(no subject)
12.23.03
When I am home and the doorbell rings, my wife refuses to answer the door. She'll send one of the kids to retrieve me so that I may receive the caller. This time, it was a repeat caller. I don't know the name of their group or anything more than their general mission: to discuss Jesus with those that se habla. They are split into two groups, one of men and one of women, both equally well dressed, polite and with kind eyes. The groups are almost always the same individuals, yet still, they always politely ask "¿Habla usted?" The first time it was the men and I responded, "¿por qué?" They would begin to talk about Jesus and I would tell them that I am not interested. The next few times, it was the men again and we didn't even have much of an exchange. Finally, one time they came our friend Sarah was here and she answered the door, wearing nothing save her nipple and clit rings, and her fiery red hair. The men politely asked her if she spoke Spanish and she said no. They pardoned themselves and walked away, seemingly not missing a beat. The next few times, it has been the women that come to our house. I had the same short non-affirmative exchange with them and they quickly left.
Tatiana: Daddy, who was at the door?
Me: Some people peddling some stuff that we don't need.
T: What were they peddling?
Me: Jesus.
T: What are Jes-its? (her pronunciation was geez-its)
Me: They're these horrid little crackers that people eat and then begin to act funny. . .but not "ha ha" funny, more like sanctimonious caricatures of true belief, judging all but themselves and missing the point kind of funny.
T: Oh. I guess we don't want any of those Jes-its.
Me: I'd imagine so dear.
This was Sunday December twenty first two thousand and three for those that care. Winter Solstice, 2003. The first thought on waking was of hundreds of places throughout the southwest that rays of sunlight leaking through clouds where beginning to dance over glyphs pecked in stone and through slits built in rock and adobe, dancing as they had for 1,000 years. Why I would think of light piercing the center of an "x" (you might call it a cross) on a rock outside of Nowherelandtruckstopville, AZ I don't know but I do know that I smiled at the little reminder it provided. All is as was and will be. Endless cycles which are, as James Hutton said, "Without a vestige of beginning and no prospect for an end." Endless repetition, repetition is the essence of existence, essence precedes existence and this leads me to believe that repetition is the cornerstone of all.
Yes, indeed this sounds sophomoric, pseudo-intellectual, and perhaps a bit heavy handed. Indeed it should as I was beginning to commit that greatest of all solecisms; I was attempting to use language to convey meaning and understanding. As Hesse had his Siddhartha say:
"Words do not express thoughts very well. They always become a little different immediately they are expressed, a little distorted, a little foolish. And yet it also pleases me and seems right that what is of value and wisdom to one man seems nonsense to another."
Before you recoil in laughter and proclaim that to be the lament of the weak writer, I should get to my point. Six years ago, something happened to me. I've spoken of it very little, saying very little when I do because I realize that it is a point that would be quickly lost upon others. So, despite the fact that it felt as if something had grabbed me by my lapels and quickly pushed me through much filth and grime to stare intently at the core of being. Just as quickly, I was left standing, not knowing what to make of what happened. However, being raised in a culture that prizes those that push to the top has left me somewhat unable to just accept and so quickly my mind began trying to master this thing. You know, of course, it was impossible. Soon in began to sink deeper into my mind, occasionally bubbling up to remind me to be patient, but for the most part, it stayed down. It is coming back, pushing through the filmy layers deposited by penurious years and angry woman. It is not quick and definitely not grabbing. To me it feels like water seeping neuron to neuron. Laugh at this: water cleans because it soft and pliant, water cleans because it is the strongest and most irresistible thing around. If I believed in a god, I would ask it to make sense of this for me. Of course in my heart, I know that even if I had a god, this would be asking too much, for whatever god it might be, it has proven time and again that we are on our own. My point, then, is that something is over taking me, something is coming back. It's something that I won't write of directly, for that's even more foolish than this pseudo-intellectual bush beating I am engaging in. Here I am, a sentient Pokey Little Puppy, wondering if this is the scent of rice pudding leading me home.
