-most drugs-sort of way.

cannabis sativa, please meet the drug that I can’t become addicted to. No matter the syringes, hands, and opiate flushed pockets.

-I was completely naked and alone
sitting in my deskamong many desks
at work today.
External impassivity; internally, raptly, watching my own personal horror flick: I spoke with estimators and secretaries while my mind hemorrhaged from this unique, rarely reported, domestic abuse. Domestic abuse
of the most possible proximate cause. Domestic abuse,
the resolution of which is a(n ethically ambiguous) kind of career for the modern alchemist,
the psychologist.

for, like the alchemist, what strong foundational knowledge does the

psychologist stand on besides a more contingent, individual pragmatism:
where is psychology’s attainable
(ok; kind of, maybe attainable)
theory of everything?
(the origin of origin...
who is
this
...
how is
this
...
speaking
...
now
...
now
...now)

I was completely naked and alone
sitting in my desk among many desks
at work today.

The crime is typically rife with battered wife syndrome:

"No, no. You don’t understand: I deserved it
I-
I-
I-
I was weak.

He has a point.
The horizon is here
The sun has set.

No, he doesn’t mean to hurt me.
Really.
He doesn’t.
He really just loves me
Too much."

--I sat at my computer today and whipped myself
like the Jesus I would all too certainly love to become
messianicnflagellated
[why

we know not
best guess is fertile offspring

borne of passion,

some(

archaic god complex
modern, conditioned, rat-in-cage, karm police begging, pop culture metaphor regurgitating
victim)]

- The boy stands at the chalkboard, his legs and his back hunched. His words ring out as his hand scrawls.

I will remember my dreams at all times.
I will remember my dreams at all times.
I will remember my dreams at all times.
I will remember my dreams at all times.
I will remember my dreams at all times.
I will remember my dreams at all times.

I will remember my dreams at all times.

(ad infinitum – or relative infinitum:
a life reduced to second and minute watching)

The young man looked at us all with his mouth sewn shut and his eyes pleading:


“Throw me on the fire. Please, let me thaw out. Don’t make me go back there. I promise, I won’t forget my dreams anymore. I won’t. Never. Never again. Please. No. No.No.NO..NO!!

I will remember my dreams at all times.
I will remember my dreams at all times.

I will remember."

"forever." *

* This poem w/could not have been written without radiohead's 'melatonin', an ok computer era b-side, lyrics by thom yorke.

don't forget that you are our son
now go back to bed

we just know that you'll do well
you won't come to harm

death to all who stand in your way
wake my dear

__________________________
i touched your arm
to let you know
you should ring the bell
ill be your soul's waiterdog

your big eyes can rise to meet me
and we won't want for
you won't want for those eyes
that abacussed earnestness
will miss the bus
hitchike lost and alone
will whither
sterilized
by fifty-four and
greygrey skies

i touched your arm
to touch something
anything at all that
might move our unmoving unmoved movers
to move.

___________________________________

i want to end the monologue.

i want to end the inner monologue.

i want to end the inner monologue that kills.

i want to end the inner monologue that kills via adjustment.

i want to end the inner monologue that kills with calibrating second thoughts.

i want to kill this judas, this calibrating inner monologue before it kills me.

IWANTTOENDTHISMIRROREDMENTALTREADMILL
IWANTTOWANTTOENDTHISMIRROREDTREADMILL
IWANTCONTROLOFCONTROL
IWANTAPIECEOFMIND
NOTEVERYTHING
GRASPABLE

___________________________________________

the gun slung over his shoulder, his
body perpendicular with the ground
neither his loose shoelaces
nor his fraying cuffs - no,

NOTTHE MOON SLIVER-

can rouse facticity's flatlining stoicism

__________________________________________________________

those longlong days formed of a newly known absence,
whether a trembling eternity or confident, placid moment
turn on the faucet, fill my abscess heart, rawpink, tense
in nearlynotime. your red sweater sits empty and cold.

my apologies wreak and reek
psychohavoc and locker room sock puss:
idon'treallyknowyouyoudon'tseemtowanttoknowmebutmaybeitsjustagamed
idn'tsomeonesay"playthtegameKNOWYOURAUDIENCE"butmaybethegam
eisbeyourselfbeyourselfandmultiplyflourishpursuehonorobeynotcareeverjust
staystoicstoicstoicmaybbeittakesamaybeittakesafewmonthsihearmanylegend
arypassionateromancestolastforevertogetstatuesin-
maybeyouhavereadthatstorymaybeyouhaventjustignoredmeiamastormchaser
maybeittakesa-
maybethegameisbeyourselfbeyourselfandmultiplyflourishpursuehonornot
maybeshehatesmaybeshe'strappedbehindadesksittingtherelikeaprefracture
wishbonebutnotawishboneyouonlyseemlikeawishbonetomereallytoyouyouare
anuncomfortablepolitegirlwhoreallyjustwantstodoherjobandmakesomemoney
somaybeshecanactplayapartwalkuponthestageandattemptomoveatheatreofmay
beunmovablepossiblypatronizingpatrons maybe
ittakesafewmonthsihearmanylegendarypassionateromancestolastforever
togetstatuesintheirhometownstartfromdisdainorworseambivalenceorworseyet
midnightlakeignoranceawellspringofabsolutenothingnesstotaldisinteresttothe
pointofnonconsciousnesswellmaybesubconsciousrightmaybesubconscious.

___________________________________

"... -s ball hit well...TO THE TRACK (!),
TO THE WALL (!)..."

the batted ball lands in a mitt
impotent as
uranium with ghandi


"...5 seconds to go.
...he crosses over.
FADE AWAY JUMPER..."

the ball loves to become
tremble on rupture
spinspinspinning
spinnin'round that rim:
it falls off the wagon
into a gray oblivion

_____________________


"...right on, right on."

"..."

"yeah, no one really gets that."

"..."

"..."

"...pedestal, dude."

"..., cynical bastard...
................................
..TO HOPEFUL ROMANTICISM!"

"give me a call."

days later and they
in localized catatonia
think of past glorious days
muttering,"End Trivia."

__________________________

Moving -
at a great height,
at all times:
threadbare,
rapunzelled -
too many variables,
too much sheath,
no sword:

i can't lie
though you will and do,
by the by:
i always run from the other shoe

ill seek knowledge of the gods
and burn at my own hand

my mind stalks my heart
in an empty brown school-bus,
watches it undress
staring, jeering

____________________________

i can't help it:
i hate you us all.
you've we've done as much as a beaten child
but less than the proverbial hypothetical scorned

pillows and blankets and
baskets and chalices and -
funeral laughter - cackling,
like Mephistopheles' fire, crackling

skin so thick to inspire
a tree trunk's envy
o, cold and forsaken sensitivity:
how does the seed bring the rain
and laugh in doubt's face?

but these are mystical questions
i have no need for them
a bayonet pen to my throat -
and all of humanity watching

watching. they do
"do" - in their own way.
but, also, all over
all art and science,
all that is worthy of Man.

She sobs, testifying
in a shrouded, dank courtroom begging,
her killers,
however powerful,
no matter their entrenchment and multiplicity:
be
put
down.

___________________________________

groping at the mirror
like an infant towards anything
or an
epiphanic horizon-hating helio:

i wonder why i
don't remember my dreams --
vacuous black snowflakes:
o, will i ever catch their nothingness?

these palpable privations tumble downward
visible only to my
unpryable third eye.
i don't look anymore,

but sometimes
some Me
somewhere
- I'm not in the loop -
will show home movies
of his dream realities
and remnants will reach this
cogito's city limits:
terrifyingly earnest and pure,
my breached forgetfulness
puts happiness on a milk carton

_______________________________

descartes' evil god lives within
me.
it has written, edited and
re-written the book on me.

he is a contrarian:
for happiness is not sought,
but, rather,
the greatest possible sorrow
for the ever singular Me of tomorrow.

and i am most certainly to blame.
i know the location of every empty throne
and that these moments pass
for which i can never atone.

it's not that i
dont know where my interests lie;
i'm a master theorist:
my chair's arm is scalding.
but a philosophy is primally a thought
disconnected from action
by a wide emotional chasm.

i disagree with philosophers
that will look to their peers
for human nature:
all that's there is us,
no human being as such,
only the hands of our time and place,
like Jesus' Anglicized face.

