it'll work out one way or another (after all, it's Christmas)
Partly having to do with saberxo's adventures in South America this year, I've discovered that I can't stand to drink Coca-Cola unless it's sufficiently watered down in a fountain drink or bottled in Mexico. Bottles from below the border might have a battered, recycled quality to the outer glass, giving it a somewhat tampered look, but the content within is less thick and abrasive, more subtle in sweetness than its American counterpart. In the age of useful energy drinks, when people have fallen to the worship of coffee, I seem to have grown an affinity for impoverished fluids, and this is nothing short of revolutionary. I have come to prefer a drink that isn't motivated or expected to perform a service, one that isn't obliged to release nutrients or provide pep. I don't mind the scarcity of most common and pleasing aspects in a regular drink, such as sweetener or caffeine; I will even enjoy a drink that lacks the commodity of basic refreshment. Lukewarm pop need no longer despair!
A year or so ago, Ryan travelled Chile on one of his larks and brought me back a souvenir from the house of Pablo Neruda, which I assume to have been La Sebastiana. The poster is a modest line drawing of a bird in the process of unfurling itself and underneath there is a quote that reads: Mi deber es vivir, morir, vivir ... (My duty, to live, to die, to live ...). I forgot the exact amount of posters he brought back to the States (a few, I think), but for the sake of my bedroom decor, I'm grateful for figuring into the destiny of at least one, because that single poster inspired me to correct what used to be a shameful flaw of mine, that of possessing barren walls, all of them plain and white. Except for all the books overcrowding the shelves or scattered over the floor, people who used to walk into my room, prior to the appearance of this poster, couldn't tell a thing about me from looking at my living space. I had no posters, portraits, paintings, postcards, flags, idols, or paraphernalia of any kind. My bedroom chamber was so bereft of my personality, that, at any moment, I could have possibly become a guest. A few large mirrors adorn the room, and they are arranged in the careful style of Poe, so that no mirror can startle you with a reflection of your self when you're comfortably sitting down.
On second thought, the poster was simply a colorful phoenix that accentuated a line from a poem, and since all good poems are found in books (the same books already littering my room), then putting it up was an act of redundancy meant only to take up space -- but it was also a beginning. Since then I've strewn the walls with articles that each vary in relevance. On the closet door, I placed the graphics of two signature cheeseburgers, side by side, from two competing fast food chains. One is an ad from a magazine and the other is an authentic shot stolen from the actual display menu. These images are not meant to be appetizing in the least, although the airbrushing on the Wendy's one gives it the alluring illusion of plump juiciness -- they are meant to clue visitors in on a particular food that was a favorite of mine, years ago, specifically 1999-2001, when I was more concerned with the weight of the food in the bag ($ per lbs. of meat), than health, taste, or consequence per se. Burgers are definitely not my favorite now, but a bedroom can only be characteristic of someone in the past, never someone in the present moment, which is the only state that interests me.
Returning to Ryan's apartment in Westwood, I remember that he was directing me towards the whereabouts of my gift, telling me to fetch it amongst his unpacked belongings, when I made the mistake of picking up the wrong poster. It was this error in judgment that effectively soured the reception of my gift proper. Attached to that mishap was an even more thorough feeling of embarassment, because in my vague goings-on, I might have thoughtlessly assumed that the posters were ALL mine; I believed myself to be the new owner of a SET of artifacts from South America. On the heels of such a bold misunderstanding, Ryan snatched the poster out of my hand and quickly pointed out which was which. His had a different design and motto, neither of which I dare mention, but I maintain its superiority over mine, since it was the first one I touched. Perhaps, he felt that the quote on my poster (My duty, to live, to die, to live ...) was more suited to my lifestyle or beliefs, and that's not a very bad guess, but I have to admit that lately I've been shirking this duty of dying, an occupation that I acquired around the age of fourteen.
I dislike the awkwardness that I feel when I'm being presented with a gift. This sensation is more than the normal discomfort of being thrown into a happy moment. I've deduced that it has nothing to do with physical revulsion; it is an assault on the intellect. I say that, during this transaction, there is a brief loss of self, a dip, followed by an uncomfortable gain. The process of receiving a gift causes someone's present being, their very existence, to swell up in size, large enough so that the walls will chafe it for an instant. The gift then proceeds to imbue the palms of the recipient with a feeling of excessive emptiness, which is only a feeling, bearing the gift in mind. The recipient is thus encouraged to fill this sudden vacancy with symbolic expressions of gratitude towards the giver, but none of this is truly deserved, because the giver has unconsciously committed an imposition against the psyche of the recipient.
