Bohemian Rhapsody
Before I move into the bulk of my post, I would like to announce that I have located the title and artist of my "secret song"... that's probably not the right word for it, but do you ever hear a song sporadically for several months (or several years even) and you really want to download it but you have no idea what it's called or who it's by? Wellll I'd been hearing this catchy little diddy for a year and a half, I'd say, and after countless internet lyric searches and radio station calls that resulted in no answer... they finally announced it on air! It's rare to hear a song from 2000 on la radio, let alone have it identified- but it was, and I tuned in! It's not a song many would enjoy, nor would anyone particularly understand why I cared so much but....
Econoline Crush - Never Enough ...my goal is complete! (well, that one anyway)
I'm not listening to it right now, but that's 'cause it's had its share of overkill ever since the good news, and it doesn't really put me in a reminiscent mood.
So, bulk of the post:
Today we are going to discuss "happy places", do you have a happy place? Let me explain by using my own as an example. When I was in 3rd grade, I was enrolled in a prestigious art class of sorts. I do remember a feeling of inferiority, being as I was much younger than the other kids who were mostly 14 while I was only 8-9, and it's another grass-is-greener-on-the-other-side concept, but I remember how I thought it would feel to be them. I remember the lifestyle that was celebrated in that facility, the way it felt to have talent in that area. Granted, I don't remember much about this time in my life. I guess you could say that I don't remember the important things. I don't remember who my friends were, I don't remember much of anything about my life at that time... but the feeling. The feeling is so present in my mind. I wasn't there yet, I wasn't a part of that lifestyle or that elite crowd or that sense of independence, but I always felt like I was destined to be. It's that same feeling I get when thinking about living in a loft apartment uptown or in new york city, snorting coke and telling stories with my bohemian buddies. Throwing caution to the wind and remembering most of all to be happy. The problem with drugs is that they seperate you from society. They inadvertantly push you in with a crowd of people you better enjoy being with, 'cause you're cast out of "productive" society as of the moment your brain alters into euphoria. This is all, of couse, the way I see things from the viewpoint of my tiny little world. All this time I've been trying to grasp why it is I have such a hard time conforming to the seemingly simple required tasks of being a citizen of humanity... I suppose I should still be trying to comprehend that fact, but I find more pleasure in following a path back to my happy place. I want to be surrounded by those that bring out the best in me and share my desire for freedom of expression and freedom of thought. I don't know know what the meaning of life is, nor do i particularly enjoy searching for it (very recently, that is) but I find that participating in that which is said to bring happiness to most others is the same shit that makes me sick to my stomach. It hurts me to think of my behavior over the last few months, or to think of how removed I felt being in the places that were close to where I want to be. I am drawn to magical things. That sounds so incredibly foo-foo but anything with a story behind it is magical to me. For example, on friday I was in uptown looking for a book (Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance by Robert Pirsig, it's fabulous) and I had two choices: Borders (corporate america at its best) or Magers and Quinn (enchanting used book store). While in the latter, I noticed the tattered spines of all the books and occasionally I'd find a scripture or two. "Thomas, may this book lead you on the road to happiness. Love, Grandma" or the like. I go crazy for that shit. That's what life is all about: mystery. To Thomas, it was probably just another ignorant gift from his grandmother (and that's why he sold it to a used book store in the first place), or not, but it's its being removed from him, his family, and his entire situation that causes the magic to happen and my mind to wander. Physically, I don't feel like I belong in that bookstore or that I'll one day be able to spark this magic in the mind of someone else... but maybe physical matters are much more trivial. I want the lives of my fellow art students. I still remember their names. Bjorn, Simon, Betsy, Tina... the likes of which my name and face have never crossed the minds of, I'm sure. They were 8th graders, their lives in my mind represented pure bliss. When I found myself a 14 year old, I hacked up my arm and cried myself to sleep. I yearned to be the "cool" kids that did drugs and fucked eachother by the creek. Then they hacked up their arms too, and we were one. The realization of that fact was the beggining of my mental plunge into the wonders of humanity, but some other time for that. My point is, my most prominant memory from being an 8 year old revolves around the magic I saw in the lives of those artists. Their real lives were probably much like mine was at their age, but from my misinformed point of view at that time, beauty coude be captured in the stinging smell of the incense as I watched them paint the world. I tried to paint the world too, but I was too busy playing the part of observer. I think I'm ready to paint the world. I think I'm ready to ignore what makes me sick, immerse my mind in marijuana, and live to be me and make magic happen for myself. I always need a sense of mystery. Yesterday, someone told me "people can be so much fun when you hardly know them"... ain't that the truth. But I want to get to know people that remind me of myself and inspire to be better at what I do (the likes of which I'm unaware). I yearn for these people, this is my life. I should stop exploring, stop searching for answers, just live and be and gravitate towards that loft with the twinkling christmas lights and the burning incense, and the twirling bodies to the sound of music. Everyone will be themselves and life will sparkle.