____________________________________

"when i think
that i can't blink
without writing:
nothing happens.

the meaning-stuffed-mind
sits satiated
upon its toilet-throne -
erm, chair
- in consternation
linguistically, neurally, constipated:
where's the _________ fiber?
so that my feelings may pass
so that i may feel the cleanliness and solitude
of an enematic colon.

alas -
more marination needed
more time for the parts of my whole
to write their reports,
talk to witnesses -
or: more time.
just: more time."

"what is the sheer passage of time
but the heroic villain,
the will to ignorance?"

"NO!

we must choose -
whether sedentary, on a paved road or
with a machete in the brush.

And so it is with my salty blue pen and blood-lined paper:

I can't control that
I can't write when
I think I should.
But I can accept it,
Waiting for release,
Enjoying the suffering,
That only precedes meaning."

"... "

"No,
We can."

____________________________________________

i'm not a man for all seasons:
springs and summers are bottoms up
even falls mostly enthrall;
but winters have long, spitefully introspective youths:
terribly meaningful brief bursts of
awareness,
acceptance,
immediately preceding paradigmatic shifts;
but this:
winter-but-not-winter,
spring-but-not-spring,
fall-but-not-fall,
this clipped wing, peg-legged sprinter,
modernity,
where our mental bris stays for dessert
until we look down and see curly hairs

where:

instinct's under quarantine and observation:
for fear
their superiority is originarily arbitrary,
their morphogenesis obsequious,
their self materially, annoyingly, inchoate;

it strangles everything natural
in favor of artificial nothingness.

relativity frightens,
absolutes somnambulate

_____________________________________

you cant fall in love with every pretty girl you meet:

a voice that runs marathons through tires
and a microwave smile;

Or, induces insanity-infused storytelling at the
FIRST IMPRESSION,
nuking my lamb shank-heart;

Whilst holding
the heavily foot trafficked
street corner's
street bum's sign:
Will Be Honest/Weird For (soul) Food
like a Doubting Thomas begging,

begging

that:
you might string a supple sentence:
there's something sexual surfacing
inside my mind as your word play spins normatively.
eye up their incorporeality
just past your nose
- in between us.
spit those language loogies sincerely
and:
i may forget beauty ends me.
i may remember.
i may remember i ripple the water
so that i may forget not remembering.

must find actualizing, not paralyzing:

my dreams, my ideals
leave me a motherless white elephant,
contextless
without hands that live in iceboxes

______________________________________

i knew a girl once that
fervently walked the plank:
self-constructed outta
gold and plutonium
- but mostly guilt.

she'd look in the mirror
with lust, towards divinity.
and then whip the knife out:
slandering, plunging deep, and
no longer strung out.

it hurts so good
to own it -
to not die but whither
under sky blue skies.
there is ambiguity and there is idiocy..

heavy and light -
i fought for the right
that you might freely choose me:
put away the stencil,
grab the brush and paint

acceptance and change
theres a time, place.
if everything is perfect,
where is meaning?
you must be dead.

so she'll lie and lie
loving, learning, growing, peachy
check, check, check, check, she'll intone
but then she'll write by the thousands,
salty, stomach-descending poems

her guy's nothing special,
but that barely stated implication
makes him the mythologized High School Jordan,
lends him the principle with some heavy juice.
someone will pay that debt.

and she'll look in the mirror,
yearning brown eyes with rls,
but she won't stretch or take her pills:
obligation, self-loathing, or a dancing dick?
she's not here, not there and never will be.

_________________________________________

the wandering warbling warty warrior wears
silencing self-snapped shackles
bloody burnt toast crumbs adorn her lips
- she gulps ominously.

there's no god but us
we judge
we create
we subjugate
we die empty or full
so just try

don't you hear yourself cry
or remember your forgetfulness?
how long is your pillow dry?
long enough, i guess

when the static becomes the swamp
in suffocatingly muggy despair of
knowing self-sabotage:
isn't it time?
isn't it time?

and when the swamp comes not just
bimonthly but biweekly and
parks itself in your groove
puts it feet on your ottoman
smiling at the slaughters you won't remember
the pieces you won't fit together
though they hover,
nearly colliding:
passionate but glancing blows
you swerve right into the swamp's nuzzle

i walk around
the Universe in my pocket
your memory just waiting
to expand into longing
creating worlds i can't bear to see anymore
but it doesn't matter:
my weeping wounded heart is a compulsive elephant:
cinematographer, editor, director, writer of
the best and worst film ever.

___________________________________

remember the promise as a kid you made
the singer offers
but that kid's eyes aren't fearful like mine
ive plumbed my coffers
for a shred of him
but the light from those moments
hasn't reached my planet yet

i can't see
what allowed him to be
and why this curtain follows me
how he could see so clearly
that The Good Life needs
ignorance:

a precisely willed hand full of tar
blacking out the inane,
the Not Worth Your Time, Buddy
so that light may reach the sun-starved people
who each can see the forest for the trees
but cant look at a
beautiful
little
leaf
glistening with dew
with chemical potential
with us

_____________________________________

[no vacancy sign in the wilderness
the woods are filled to the hilt
with vermin and wolves and deer and badgers
and me

i'm bitter
a breathing Beast Ice
i'm bitter
i'm bitter
i'm bitter
i'm

(alone)]

people:
look up at towers in full orange ball of fury blaze
smiling
watching their world disintegrate

ashes litter their hair
but they see a child's glitter


their breathing st-

_____________________________

Mud's Allure


he looked out the window,
chin on the ledge,
arms spread out, fingers interlocked, beneath.

his expression was advanced:
it pondered.

he looked out the window
at a girl with a book,
under a tree,
admiring a boy in the mud.

he squinted to see
what he could already.

there must be something missing

he sat underneath an adjacent tree,
book open and eyes to the page;
she never once looked over

except to say, "That's my favorite book."

__________________________________

Incomprehensible

the day the bombs fell
i was inside coloring

stay in the lines
stay in the lines
my mother called from the kitchen
but my ears were burning
from the fire engulfing our home

i could not put it on the fridge and i cannot understand why.


_____________________________________________

your laughter is a trumpet of approval
on my sorry, punctured soul
and echoes [] in unison []
with my own, miles away

your words flow like the Ganges
and [] deposit in my mind [] :
caressing, soothing, refining;
a sincerely philanthropic mindsmith

your hands conduct me
[] a train on its rails []
to a vaguely known
but long-worshipped destination

{there’s others!}
(they say)
I don’t see them…
but I must believe they exist
{(you’re too far to know)well(close enough to sense)}

but your mind alone
wears the crown
[] [[my mind alone]]needs yours []
(Necessary)---(and stifled)---burdens and demands

{(my mind paints a picture
stitched from the
[.] [.] [.] [.] [.]~41,086 moments-----
(~)25,393 one and a half second clips-----
embodying the time
[]
my eyes
and mind
have known yours(!)
[])[][][])}[][][][][][])}

[] [] [] [] [] [] [] [] [] [] [] [] [] [] [] [] [] [] [.] [.] [.] [.]
exclamation point.


________________________________________

blindfolded--i walk
around a knife store
--deserted and archaic
sometimes i dont know why i'm here

no.
many times i dont know why i'm here
[[[[all the time]]]]

it's a lonely trip
(no one's made it in years)

a butter knife would be
the refreshing, cool side of the pillow

anticipate once and limbs are lost
i'm here; i have no choice
but i can't reach out.

________________________________

he shut the door on his own greatness
when she never walked through,
and stowed himself away,
threw away the key

her decision to stay and not leap
is not a puddle splash by a curb;
it is a 50 foot wave
on a honeymoon.

I can’t have her,
well, the world can’t have me.
a whore in its service,
I win because my slavery is chosen

as long as we’re winning somewhere
we’re winning everywhere
the colors of victory, however shallowly obtained,
run deepest in the desperate and withered

-____________________________________

months have passed, a commercial break to some,
but in my war torn mind,
an eternity of infinitesimal moments
oscillating back and forth into existence and
factions sit at the ready with spears made with

a blade as sharp and piercing
as I have become since the last night;

some wood mindlessly shaped,
while I lay in stupor, in wait
for the time of a season that will never come,
for flowers to return
and triumphantly bloom in pitch black;

one long piece of rope made from my own skin:
a mirror to re-mind the mind
of vanity’s allure,
and the strength of superficial certain uncertainties,
amid feeble uncertain certainties
thought by men in 2-story red brick houses,
simple structures with manicured lawns,
too proud to know the difference between
an apple and the apple.