I don't give gifts precisely. I tend to forget them into the hands of other people. None of the gifts I give ever grant me the wonderful and immediate satisfaction of giving them, because I cannot know whether the gift will actually be of any benefit. Of course, I'm talking about the peculiar gift of literature. Some people are known to become disoriented when they're handed a book. However, I should imagine that my friend would only give gifts that are subject to illicit brazen joy on the spot and -- well, now that I remember correctly, I should mention that Ryan also gave me a book, Neruda's memoir in Spanish, along with the poster, which changes the whole focus of my post really, because he hit me with a sort of double whammy, but -- whatever! The show must go on. I must substantiate the LJ Cut.
Imagine a good friend that is on-and-off estranged for several years, but at a certain point in time, he is also distanced by a hemisphere. What are you doing in that nether part of the globe, Ryan? He used to read my Livejournal y pudo divisar muy facilmente que me agrada Neruda. When friends rarely make each other's acquaintace, they forget each other's quirks, but more importantly, they fail to notice the startling changes that doubtlessly occur in increments all the while that they're away from each other. In this case, Ryan was aided by the seemingly permanent words in my Livejournal, which then grafted onto his memory, his memory of me. Oh, Livejournal, will you forever infringe upon real life?? It's easy to conclude that because I indulged in the activity of translating and writing about Neruda, because I expressed my admiration for him those years ago in a public post, I should be fascinated by all things Neruda from that day forward, for the rest of my life. Ryan, the thoughtful traveller, remembers my post by the simplest association and sees fit to flesh out my supposed fascination. The square peg in its place, somewhat in reverse, an interest clothed in merchandise. What can be more appropriate?
I know it's hard to imagine, but Ryan is in Chile. Thrust into an alien environment, a man is forced to start building. Bewildered by his new surroundings, he ventures to obtain pieces of it in order to create useful material. This is the nature of the gift. Upon viewing the gift-object, Ryan is infected by the germ of caprice that will usually engender the builder of a happy moment (gift-giving). His mind conjures multiple images that blur in his mind for less than a second. Stray faces, my face, poetry, the actual words of Neruda, a girl he'd like to dupe with Pablo's verve, Livejournal; these fragments serve to color the blur.
So, Ryan sees the poster showcased with the rest. A decision is borne of the confusion, the blur of the initial reaction. The object is as good as purchased. It's difficult to say whether Ryan saw his own poster first or the one he was going to give me, but it makes me laugh to think that perhaps his pride could never allow me to have the better one. In any case, I don't want to sound selfish, but if he bought a poster as a gift for me, then I assert that he must have been thinking of me, at some point. However, it is impossible to think of me correctly, the way I truly am. He was thinking of an incomplete, intangible version of my self, and, in the occult act of buying a gift for someone who doesn't exist, he managed to give it life. Suffice to say, every gift is accompanied by an invisible herald, which is an imperfect duplicate of the recipient, the transparent doppelgänger. This herald is powered exclusively by the ecstatic will of the giver. At the receipt, the herald either implodes or he is re-absorbed by the recipient with slight discomfiture. For someone as perceptive as me, this feeling is magnified.
The herald is a complete stranger to my self, having been born in another's mind, but he bears many identifiable features that are inarguably my own, however far removed. In order for a gentle reader to feel my anxiety at receiving a gift, one must conceive of the anxiety of being introduced to someone new with the catch that this someone new is also you, and that this someone new is also yours. The moment is vibrant with expectation, recognition, assimilation, etc. Please keep in mind that a gift is supposed to arouse a certain reaction and the failure to evoke a fair amount of gratitude can be misread as an insult. Did Ryan ever stop to think about how my jaw would drop? The nemesis of a gift is disappointment and the subsequent tragedy is similar to the embarassment of a typo.