hahahahahahahahahahahaha (canned laughter)
Today the dreams of last night have been stuck on my mind. I am not one that gives much meaning to dreams. To me, they have always seemed to be the brain's attempt at making sense of the electricity buzzing through our sleeping heads. Keep in mind that for all that can be told, very little of this electricity is driven by sensation yet it is through the filters of sensory input, familiar objects, language constructs, social constructs, space-time and apparent subject-object separation that our brains create a picture for the internal eye. Despite this bland view, some dreams still manage to grab me and leave me to wonder about them. One common property of all these dreams is the feeling that a deus snuck into the machina and then plucked me to the waking world. The dreams can be unhappy or delightful, but the feeling of being ripped out, thrown into the light, is the same. The first dream was an amalgam of places, from Pl@¢e®ville and Sacramento, Phoenix, and some places that would best be described as "stock urban structure, anytown u$a." Some of them were places I had never been. The beginning is a cloud and I can never be sure if there was a clear "beginning" or if I have fallen in media res. Even in the latter case, I always seem to know necessary information. In this case, I knew that my mother was still alive, my parents were still married, I still lived with them, I was in a subterranean parking garage next to a club, there was a punk show at the club, I had just pushed my way through throngs of smelly crusties and idiotic wannabees, the girl with librarian glasses and short dark hair that was standing in front of me was the reason I had pushed my way through the crowds. I knew all this.
Her face was that of someone that I know. It was you, V. I said "Hey. . ." and my face bloomed red as you smiled back at me. All the sudden I also knew that you lived at the Hamilton Halfway HouseTM and that good old Howdy-HamiTM himself had brought you. Nelson was also there and way back by the Hami-VanTM, Erin was smoking a cigarette, rolling her eyes, and just shaking her head. But these are all details, perhaps needless details.
The thing I remember most is the feelings I had throughout the dream. Ancient feelings that I had forgotten I was capable of feeling. I was crushing madly and all I thought about was spending time with this girl. I remember the stupid longing and anticipation between meetings, not caring that I was surrounded by smelly idiots because you were smiling at me. The unbearable desire I felt when I was hoping to catch the Hami-VanTM before it was gone, hoping because I was going to say, come home with me, not to fuck, but to lay on my bed next to me, talking and listening to music as we fell asleep. The joy that Nelson, Erin, and I felt when we went into a Walgreen's jammed with holiday shoppers, turned over a bread rack, stole some film and plastic flowers and then ran out howling into the night, but not before Erin stopped to punch an idiot. Howdy-HamiTM drove us away, giggling like the chain smoking school girl he is.
But those feelings of youthful stupidity and the freedom that comes with it. The desire to be with someone, wherever it may lead. Living with my mom and dad, not worrying about the next meal. Having a mom that was alive. It was a nice break from reality. So strong was this dream that even after I woke up for a trip to the john, the dream started again where it left off once I was asleep again. It was the first vacation in years and I was abuzz with it the entire day. Wondering when the hand of "god" ripped me out of the dream? Our dear girl V. had just agreed to go home with me. . .
The earlier dream started when one of my front teeth fell out. It was my left top canine. My gums were bleeding and I was pissed off because in the dream it was a major holiday and so I had to find a dentist that could potentially put the tooth back in. Once again, my mom was alive and so it was she that took me to the dentist. The dentist and her crew began working on me but they failed to inject enough pain killer, so I felt the whole damn thing *. However, as I was walking out the door, all my front teeth, from the left canine to right canine, fell out. At first, the staff ignored me, so I took the bloody teeth (they had come out as one and stayed as one) and set them on the counter, "I neef helf!!!!" For some reason, the dentist decided not to knock me out completely and instead decided to use conscious sedation. So I watched the whole thing and listen to them crack jokes over my gaping mouth. Finally they're done and they send me packing. My mom is not there, so I begin to worry and then I tell myself, "Of course she's not here. She's dead." My wife, rather than pick me up, had decided to go party with some friends. So I staggered across the parking lot, dimly conscious and a mouthful of pain. Two stringy people with mullets decide that I am trying to steal their primer and rust 1981 Celica and so they try to attack me. I shuffle off, keying a forest green Excursion and trying to yell "Butt rock is dead, assholes!" I woke up at the point, feeling rather disturbed and wondering if there had been a point I had missed. I lay there in the dark, perplexed and out of sorts, wondering if it was my mom, my wife, the butt rockers, or the Celica. I also began to wonder about my teeth.
This entire entry is rather pointless, by the way. Long, dry, and verging on rambling. I am writing just to write, to force myself to write. It's the only way to keep myself updating. The only way. Sorry.
*Just a note, that actually happened this summer. The pain killer wore off right before the dentist began drilling for a root canal (or maybe a filling.) Rather than "tap" out, I decided to see what it was like to experience a high speed dental drill sans painkiller. It was. . .intense.