_______________________________________

theres a space in the light of hindsight
that winds and acquiesces
with the shuffling feet and
darting, pensive eyes
of the man struggling for perspective:

understanding beyond words,
across mountain ranges,
from peak to trough
he lives as a man, finally

or, rather,
will finally live when the god within
accepts his fate as creator and destroyer:
a paradox only afforded the partially divine.

on "the good life"

pedal to the me d/t al

there isnt a moment to lose

i can't stop thinking about

what has to be done
what has to be done
what has to be done
what has to be done

i know and
then i don't
i won't and
then i will
i will and
i don't wait
for the kids to go to bed

rough amalgams
of Christmas' Past
line my longjohns
i'll never escape them
don't want to escape them

constricting...

...invigorating

like,
some psychic primae noctis,
i can't help but bow to my Lord.


_________

"did i?"

"should i?"

"are you?"

on truth

tru
ture
tur
eut
rtur
tur
ertu\
true

on writing poetry (and, potentially, flash fiction)

i'm more of a premature ejaculator.

- yeah, i meant to put 'writer' somewhere in there.

i don't really have the stamina for a prolonged gestation and buildup to climax. sometimes ill blow my load in the first couplet and the rest of the piece is just because, just necessary background, just 'of course.' an example of cobain's 'hangover' in "dumb." just a right-there-with-me experience of my fall from grace, living the hangover, the effect of peaking at 5 years old: "oh, he's going to be fabulous. really. look at these reading scores: he's reading at a 3rd grade level! his favorite animal is the cheetah! if he continues his love of learning, the world will know his name!"

gross.

vole-human ontology

i haven't sat in the dark

if we write about ourselves,

let's not lie please
let's not dress it up'n
make it carouse with others

i haven't sat in the dark in months

since ive moved to the city
not one night in complete darkness

or at least not many
none memorable

what in Darkness
brings me closer to myself

unifies, silences:

is it the illusion of anonymity,

the basking in self-obscurity,


like lovers that think

it's always best when the lights are off


like the stuttering beauty

discovering her brain


like an elderly leper finding jesus

or happening upon sorok island

likelikelikelikelikelike
like

something else at all times
and never pavement
only a breeze, a whisper
an abstract's abstract

mounts me
and carries me through the day
desperately seeking a night
in which no one can see me
in which my own dissident, diurnal critics
can't intrude on the small

fractious yet fracturing

dense morsel of beauty
living somewhere off the grid

yet there, too,

among the fears,
the scientific studies
left unpeerreviewed

(dubbed peerless)

prior to canonization.

the best english translation of σωφροσύνη (sophrosyne) (or, at least as good as any other; no better, no worse

how and why do i let myself off the hook so easily? i'm so adept at sweeping the most important of matters underneath the rug. i don't think i lack an equal or anything, but i know that i am able to forget everything important to me. is it forgetting if i know i'm acting against myself as i do it..or i take steps that i know will make me 'ok' with my failure to live up to my own self-image.?

This gap between potentiality and actuality is a probably natural tension of human life; it might never be narrowed to nothing. my problem is the overwhelming awareness of my own plight and my own hand in it. i have no interest self-actualization that takes work. i do only that which comes naturally, i.e. easily. i will tell you of my dreams - or what i believe - and i may treat you very well - but alone in my mind, i will lose. every time. i succumb. i blame. i rationalize. i smoke. i forget. but it's not really forgetting - and if it is then i'm the most heinous,vulgar, culpable amnesiac; it's some bizarre apathy: maybe more nihilistic than anything. nihilistic in my complete and utter internal, actual subordinatation to my emotions opposite the superficial and vocal philosopher of reason, condemning those that are satisfied with short-term, almost already obsolete sources of happiness. condemning. when i am as big of an offender. not that it matters, this comparison. it's pretty much a way for me to pat myself on the back while on the front end, disemboweling and lashing. that's why i never come close to thinking about killing myself in anyway other than completely abstractly. which seems impossible, right? but i will remain alive; perpetually failing to live up to myself, these standards defeated by reason, beloved by emotion, they keep me barely above water; i never really move in any direction.

- i just read the "metanarrative" wiki entry. not really a new concept to me, but i never connected with until now. i still have this battle of reason and emotion narrative running throughout my own life. am i merely the product of a culture who still buys the metanarrative as a valuable concept, thereby creating the metanarrative. isn't this a hole in the poststructuralist disillusionment with such overarching and pervasive explanations of meaning, if people still buy that they exist...but perhaps they're not arguing against their existence, the p.s. are arguing against their performance. so instead, the p.s. focus on the metanarrative as an inaccurate representation of reality and therefore negative in practice. this seems to be the at the heart an attack on living absolutely, or applying narrative absolutely, rather, since lyotard seems to at least accept the narrative as a valuable means of value structural framing, he just wants it localized, more relative and contingent to the context of particular individuals, or very distinct, unified groups of people (?). tho i can definitely see where hes coming from...i find this very broad narrative of a battle between emotion and reason to be not only helpful but realistic.

i'm ok with my failure because i've been conditioning myself to be ok with it for a little more than a decade. so, i've been doing it a while, have even acquired tools to make my own acquiescence that much easier. like a shy rapist, i like to drug my victim. like a good marketer, it involves owning the medium, the message, the conversation. but it's this obsession with means that has gotten me bogged down and in the end always results in my acquiescence. it's in playing this deconstructive, means unpacking game that i am already naked and bent over. i have already lost. the marketer has moved the conversation, i have agreed with his fundamental argument about the efficacy of deconstructing my life in order to reconstruct it. he forgets that i do know. doesn't know that i know enough about the causes to move on - and act. contemplation is a contingent value. it's necessary but not sufficient.

what kind of self-revolution am i advocating, desiring...apocalyptic or gradual? but this is a false way to look at it. first of all, there is a buildup to the apocalyptic..it doesn't happen without antecedent causes. the issue seems to be in the transition, the readiness of the previously dominant but now defeated culture to leave. so, it's an issue of smooth or jagged. in the more jagged situation, it would be less immediately ideal since there'd be prominent remnants of the previous hegemony. so

i think (key word here, think) i'm going to write a memoir about growing up on disney movies. or maybe it can be a larger piece about growing up on movies and how the film creates expectations about reality with perhaps reflection on how/why the film is different than the book in this regard (if it is - which it seems to be, esp flowing from the written word/moving image, spoken word dichotomy - in this respect it seems to be a difference of imaginative possibilites on the observing, receiving end). if it turns into a grand reflection on the movie's influence, then the other dominant influence will surely be the romantic comedy. the key is detailing how these films help create my own methodology for social reality construction and thus directly influenced the way in which i attempt to construct meaning. because there is no getting around the fact that we create the meaning in this world, whether its consciously willed or not,well, that is certainly another story (one which may indeed be drawn out in the exposition here).

on the possibility of ethical domestic abuse

writing, please meet the drug I-can’t-seem-to-quit-long-enough-to-determine-the-effects-or-intensity-of-usage-but-suspect-that-I’m- addicted-to-in-a-maybe-innocuous-but-certainly-more so-than-most drugs-sort of way.

cannabis sativa, please meet the drug that I can’t become addicted to. No matter the syringes, hands, and opiate flushed pockets.

-I was completely naked and alone
sitting in my deskamong many desks
at work today.
External impassivity; internally, raptly, watching my own personal horror flick: I spoke with estimators and secretaries while my mind hemorrhaged from this unique, rarely reported, domestic abuse. Domestic abuse
of the most possible proximate cause. Domestic abuse,
the resolution of which is a(n ethically ambiguous) kind of career for the modern alchemist,
the psychologist.

for, like the alchemist, what strong foundational knowledge does the

psychologist stand on besides a more contingent, individual pragmatism:
where is psychology’s attainable
(ok; kind of, maybe attainable)
theory of everything?
(the origin of origin...
who is
this
...
speaking
...
now
...
now
...now)

I was completely naked and alone
sitting in my desk among many desks
at work today.