And so it's off to the art school for me, I hope to be provided with the perminent scent of incense.
Econoline Crush - Never Enough ...my goal is complete! (well, that one anyway)
I'm not listening to it right now, but that's 'cause it's had its share of overkill ever since the good news, and it doesn't really put me in a reminiscent mood.
So, bulk of the post:
Today we are going to discuss "happy places", do you have a happy place? Let me explain by using my own as an example. When I was in 3rd grade, I was enrolled in a prestigious art class of sorts. I do remember a feeling of inferiority, being as I was much younger than the other kids who were mostly 14 while I was only 8-9, and it's another grass-is-greener-on-the-other-side concept, but I remember how I thought it would feel to be them. I remember the lifestyle that was celebrated in that facility, the way it felt to have talent in that area. Granted, I don't remember much about this time in my life. I guess you could say that I don't remember the important things. I don't remember who my friends were, I don't remember much of anything about my life at that time... but the feeling. The feeling is so present in my mind. I wasn't there yet, I wasn't a part of that lifestyle or that elite crowd or that sense of independence, but I always felt like I was destined to be. It's that same feeling I get when thinking about living in a loft apartment uptown or in new york city, snorting coke and telling stories with my bohemian buddies. Throwing caution to the wind and remembering most of all to be happy. The problem with drugs is that they seperate you from society. They inadvertantly push you in with a crowd of people you better enjoy being with, 'cause you're cast out of "productive" society as of the moment your brain alters into euphoria. This is all, of couse, the way I see things from the viewpoint of my tiny little world. All this time I've been trying to grasp why it is I have such a hard time conforming to the seemingly simple required tasks of being a citizen of humanity... I suppose I should still be trying to comprehend that fact, but I find more pleasure in following a path back to my happy place. I want to be surrounded by those that bring out the best in me and share my desire for freedom of expression and freedom of thought. I don't know know what the meaning of life is, nor do i particularly enjoy searching for it (very recently, that is) but I find that participating in that which is said to bring happiness to most others is the same shit that makes me sick to my stomach. It hurts me to think of my behavior over the last few months, or to think of how removed I felt being in the places that were close to where I want to be. I am drawn to magical things. That sounds so incredibly foo-foo but anything with a story behind it is magical to me. For example, on friday I was in uptown looking for a book (Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance by Robert Pirsig, it's fabulous) and I had two choices: Borders (corporate america at its best) or Magers and Quinn (enchanting used book store). While in the latter, I noticed the tattered spines of all the books and occasionally I'd find a scripture or two. "Thomas, may this book lead you on the road to happiness. Love, Grandma" or the like. I go crazy for that shit. That's what life is all about: mystery. To Thomas, it was probably just another ignorant gift from his grandmother (and that's why he sold it to a used book store in the first place), or not, but it's its being removed from him, his family, and his entire situation that causes the magic to happen and my mind to wander. Physically, I don't feel like I belong in that bookstore or that I'll one day be able to spark this magic in the mind of someone else... but maybe physical matters are much more trivial. I want the lives of my fellow art students. I still remember their names. Bjorn, Simon, Betsy, Tina... the likes of which my name and face have never crossed the minds of, I'm sure. They were 8th graders, their lives in my mind represented pure bliss. When I found myself a 14 year old, I hacked up my arm and cried myself to sleep. I yearned to be the "cool" kids that did drugs and fucked eachother by the creek. Then they hacked up their arms too, and we were one. The realization of that fact was the beggining of my mental plunge into the wonders of humanity, but some other time for that. My point is, my most prominant memory from being an 8 year old revolves around the magic I saw in the lives of those artists. Their real lives were probably much like mine was at their age, but from my misinformed point of view at that time, beauty coude be captured in the stinging smell of the incense as I watched them paint the world. I tried to paint the world too, but I was too busy playing the part of observer. I think I'm ready to paint the world. I think I'm ready to ignore what makes me sick, immerse my mind in marijuana, and live to be me and make magic happen for myself. I always need a sense of mystery. Yesterday, someone told me "people can be so much fun when you hardly know them"... ain't that the truth. But I want to get to know people that remind me of myself and inspire to be better at what I do (the likes of which I'm unaware). I yearn for these people, this is my life. I should stop exploring, stop searching for answers, just live and be and gravitate towards that loft with the twinkling christmas lights and the burning incense, and the twirling bodies to the sound of music. Everyone will be themselves and life will sparkle.
And so it's off to the art school for me, I hope to be provided with the perminent scent of incense.