When I am home and the doorbell rings, my wife refuses to answer the door. She'll send one of the kids to retrieve me so that I may receive the caller. This time, it was a repeat caller. I don't know the name of their group or anything more than their general mission: to discuss Jesus with those that se habla. They are split into two groups, one of men and one of women, both equally well dressed, polite and with kind eyes. The groups are almost always the same individuals, yet still, they always politely ask "¿Habla usted?" The first time it was the men and I responded, "¿por qué?" They would begin to talk about Jesus and I would tell them that I am not interested. The next few times, it was the men again and we didn't even have much of an exchange. Finally, one time they came our friend Sarah was here and she answered the door, wearing nothing save her nipple and clit rings, and her fiery red hair. The men politely asked her if she spoke Spanish and she said no. They pardoned themselves and walked away, seemingly not missing a beat. The next few times, it has been the women that come to our house. I had the same short non-affirmative exchange with them and they quickly left.
Tatiana: Daddy, who was at the door?
Me: Some people peddling some stuff that we don't need.
T: What were they peddling?
Me: Jesus.
T: What are Jes-its? (her pronunciation was geez-its)
Me: They're these horrid little crackers that people eat and then begin to act funny. . .but not "ha ha" funny, more like sanctimonious caricatures of true belief, judging all but themselves and missing the point kind of funny.
T: Oh. I guess we don't want any of those Jes-its.
Me: I'd imagine so dear.
This was Sunday December twenty first two thousand and three for those that care. Winter Solstice, 2003. The first thought on waking was of hundreds of places throughout the southwest that rays of sunlight leaking through clouds where beginning to dance over glyphs pecked in stone and through slits built in rock and adobe, dancing as they had for 1,000 years. Why I would think of light piercing the center of an "x" (you might call it a cross) on a rock outside of Nowherelandtruckstopville, AZ I don't know but I do know that I smiled at the little reminder it provided. All is as was and will be. Endless cycles which are, as James Hutton said, "Without a vestige of beginning and no prospect for an end." Endless repetition, repetition is the essence of existence, essence precedes existence and this leads me to believe that repetition is the cornerstone of all.
Yes, indeed this sounds sophomoric, pseudo-intellectual, and perhaps a bit heavy handed. Indeed it should as I was beginning to commit that greatest of all solecisms; I was attempting to use language to convey meaning and understanding. As Hesse had his Siddhartha say:
"Words do not express thoughts very well. They always become a little different immediately they are expressed, a little distorted, a little foolish. And yet it also pleases me and seems right that what is of value and wisdom to one man seems nonsense to another."
Before you recoil in laughter and proclaim that to be the lament of the weak writer, I should get to my point. Six years ago, something happened to me. I've spoken of it very little, saying very little when I do because I realize that it is a point that would be quickly lost upon others. So, despite the fact that it felt as if something had grabbed me by my lapels and quickly pushed me through much filth and grime to stare intently at the core of being. Just as quickly, I was left standing, not knowing what to make of what happened. However, being raised in a culture that prizes those that push to the top has left me somewhat unable to just accept and so quickly my mind began trying to master this thing. You know, of course, it was impossible. Soon in began to sink deeper into my mind, occasionally bubbling up to remind me to be patient, but for the most part, it stayed down. It is coming back, pushing through the filmy layers deposited by penurious years and angry woman. It is not quick and definitely not grabbing. To me it feels like water seeping neuron to neuron. Laugh at this: water cleans because it soft and pliant, water cleans because it is the strongest and most irresistible thing around. If I believed in a god, I would ask it to make sense of this for me. Of course in my heart, I know that even if I had a god, this would be asking too much, for whatever god it might be, it has proven time and again that we are on our own. My point, then, is that something is over taking me, something is coming back. It's something that I won't write of directly, for that's even more foolish than this pseudo-intellectual bush beating I am engaging in. Here I am, a sentient Pokey Little Puppy, wondering if this is the scent of rice pudding leading me home.