The crime is typically rife with battered wife syndrome:

"No, no. You don’t understand: I deserved it
I-
I-
I-
I was weak.

He has a point.
The horizon is here.
The sun has set.

No, he doesn’t mean to hurt me.
Really.
He doesn’t.
He really just loves me.
Too much."

--I sat at my computer today and whipped myself
like the Jesus I would all too certainly love to become
messianicnflagellated
[why

we know not

best guess is fertile offspring

borne of passion,

some(

archaic god complex
modern, conditioned, rat-in-cage, karma police begging, pop culture metaphor regurgitating
victim)]

- The boy stands at the chalkboard, his legs and his back hunched. His words ring out as his hand scrawls.

I will remember my dreams at all times.
I will remember my dreams at all times.
I will remember my dreams at all times.
I will remember my dreams at all times.
I will remember my dreams at all times.
I will remember my dreams at all times.

I will remember my dreams at all times.

(ad infinitum – or relative infinitum:
a life reduced to second and minute watching)

- The young man looked at us all with his mouth sewn shut and his eyes pleading:


“Throw me on the fire. Please, let me thaw out. Don’t make me go back there. I promise, I won’t forget my dreams anymore. I won’t. Never. Never again. Please. No. No.No.NO..NO!!

I will remember my dreams at all times.
I will remember my dreams at all times.

I will remember."

"forever." *

*This poem w/could not have been written without radiohead's 'melatonin', an ok computer era b-side, lyrics by thom yorke.

don't forget that you are our son
now go back to bed

we just know that you'll do well
you won't come to harm

death to all who stand in your way
wake my dear

consumed
with desire
at the base of endless
mountain peaks
it's buzz lightyear's wet dream

prone, fetal
cramped and alone
don't think i'll eat another meal
until i'm warm and still.

hands shake
food flies
my face is a buffet
of every mistake
i can fashion

i am a canvas of broken dreams
but isn't everyone
are there sunny skies
the sun can possibly see?

your arctic cheeks should curl up
in my furnacitic bunker heart

come naked or don't come
there's nearly no time left

i touched your arm
to let you know
you should ring the bell
ill be your soul's waiterdog

your big eyes can rise to meet me
and we won't want for
you won't want for those eyes
that abacussed earnestness
will miss the bus
hitchike lost and alone
will whither
sterilized
by fifty-four and
greygrey skies

i touched your arm
to touch something
anything at all that
might move our unmoving unmoved movers
to move.

i want to end the monologue.

i want to end the inner monologue.

i want to end the inner monologue that kills.

i want to end the inner monologue that kills via adjustment.

i want to end the inner monologue that kills with calibrating second thoughts.

i want to kill this judas, this calibrating inner monologue before it kills me.

IWANTTOENDTHISMIRROREDMENTALTREADMILL
IWANTTOWANTTOENDTHISMIRROREDTREADMILL
IWANTCONTROLOFCONTROL
IWANTAPIECEOFMIND
NOTEVERYTHING
GRASPABLE

___________________________________________

the gun slung over his shoulder, his
body perpendicular with the ground
neither his loose shoelaces
nor his fraying cuffs - no,

NOTTHE MOON SLIVER-

can rouse facticity's flatlining stoicism

dark stormy city nights
create a glowing gray dome
that shakes my blood
and closes my hotelheart

sorrysorrysorrysorry
we're too full now
check the library
check the archives
under greatest hits

but you won't find anything

even relatively speaking

you won't find anything

well maybe relatively speaking


and calmbright days will
hand me full jars of mom's jam
will shake me still, tranquil


i can't but willingly
reach my hand out
obtrusively
interjecting
a skid mark
never really striding
but always striving

it's the only way

the red sweater that blinds and bends,

whether upon your shoulders or empty chair,
heralds a new(!)new(!)new(!)NEW(?) day
that flickers, dawning but just yawning

i'd like to write you poems
earthquakes shaking, uprooting
forming new ranges where
our peaks compete for clouds

i'd like to write you poems
that break all the mirrors
rip all the right wires out
let you smile/let me be me

i'd like to write you poems
simple, earnest words
that lay your smile upon mine
summoning oracles to the truth

i'd like to write you poems
cause your pen to turn and say,
"hey, hey come join my story
no, no - wouldn't have it any other way!"

no i wouldn't have it any other way.


no i wouldn't have it any other way.

those longlong days formed of a newly known absence,
whether a trembling eternity or confident, placid moment
turn on the faucet, fill my abscess heart, rawpink, tense
in nearlynotime. your red sweater sits empty and cold.

my apologies wreak and reek
psychohavoc and locker room sock puss:
idon'treallyknowyouyoudon'tseemtowanttoknowmebutmaybeitsjustagamed
idn'tsomeonesay"playthtegameKNOWYOURAUDIENCE"butmaybethegam
eisbeyourselfbeyourselfandmultiplyflourishpursuehonorobeynotcareeverjust
staystoicstoicstoicmaybbeittakesamaybeittakesafewmonthsihearmanylegend
arypassionateromancestolastforevertogetstatuesin-
maybeyouhavereadthatstorymaybeyouhaventjustignoredmeiamastormchaser
maybeittakesa-
maybethegameisbeyourselfbeyourselfandmultiplyflourishpursuehonornot
maybeshehatesmaybeshe'strappedbehindadesksittingtherelikeaprefracture
wishbonebutnotawishboneyouonlyseemlikeawishbonetomereallytoyouyouare
anuncomfortablepolitegirlwhoreallyjustwantstodoherjobandmakesomemoney
somaybeshecanactplayapartwalkuponthestageandattemptomoveatheatreofmay
beunmovablepossiblypatronizingpatrons maybe
ittakesafewmonthsihearmanylegendarypassionateromancestolastforever
togetstatuesintheirhometownstartfromdisdainorworseambivalenceorworseyet
midnightlakeignoranceawellspringofabsolutenothingnesstotaldisinteresttothe
pointofnonconsciousnesswellmaybesubconsciousrightmaybesubconscious.

you romp around my clouds:

you are a dancer
but my longing makes you
an elephant in pointes;
you’re so heavy you’re light
and to lift is to live

your shoulders could hold
no more than a dinner plate
but my life wants no other home
for in your eyes
I see the god of spine

and so ill be a competing lion
lyin’ in your waiting room
for your entrances and exits
and the glorious time in between

What is a Human Life? What is to be done?

Statements can be either descriptive or prescriptive. That is, they can either assert a particular perspective on the way the world is with varying degrees of limitations, or constraints - in short, a definition of what the world is, based mainly on the scope of the subject lens (e.g. individual or community, which are also of course subject to definition) Alternatively, a declarative statement asserts that a particular course of action is the right one, it applies previously-concluded abstract rules to a real-world problem (1). This is done through an assimilation of the issues into a coherent view (in the particular thinker's opinion, of course) through prioritization. This prioritization reflects the individual's value hierarchy, whose genealogy in turn reflects both degrees of dogmatism and reflection. It is this mixture that this magazine intends to address.

This magazine is concerned with the primordial questions: what is a human life and what is to be done? The Human Lobby does not purport to exist simply as a meeting of the minds venue (2). Though this locus consensio is a fundamental goal, the overriding standard at work, running throughout is pragmatism. If there is not a direct correspondence to the real world, then we're not interested in it as an abstract notion. We are not interested in conflating this modern notion of bipartisanship with agreement. Bipartisanship in American politics could refer to our one party corporate state, but I'm invoking it here as an example of our sick culture and as anything but agreement or compromise. Democratic legislative initiatives require Republican support almost universally. So in order to garner support, the product includes both the initiatives of Republicans and Democrats. This causes a schizophrenic society where tensiosn build up around the different courses of action dictated by each bill. I do not intend to argue here that a single ideology is the answer. I'd like to end ideology as it currently exists in its dogmatic, entrenched turret.

As such, we are concerned only with ideas that bear directly and most presciently upon the most important question facing human beings: what is the best human life and how is it best achieved?


(1) [the age of the conclusion does not bear directly on whether the conclusion is dogmatically followed or constantly calibrated and adjusted, prone to radical ideological under the proper skies of justification (not necessarily limited to those evidentiary means flowing from the purely rational faculty, which seems indeed to be a myth.)]

(2) or as a repository for mental masturbation in any way

A Snippet of The Iranian Election Aftermath Coverage

Boston Globe's photographic coverage

Very moving pictures. figuratively, of course. one picture that really sticks out is this one:



Most of the fleeing people here wear frantic, focused expressions, but the boy wearing glasses and the dude in horizontal stripes are smiling (they are to the left and slightly left-center in front of the woman in the blue shawl/half-burkha, respectively). They're running from thugs who wish to beat them for organizing to protest an election stolen by said thugs. and they're smiling like they're running away from an older brother or towards a girlfriend exiting a train.

This is not simply zeal for a political candidate. This is zeal for life: thinking, speaking, acting without respect for any probable consequences doled out by an authority, only allowing for their conception of "right." This is idealism. It's the only necessary part of every single step of human progress worth keeping and advancing towards.


Aside: Another very positive "news item", and very prominently featured due to its importance, is the integral role of social media. Twitter has been invaluable as a means of communication between protestors and other Mousavi supporters. It shows that despite our usage as a fan for our egomanical flames, these mediums, like Facebook as well, can serve not only constructive but revolutionary purposes.

Also, a link to what many believe to be the first bonafide revolution to use these technologies, as well as a link to study of the internet's effect on democracy in the light of 2004's Ukranainian Orange Revolution:

Moldova's Twitter Revolution

The Role of Digital Networked Technologies in the Ukrainian Orange Revolution

The Human Lobby

purpose*

use available/appropriate mediums to discuss/report/speculate/analyze the experience and meaning of being human, contemporaneously, historically, and eternally

bridge ideological gaps, bringing both disparate points of view and communities together. the latter composed of people who share philosophy but for a variety of possible reasons have been isolated. common reasons include cultural marginalization and characteristics essential to the philosophy which don't commonly/naturally precipitate, or suppose/contemplate organization

engender more cohesive human community, focus on unification

play role of The Human Lobby

*there will be, of course, more specific ways to characterize the overall philosophy (which is to say the purpose), but, for now it remains very much amorphous, awaiting not only the particular ideas of artists-yet-to-be-determined but the push-and-pull resulting from the interaction of the common and disparate philosophies we share. therefore, in the interim, this is all we're willing to identify as far as content, but we most definitely have our contributions to this philosophical scrum.

format

web-based, no physical product
advantages: lower production cost and wider spectrum of available mediums outside written word and images, that which can be expressed in print

mediums*

written word:
short-story and novel-length (perhaps serialized) fiction, poetry, journalism, philosophy,hard/soft science and political essays; more "pop" cultural directed essays on topics like music, movies, television; and the intersection of the foregoing

music (#)

moving image (#)s:
short and full-length documentaries, short and full-length movies, serial programming

still images (#):
photographs, paintings (tho this seems to blend with photography since it
would be a photograph of a painting), cartoons and other drawings.

# due to potential physicality, these could be part of an off-shoot project which would basically be an art show: movies, concerts, painting, photographs, etc.

blue balled/on glory's teat

"... -s ball hit well...TO THE TRACK (!),
TO THE WALL (!)..."

the batted ball lands in a mitt
impotent as
uranium with ghandi


"...5 seconds to go.
...he crosses over.
FADE AWAY JUMPER..."

the ball loves to become
tremble on rupture
spinspinspinning
spinnin'round that rim:
it falls off the wagon
into a gray oblivion

_____________________


"...right on, right on."

"..."

"yeah, no one really gets that."

"..."

"..."

"...pedestal, dude."

"..., cynical bastard...
................................
..TO HOPEFUL ROMANTICISM!"

"give me a call."

days later and they
in localized catatonia
think of past glorious days
muttering,"End Trivia."

Moving -
at a great height,
at all times:
threadbare,
rapunzelled -
too many variables,
too much sheath,
no sword:

i can't lie
though you will and do,
by the by:
i always run from the other shoe

ill seek knowledge of the gods
and burn at my own hand

my mind stalks my heart
in an empty brown school-bus,
watches it undress
staring, jeering

i can't help it:
i hate you us all.
you've we've done as much as a beaten child
but less than the proverbial hypothetical scorned

pillows and blankets and
baskets and chalices and -
funeral laughter - cackling,
like Mephistopheles' fire, crackling

skin so thick to inspire
a tree trunk's envy
o, cold and forsaken sensitivity:
how does the seed bring the rain
and laugh in doubt's face?

but these are mystical questions
i have no need for them
a bayonet pen to my throat -
and all of humanity watching

watching. they do
"do" - in their own way.
but, also, all over
all art and science,
all that is worthy of Man.

She sobs, testifying
in a shrouded, dank courtroom begging,
her killers,
however powerful,
no matter their entrenchment and multiplicity:
be
put
down.

groping at the mirror
like an infant towards anything
or an
epiphanic horizon-hating helio:

i wonder why i
don't remember my dreams --
vacuous black snowflakes:
o, will i ever catch their nothingness?

these palpable privations tumble downward
visible only to my
unpryable third eye.
i don't look anymore,

but sometimes
some Me
somewhere
- I'm not in the loop -
will show home movies
of his dream realities
and remnants will reach this
cogito's city limits:
terrifyingly earnest and pure,
my breached forgetfulness
puts happiness on a milk carton

descartes' evil god lives within
me.
it has written, edited and
re-written the book on me.

he is a contrarian:
for happiness is not sought,
but, rather,
the greatest possible sorrow
for the ever singular Me of tomorrow.

and i am most certainly to blame.
i know the location of every empty throne
and that these moments pass
for which i can never atone.

it's not that i
dont know where my interests lie;
i'm a master theorist:
my chair's arm is scalding.
but a philosophy is primally a thought
disconnected from action
by a wide emotional chasm.

i disagree with philosophers
that will look to their peers
for human nature:
all that's there is us,
no human being as such,
only the hands of our time and place,
like Jesus' Anglicized face.

"when i think
that i can't blink
without writing:
nothing happens.

the meaning-stuffed-mind
sits satiated
upon its toilet-throne -
erm, chair
- in consternation
linguistically, neurally, constipated:
where's the _________ fiber?
so that my feelings may pass
so that i may feel the cleanliness and solitude
of an enematic colon.

alas -
more marination needed
more time for the parts of my whole
to write their reports,
talk to witnesses -
or: more time.
just: more time."

"what is the sheer passage of time
but the heroic villain,
the will to ignorance?"

"NO!

we must choose -
whether sedentary, on a paved road or
with a machete in the brush.

And so it is with my salty blue pen and blood-lined paper:

I can't control that
I can't write when
I think I should.
But I can accept it,
Waiting for release,
Enjoying the suffering,
That only precedes meaning."

"... "

"No,
We can."

the best Happens:

it does not want.
it does not equivocate.
it does not project, simulate,
extrapolate:

unified - not-sliced-and-diced
- skilleted -
it simply is:

willed but not forced
surreal yet natural

i'm not a man for all seasons:
springs and summers are bottoms up
even falls mostly enthrall;
but winters have long, spitefully introspective youths:
terribly meaningful brief bursts of
awareness,
acceptance,
immediately preceding paradigmatic shifts;
but this:
winter-but-not-winter,
spring-but-not-spring,
fall-but-not-fall,
this clipped wing, peg-legged sprinter,
modernity,
where our mental bris stays for dessert
until we look down and see curly hairs

where:

instinct's under quarantine and observation:
for fear
their superiority is originarily arbitrary,
their morphogenesis obsequious,
their self materially, annoyingly, inchoate;

it strangles everything natural
in favor of artificial nothingness.

relativity frightens,
absolutes somnambulate

unconnected dots may soon lie dormant

is meaning's ambulance enough?

enough to squash and splatter

the now disparate back together again?

my mind is the intricate lattice of

intersecting tree branches:

each rising from its trunk, its mother

each lying to me: for they never, ever touch

- but my thoughts do -

they:

fornicate like romans and

teach like the greeks, but
their halcyon dreams will die in utero,
for they are:

American:

They know not how to choose:

(which is to say: what)

They do not do.