hahahahahahahahahahahaha (canned laughter)
Today the dreams of last night have been stuck on my mind. I am not one that gives much meaning to dreams. To me, they have always seemed to be the brain's attempt at making sense of the electricity buzzing through our sleeping heads. Keep in mind that for all that can be told, very little of this electricity is driven by sensation yet it is through the filters of sensory input, familiar objects, language constructs, social constructs, space-time and apparent subject-object separation that our brains create a picture for the internal eye. Despite this bland view, some dreams still manage to grab me and leave me to wonder about them. One common property of all these dreams is the feeling that a deus snuck into the machina and then plucked me to the waking world. The dreams can be unhappy or delightful, but the feeling of being ripped out, thrown into the light, is the same. The first dream was an amalgam of places, from Pl@¢e®ville and Sacramento, Phoenix, and some places that would best be described as "stock urban structure, anytown u$a." Some of them were places I had never been. The beginning is a cloud and I can never be sure if there was a clear "beginning" or if I have fallen in media res. Even in the latter case, I always seem to know necessary information. In this case, I knew that my mother was still alive, my parents were still married, I still lived with them, I was in a subterranean parking garage next to a club, there was a punk show at the club, I had just pushed my way through throngs of smelly crusties and idiotic wannabees, the girl with librarian glasses and short dark hair that was standing in front of me was the reason I had pushed my way through the crowds. I knew all this.
Her face was that of someone that I know. It was you, V. I said "Hey. . ." and my face bloomed red as you smiled back at me. All the sudden I also knew that you lived at the Hamilton Halfway HouseTM and that good old Howdy-HamiTM himself had brought you. Nelson was also there and way back by the Hami-VanTM, Erin was smoking a cigarette, rolling her eyes, and just shaking her head. But these are all details, perhaps needless details.
The thing I remember most is the feelings I had throughout the dream. Ancient feelings that I had forgotten I was capable of feeling. I was crushing madly and all I thought about was spending time with this girl. I remember the stupid longing and anticipation between meetings, not caring that I was surrounded by smelly idiots because you were smiling at me. The unbearable desire I felt when I was hoping to catch the Hami-VanTM before it was gone, hoping because I was going to say, come home with me, not to fuck, but to lay on my bed next to me, talking and listening to music as we fell asleep. The joy that Nelson, Erin, and I felt when we went into a Walgreen's jammed with holiday shoppers, turned over a bread rack, stole some film and plastic flowers and then ran out howling into the night, but not before Erin stopped to punch an idiot. Howdy-HamiTM drove us away, giggling like the chain smoking school girl he is.
But those feelings of youthful stupidity and the freedom that comes with it. The desire to be with someone, wherever it may lead. Living with my mom and dad, not worrying about the next meal. Having a mom that was alive. It was a nice break from reality. So strong was this dream that even after I woke up for a trip to the john, the dream started again where it left off once I was asleep again. It was the first vacation in years and I was abuzz with it the entire day. Wondering when the hand of "god" ripped me out of the dream? Our dear girl V. had just agreed to go home with me. . .
The earlier dream started when one of my front teeth fell out. It was my left top canine. My gums were bleeding and I was pissed off because in the dream it was a major holiday and so I had to find a dentist that could potentially put the tooth back in. Once again, my mom was alive and so it was she that took me to the dentist. The dentist and her crew began working on me but they failed to inject enough pain killer, so I felt the whole damn thing *. However, as I was walking out the door, all my front teeth, from the left canine to right canine, fell out. At first, the staff ignored me, so I took the bloody teeth (they had come out as one and stayed as one) and set them on the counter, "I neef helf!!!!" For some reason, the dentist decided not to knock me out completely and instead decided to use conscious sedation. So I watched the whole thing and listen to them crack jokes over my gaping mouth. Finally they're done and they send me packing. My mom is not there, so I begin to worry and then I tell myself, "Of course she's not here. She's dead." My wife, rather than pick me up, had decided to go party with some friends. So I staggered across the parking lot, dimly conscious and a mouthful of pain. Two stringy people with mullets decide that I am trying to steal their primer and rust 1981 Celica and so they try to attack me. I shuffle off, keying a forest green Excursion and trying to yell "Butt rock is dead, assholes!" I woke up at the point, feeling rather disturbed and wondering if there had been a point I had missed. I lay there in the dark, perplexed and out of sorts, wondering if it was my mom, my wife, the butt rockers, or the Celica. I also began to wonder about my teeth.
This entire entry is rather pointless, by the way. Long, dry, and verging on rambling. I am writing just to write, to force myself to write. It's the only way to keep myself updating. The only way. Sorry.
*Just a note, that actually happened this summer. The pain killer wore off right before the dentist began drilling for a root canal (or maybe a filling.) Rather than "tap" out, I decided to see what it was like to experience a high speed dental drill sans painkiller. It was. . .intense.