(which is to say: dead)

you cant fall in love with every pretty girl you meet:

a voice that runs marathons through tires
and a microwave smile;

Or, induces insanity-infused storytelling at the
FIRST IMPRESSION,
nuking my lamb shank-heart;

Whilst holding
the heavily foot trafficked
street corner's
street bum's sign:
Will Be Honest/Weird For (soul) Food
like a Doubting Thomas begging,

begging

that:
you might string a supple sentence:
there's something sexual surfacing
inside my mind as your word play spins normatively.
eye up their incorporeality
just past your nose
- in between us.
spit those language loogies sincerely
and:
i may forget beauty ends me.
i may remember.
i may remember i ripple the water
so that i may forget not remembering.

must find actualizing, not paralyzing:

my dreams, my ideals
leave me a motherless white elephant,
contextless
without hands that live in iceboxes

i knew a girl once that
fervently walked the plank:
self-constructed outta
gold and plutonium
- but mostly guilt.

she'd look in the mirror
with lust, towards divinity.
and then whip the knife out:
slandering, plunging deep, and
no longer strung out.

it hurts so good
to own it -
to not die but whither
under sky blue skies.
there is ambiguity and there is idiocy..

heavy and light -
i fought for the right
that you might freely choose me:
put away the stencil,
grab the brush and paint

acceptance and change
theres a time, place.
if everything is perfect,
where is meaning?
you must be dead.

so she'll lie and lie
loving, learning, growing, peachy
check, check, check, check, she'll intone
but then she'll write by the thousands,
salty, stomach-descending poems

her guy's nothing special,
but that barely stated implication
makes him the mythologized High School Jordan,
lends him the principle with some heavy juice.
someone will pay that debt.

and she'll look in the mirror,
yearning brown eyes with rls,
but she won't stretch or take her pills:
obligation, self-loathing, or a dancing dick?
she's not here, not there and never will be.

the wandering warbling warty warrior wears
silencing self-snapped shackles
bloody burnt toast crumbs adorn her lips
- she gulps ominously.

there's no god but us
we judge
we create
we subjugate
we die empty or full
so just try

don't you hear yourself cry
or remember your forgetfulness?
how long is your pillow dry?
long enough, i guess

when the static becomes the swamp
in suffocatingly muggy despair of
knowing self-sabotage:
isn't it time?
isn't it time?

and when the swamp comes not just
bimonthly but biweekly and
parks itself in your groove
puts it feet on your ottoman
smiling at the slaughters you won't remember
the pieces you won't fit together
though they hover,
nearly colliding:
passionate but glancing blows
you swerve right into the swamp's nuzzle

i walk around
the Universe in my pocket
your memory just waiting
to expand into longing
creating worlds i can't bear to see anymore
but it doesn't matter:
my weeping wounded heart is a compulsive elephant:
cinematographer, editor, director, writer of
the best and worst film ever.

(explosions and other hallmarks of pandemonium)

(silence)

eyes wide open, dear:
time to live without fear
within nature
lacking monarchical aspirations
together
as one

remember the promise as a kid you made
the singer offers
but that kid's eyes aren't fearful like mine
ive plumbed my coffers
for a shred of him
but the light from those moments
hasn't reached my planet yet

i can't see
what allowed him to be
and why this curtain follows me
how he could see so clearly
that The Good Life needs
ignorance:

a precisely willed hand full of tar
blacking out the inane,
the Not Worth Your Time, Buddy
so that light may reach the sun-starved people
who each can see the forest for the trees
but cant look at a
beautiful
little
leaf
glistening with dew
with chemical potential
with us

Finding My Own Art

[no vacancy sign in the wilderness
the woods are filled to the hilt
with vermin and wolves and deer and badgers
and me

i'm bitter
a breathing Beast Ice
i'm bitter
i'm bitter
i'm bitter
i'm

(alone)]

people:
look up at towers in full orange ball of fury blaze
smiling
watching their world disintegrate

ashes litter their hair
but they see a child's glitter


their breathing st-

The End of Shot Clocks (and The Beginning of Injury Time); Or, Contemplations in Surmounting the High School of Human Evolution; Or, Utopia (Really?)

[Two Short Remarks

(One) Each occurrence of "(silence)" represents ~5 seconds passing.

(Two) In place of objective instructions for actors to follow to the letter, there are more subjective, emotional templates.]

EXT. SKY AFTERNOON; June 24, 2007

the blazing sun.


Broken Social Scene's Hotel (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vxgJKhrG3N0)

But from Earth and daytime. And just cut off,just a bit of sky exposed in the screen's four corners.

It is on the screen for approximately 3-4 seconds.

A massive cloud like a freight liner to those lost at sea, juts into view. it shields but also obscures.


we work our way down, out of the clouds, and into the city.

EXT. CITY - AFTERNOON

About 50 feet up, descending on a busy intersection in a commercial epicenter with stores, restaurants, and offices. there is a steady stream in all directions. slowly make our way to our guy. he is stoic. nothing particularly distinguishable from his face, except the complete and utter lack of expression. not sad, not bored but impassive. he does not stare straight-ahead. he glances at people, takes them in, but there is no facial acknowledgment of this and especially no indication of his thoughts.

the steady stream is composed of your standard city fare: men and women in dark suits with briefcases; tight jeaned, sweater wearing hipsters; anonymous college kids with backpacks, iPods, and flip flops; a dude screaming on his blue tooth; a couple arguing; two young men having a very intense but civil conversation; and homeless people begging. one homeless woman who wears such agony that it pains to imagine not only the infrequency with which she must smile, but the bare fact that this very same face could possibly smile. and had smiled many times. perhaps under these very same conditions..the same squalor that on this occasion leads to her despair.

there's people in freshly cleaned aprons, aboard white button down shirts/green polos and black pants, handing out flyer-coupons in complete earnestness outside restaurants. neither self-loathing nor ignorant, they simply work and do their best because they must.

He stays on the same street, walking. everyone from the once mass, diverges at different points, slowly dissipating in correspondence with the exit of what was a popular, commercial downtown area. he is stoic. nothing particularly distinguishable from his face, except the complete and utter lack of expression. not sad, not bored.

He passes a little park area that is a part of a larger park containing running paths and lies up against a sea. There’s a girl sitting, reading and smoking a cigarette. She is reading The Ethics of Ambiguity by Simone de Beauvoir. She has a red pen in her hair. She does not move her head, or even appear to be moving her eyes, though we are not close enough to know for certain. She does not look up or appear to notice as he approaches. Eyes go to cigarette as he advances, then horizontally to the other hand holding the book: feels pocket, no cigarettes, looks back to the girl (book , face, cigarette), breaks her plane slightly and pulls back as if on a fishing rod's hook. Sheepishly, he looks back, pulls out his headphones (bss' hotel stops), and asks for cigarette. Camera is back, 15 feet up to the rear of girl's seat, back and to the left.


Boy: "Hey... Can I bum one of those?"

(silence: she doesn't respond right away. she does not look up until a moment after he finishes)

Girl: "Hello. (pause) A book or a cigarette?" (demonstrates the options in each hand)

B: (laugh) "A cigarette."

(she hands him one. he lingers post-lighting, smiles, looks at her. she is looking at him looking at her. he looks down and away, then tears himself back to her.)

B: "Hi."

G: "Hi. (bemusement of 1/8'' grin)

B: “H-…”

(camera: front, zoom to her)

G: "Ok. I think we've covered greetings already. Is that all you've got? Are you going to stand there and say 'Hi' to me?"

B: "Well. No. hopefully, no. i just can't decide what I want to say next."

G: "Oh."

B: "Yeah." (he has the body movement of someone imaginarily kicking imaginary dirt)

G: "What's the first thing that came to mind?

B: "Heh...Yeah...To be honest (looks her over, beat): I don't know...."

G: "You just say 'Hi' and begin speaking without having any idea where you’re headed. Weird."

B: yes i had no idea where I was going and yes I think it’s weird too."

G: "Why do you think it's weird?"

B: "Because this happens all the time."

G: "Well...if it happens all the time, then why is it weird??"

B: "This is the best it's ever gone."

G: "Oh."

(silence)

(silence)

(silence)

(silence)

B: "It was…the sound of your voice." (complete earnestness, sincerity to overcome the natural cheesiness it would be easy for a part of the self to criticize, as if he needed the extra wind from the large exhale to propel himself to finish the sentence, or like a diver taking a deep breath before going under)

(unembarrassed and neither comfortable nor uncomfortable; she looks at him, he's looking out somewhere slightly to the left of her, as if in a waiting room. two evaluative but stoic expressions and then the moment she finds his eyes, she laughs like a child at play. but a furrow reaches her brow.)

G: (perplexed, bemused amusement) “What was?”

B: "The first thing that came to my mind...(she looks quizzical) I don't mean a singing voice or something. Haha. I haven't heard you singing in the shower..."

G: "I hope not."

B: " (half-laugh: the kernel of real confidence. he takes the final drag, stamps it out, and exhales as he speaks) Yeah, that'd be a bad way to start off a conversation: "Hey, you didn't know me prior to 60 seconds ago, but I heard you singing in the shower and you have a really gorgeous soprano."
(laughter on his part, a 1/5'' smile; she smiles, more re: him than the "joke")

(silence)

(silence)

(silence)

(silence)

(she puts her book in her bag and stands up. he remains seated. he is uncertain if the conversation is over. she pulls out her pack of cigarettes and offers him another one which he accepts. she lights both cigarettes and begins walking.  he walks beside her.  )

(silence)

(silence)

G: (this has an almost soliliquoy feel. tho, she acknowledges his presence intermittently, she mainly looks Around, not directly at him. he is rapt. his eyes smiling the smile his mouth and brow cannot yet form.) I've always been uncomfortable with this infatuation with a woman's physical beauty. It's such an empty compliment really. What part did I play in my looks? Very little...I can maintain...I can style...put on makeup...wear fashionable, flattering clothes, but how much do my.... customizations.. really matter? We’re glorified janitors, in all honesty. no artist: more like a restorer. at best. And the real object of the compliment is something I had nothing to do with! I'm just dabbling on nature's canvas! it's pure luck..

(large cigarette drag, the collection of thoughts and the regathering of an ethusiasm that sputtered out from post-conclusion stress disorder)

They might as well say just that...: ‘what luck you had to stumble upon some facial symmetry, a nice skin tone and hair color ... and a lack of disfigurement (?!): (robotically) this set of features pleases me.’ I'd appreciate that a lot more than a standard (drawled) "You sure are beautiful, missy." Or at the very least show me some creativity if you're gonna focus on something that isnt really the result of me. I mean, a good metaphor or four would be just fine. But, "ya know, you're beautiful" is just...sad. I don't want it. So, I guess what im saying...is..thanks. thanks for not being trite. you and your voice compliment. (chuckles, almost to herself, looks down, then immediately looks at him with concentration.)
B: (sincerely, he's profoundly affected) "you're welcome."

(maintains look out towards X, not him. He is matter of fact. not without emotion but not exuberant per se; as though realizing something which is known to be new but feels so familiar and right that it is perceived as anything but new. He maintains his look outward, completely at ease. no desire to sneak glimpses commissioned by his long-term memory, no fear of never seeing her again. he is able to see her only how and what she is this instant.)

(silence.)

(silence.)

G: (looks to him) "I haven't been that honest with anyone, given from my core being since...i can remember, since i knew i had a core being. since i knew i could choose.

(silence)

And to a “stranger." That's a weird thing to know. Now that I have accepted it...(no longer looking at him, looking out at water, deep exhale) But I guess I've always known it.

B: "Acceptance is good."

G: "It is."

(silence and they look at one another.)

(drunk on passion) People....they don't want it though. And it's just so much easier to give them what they want rather than what you think they need. Even if it is the acknowledged, Right Thing. even if it is the best thing for you...Why is Easy so dynastic?"

B: I'm not exactly sure either, but you're right. I know that much.

G: (grins) Well, that’s good.

B: (smiling, of course) It's probably as simple as it sounds. "Easy" is so pervasive...exactly because of itself - it's the simplest, least contingency-ridden option. Occam’s Razor. You know Occam?

G: (faux solemn) I do.

B: Oh...and its warm and fuzzy and snuggles close with you at night. Whispers in your ear that it’s the right choice while it’s jerking you off..(looks mildly apologetic for going “blue.”)

G: " (laughs) So, who are you, Mysterious Cigarette Bummer? You don't seem a full-on cynical misanthrope yet; are ya? What drags you out from underneath the covers?" (The girl recognizes one who has given themselves as fervently, with as much passion, even if it is in the complete opposite fashion, and against the current, thus, unsuccessfully.)

B: "Ha…Well… (looks to the sky, looks around, looks to her, obviously thinking, over a period of maybe 5 seconds…a tad bit of sheepishness) This."

G: "this?"

B: "Yes. This. Or... the possibility of this… talking with earnest girls who... don't hide who they are and... aren't afraid. of me, themselves..fate, chance.."

(She demurs. blushes. looks to the ground. raises eyes to his, who have not left her. She's uncertain and a heretofore barely seen version of the girl enters. She is sad and unsure. Like Annie Clark at 3:38 of this video ( http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1vxQs84FMWQ ). the whole thing is needed for context, but the look on her face as her eyes lower, break away from the shield, the absolute stare, and embraces the uncertainty of her suffering, of who she is.)

But that goes for men too, minus the romantic connotations. Earnestness, sincerity..autonomy (rights himself; at least in his own mind; tho it remains definitely up for debate whether or not either one is Off the Rail)

..sounds like some 'sweet guy line', but it's also the truth ("open" eyes/ raised brows)...so it's got that...(a
facial appeal of concurrence, as in: "Touche?? Eh? Eh? Eh?...")

(she gives ambiguous skepticism..he continues since he does not know if it was faux or genuine)
But really what motivates me, what keeps me out of the... dark recesses of depression and a life of solitude in the thick labyrinthine forest, is learning and loving...for the sake of themselves but not for sheer...accumulation of knowledge or massive adulation...or...as a means of anything else but it is my - and our - human essence to be conscious, reflect, reason, and love! to become, to become, and to become some more..leaving these impossibly private heavens behind!

(beat)

(zoom to him, from the shoulders up..blazing sun in background, partially obscured by his passionately vibrating head, partially blinding.)

..to feel happiness and suffering...laugh at our folly or wit... living every instant with as much fervor as the last, living for the sake of the best possible world, of the best possible me... and everyone else i know...and...interacting with friends and really anyone who cares about these things...that's my iron lung, my respirator for the day-to-day disappointments that must be endured...and rationalized...."

(enthusiasm undulating much like a plot diagram, crescendo at the climax, sputter into the ending with resolution absent, all that remains are pieces of what seemed like knowledge, that now are no longer intelligible and do not have a trusted place in reality; resentment and disgust outlined in despair; the sun is beating down on them prominently. the camera is behind them a bit, the sun is the background to their foreground)

(silence)

(silence)

Erm…How bout you? What's your food?

G: (looking at him, but breaking intermittently) “…Not nearly as clear as yours. I guess some days I’m not even sure what it is I’m eating. (no longer looking at him) But it keeps me alive… (an almost scientifically sterile tone, she stares out into the sea) I've been passive to the difference between myself and the world around me. The world has given to me. I haven't given to the world. Except in passivity, my acquiescence. I've accepted the limitations of the time. My historical particulars. Haven’t expected much from anyone…. isn't it torturous expecting people to be like you? I don't know how you do it…I mean, I gave up almost immediately…but I usually like to call it “adaptation.”

B: (laughs) Well…that’s the difficult question, isn’t it? To adapt or not to adapt? Should the behavior and beliefs of others affect our conception of our core self, what we value?

(silence)

(laughs)
…I don’t know of course..but it's easier to live with myself if I just go out into the world, with my pieces for a different puzzle, and be the best person I can be, try to put together the puzzle i'm in. not want to be in... Be conscientious. And courageous in my convictions. Compassionate. Reasonable. Loving passionately but not indiscriminately. You’re right, (no longer looking at her) disappointment will surely come…and it has. (oscillating emotions: looks back at her ) but let it be some other ingredient of the equation. Not me. I'm putting forth the effort…

(silence)

So, I guess I just ignore it. As much as possible."

(silence)

(a quickly emerging wide grin on her face; if the rate of acceleration with which her mouth moved from neutral to smile were to be graphed it would be an incredibly steep, ascending, exponential curve)

G: "So, ignorance is bliss??"

B: (big laugh but not long - not cracking up, a slight scoff) not at all. That would require bliss! there is perpetual disappointment in this stance. Warring standards with no bridge… I didn't mean to imply I was motivated by pleasure. It's an ethical issue and my standard views pleasure maintenance as…well…a disgusting waste of my freedom... if pleasure was the end for which i acted in most situations.. (a sort of mutter:) but i do believe in willed ignorance..and sensual pleasure..to some degree.."

(now she is the one observing intently..while he is somewhat unnerved..not by the release of some big secret or bottled up thought, but from her question's power, his convoluted answer, and from the sheer power of her gaze: it startles and in so doing confounds. her face is conflicting and complicated. it is almost an evaluative bemused amusement look; as if: "Ok. Sweet sensitive, neurotic routine but:)

G: I see. I see...So, how does all this relate to my beautiful voice? Is it a soaring violin accompanying the final step onto Everest's peak or a... gentle harp, comforting as a slight breeze on a muggy summer night???

B: "Haha. Damn it, I committed! I left the matzoball hanging. Is there no return from here? (exaggerated look to the heavens) Can't I just leave the pinata hanging with all the kids revved up expecti-"

G: (impatient) (clears throat) "nope. you can't. stop with the verbal rain delay already!"

B: "-Candy..Wow. (narrating) She’s on to me so soon, he thought with an inaudible chuckle.”

G: " (laughs) others are more than willing to let you ramble?"

B: "Yeah. Usually. That whole "give em enough rope to hang himself', i suppose..."

G: " Yeah I can really see that being continuously entertaining. (assesses him) Ok. So...my voice: beautiful...could start wars..."

B: "Hey! I never promised warfare...I clearly remember that."

G: "Ok. Well, I suppose I can concede the bloodshed. It's not a deal-breaker. I guess I can take the subjective musings of what seems to be a fairly sensible dude. (sizes up)

B: "Why, thank you, my dear!"

(silence)

(silence)

Ooooh. Too soon? Too soon with the affectionate generic name substitution? I've always suspected that to be some sort of flaw…"he was too familiar, too soon." (put on anchorman, stone phillips gravitas)

(laughter)

(silence)

(silence)

(silence)

(silence)

"It’s a huge gust of warm wind in the Arctic. A beautifully realigning slap in the face. It's the sound that satisfies an unspoken, intangible...inchoate desire I've felt for the better part of a decade...or more.. Mischievous. Curious. Refreshing. That "shining" spine Jeff Tweedy sang about...'No automaton present here, General. House is clear.' (a kind of half salute)

(silence)

(she goes to speak, attempts to clear throat: bone dry. she passionately grabs his head and kisses him as if the force herein will deter even Custer at Big Horn)
G: "(eyes darting, making her way from sea to sky to him to ground to him)Yeah...(clears throat)..(mumbles unintelligibly).. I was really parched...and there was no water handy...the saliva in your mouth seemed the most appropriate place to quench my thirst." (mildly awkward since of course, these people have just met. Intense connection or not, time still must have its way) (she wears a 1/2" grin. the boy, purely metaphorically, has appeared to pissed himself. and reached nirvana, or its base, truly been eye-to-eye for the first time with everything he imagined must/should be true which is very, very different than actually experiencing, knowing)

…(laughing in an attempt to make light of something that is anything but light) that was literally my thought process there..

B: "Oh...no judgment here... (Gives the "Don't shoot!" hand expression)"

(silence)

(silence)

G: (stunned) "So all that in the first 30 seconds you knew me?!?!"

B: "Well, no, most were from difficult to distinguish language/voice reads later on, but... two were there at that point: the autonomy, the strength of character...and the knowledge... that your voice was so....in tune.. with a set of internal, intangible standards I have felt and battled for years...and just recently been able to articulate and understand on even the most fundamental level.

G: How can this exist, this ability to judge and accurately feel my truth through my voice? Or anything so ethereal?

B: (medium-sized self-deprecating belly laugh) I don't claim that answer. I don't claim many answers. My only claims are rational argument, theory, synthesized with a spattering of feeling and experience. I believe they call it The Gut.

G: Haha. Well, what's your theory then?

B: My theory on this feeling borne of my incredible dearth of experience?

G: Yeah. Give it to me. Why such faith??

B: (chuckle) "Language and reason have tremendous power in identifying truth... but there are areas outside their jurisdiction requiring resolution from a sister court... in the forum of Emotion and Intuition where language, reason, science are unable to discern reality with any kind of the accuracy they achieve within their natural homes. It's like...instead of being run through just the reason filter or just the emotion filter..the thought runs through some hybrid filter, encompassing all thought."

G: "So, its not an abandonment of reason; its just good ole highly calibrated and refined intuition, the product of a fully assimilated "I?" But what is so special to you about the voice? What separates it from..

(silence)

B: "Voices are like eyes...and hands…they are windows...extensions of the words we utter and the actions we take...the themes and motivations that lie beneath and extend through our actions like vertebrae. however much words or action may serve as a curtain...the sun, or darkness, from an eye, a hand, or... a voice.. shines through..and is clearly evident to the person willingly to look ...Truth in Action, in Words, Logic, or in subconscious physical mannerisms? I'll take the truth from my voice read.. here today, up against Einstein's relativity, Ghandi's hunger, Godel's Incompleteness Theorem, Hendrix's Red House: none is more real than the others.

G: I'd say you're putting quite a bit more pure faith into that conclusion than all of them..

B: (laughs) Yeah..maybe. This is a form of faith. Acknowledged. I'm not afraid to say it. But what doesn't require some extension of hope, some constructed sun. even science is built on a foundation of faith, and mine isn't completely unregulated, tyrannical dogmatic faith. It comes from a purer place, much more empirical and reflective…open to change..I assure you. (funny looks exchanged at mini cop out.)

…And it's faith in you. And people like you. That I'm not alone, we're not alone, and maybe the future isn't partly cloudy with a strong chance of thunderstorms and golf ball hail. That maybe our conversation here today isn't a dream, an aberration, a sick reminder of squandered possibilities..."

(camera begins a slow pan back amid silence. circles. zoomed in on: the nearby tide coming in, somewhat violently against apparently the same pier but much further down. it fills the screen: the variable wave crashing its will into the fixed and determined pier. the waves are crashing furiously from the middle of the sea into the side of the pier. the pier appears to extend miles out, remote. The crashing is the only background sound to speak of. Outside of the opening walking tune.)

[the scene moves from the sea to blackness to the boys eyes and eyes alone. camera moves to his mouth, a grin resides. camera pans out, the boy's head swivels, looks around in the darkness. his face twists in anguish, fury, bitter disappointment. the conversation is a dream, the boy's dream,  a dream in framework he has dreamed far, far too many nights; in the darkness he stumbles furthering his misery (kind of a play on radiohead's there there: in pitch dark/ i go walking through your landscape/broken branches trip me as i speed); he cries out while continuing his path to the bathroom as he falls into his computer, exposing a computer screen with itunes open. the artist: the beatles; the song: happiness is a warm gun; it is on repeat. (in a perfect world this would be playing as he woke up, starting just around the title refrain) he is huddled above the toilet bowl. he is vomiting, sweating profusely, and spitting, drooling a long continuous globule of 1/3 saliva, 1/3 bile, and 1/3 food chunks. he attempts to compose himself, gets up, looks in the mirror, hovering, shaking above the sink. he gives an exasperated exhale, followed by muttering: "pfftsh: (spits loogie, sees his pale-faced, sweaty-haired, blood-eyed, tear-stained reflection) the good dream is the real nightmare."]

(black)

"Boys and girls in America have such a sad time together; sophistication demands that they submit to sex immediately without proper preliminary talk. Not courting talk -- real straight talk about souls, for life is holy and every moment is precious." - Jack Kerouac