I believe that the perfect gift is one that surprises both the giver and the recipient, so the latter doesn't feel like he has fallen into a system of favors. The perfect gift should concentrate on pleasing the intellect, instead of the senses, because pleasing the senses is commonplace and barbarous. I have to say, in all truth, that the poster/book Ryan gave me was the best unexpected gift I've ever received, but I suppose what made it that great was moreso the action and mileage behind it, than the swell of the infamous thought.
A gift is a trick of the memory that is practiced on another's intellect with heavy indiscretion. If we weren't fooled into being happy by whatever bauble comes into our possession, then we'd all feel naturally slighted.
A year or so ago, Ryan travelled Chile on one of his larks and brought me back a souvenir from the house of Pablo Neruda, which I assume to have been La Sebastiana. The poster is a modest line drawing of a bird in the process of unfurling itself and underneath there is a quote that reads: Mi deber es vivir, morir, vivir ... (My duty, to live, to die, to live ...). I forgot the exact amount of posters he brought back to the States (a few, I think), but for the sake of my bedroom decor, I'm grateful for figuring into the destiny of at least one, because that single poster inspired me to correct what used to be a shameful flaw of mine, that of possessing barren walls, all of them plain and white. Except for all the books overcrowding the shelves or scattered over the floor, people who used to walk into my room, prior to the appearance of this poster, couldn't tell a thing about me from looking at my living space. I had no posters, portraits, paintings, postcards, flags, idols, or paraphernalia of any kind. My bedroom chamber was so bereft of my personality, that, at any moment, I could have possibly become a guest. A few large mirrors adorn the room, and they are arranged in the careful style of Poe, so that no mirror can startle you with a reflection of your self when you're comfortably sitting down.
On second thought, the poster was simply a colorful phoenix that accentuated a line from a poem, and since all good poems are found in books (the same books already littering my room), then putting it up was an act of redundancy meant only to take up space -- but it was also a beginning. Since then I've strewn the walls with articles that each vary in relevance. On the closet door, I placed the graphics of two signature cheeseburgers, side by side, from two competing fast food chains. One is an ad from a magazine and the other is an authentic shot stolen from the actual display menu. These images are not meant to be appetizing in the least, although the airbrushing on the Wendy's one gives it the alluring illusion of plump juiciness -- they are meant to clue visitors in on a particular food that was a favorite of mine, years ago, specifically 1999-2001, when I was more concerned with the weight of the food in the bag ($ per lbs. of meat), than health, taste, or consequence per se. Burgers are definitely not my favorite now, but a bedroom can only be characteristic of someone in the past, never someone in the present moment, which is the only state that interests me.
Returning to Ryan's apartment in Westwood, I remember that he was directing me towards the whereabouts of my gift, telling me to fetch it amongst his unpacked belongings, when I made the mistake of picking up the wrong poster. It was this error in judgment that effectively soured the reception of my gift proper. Attached to that mishap was an even more thorough feeling of embarassment, because in my vague goings-on, I might have thoughtlessly assumed that the posters were ALL mine; I believed myself to be the new owner of a SET of artifacts from South America. On the heels of such a bold misunderstanding, Ryan snatched the poster out of my hand and quickly pointed out which was which. His had a different design and motto, neither of which I dare mention, but I maintain its superiority over mine, since it was the first one I touched. Perhaps, he felt that the quote on my poster (My duty, to live, to die, to live ...) was more suited to my lifestyle or beliefs, and that's not a very bad guess, but I have to admit that lately I've been shirking this duty of dying, an occupation that I acquired around the age of fourteen.
I dislike the awkwardness that I feel when I'm being presented with a gift. This sensation is more than the normal discomfort of being thrown into a happy moment. I've deduced that it has nothing to do with physical revulsion; it is an assault on the intellect. I say that, during this transaction, there is a brief loss of self, a dip, followed by an uncomfortable gain. The process of receiving a gift causes someone's present being, their very existence, to swell up in size, large enough so that the walls will chafe it for an instant. The gift then proceeds to imbue the palms of the recipient with a feeling of excessive emptiness, which is only a feeling, bearing the gift in mind. The recipient is thus encouraged to fill this sudden vacancy with symbolic expressions of gratitude towards the giver, but none of this is truly deserved, because the giver has unconsciously committed an imposition against the psyche of the recipient.
I don't give gifts precisely. I tend to forget them into the hands of other people. None of the gifts I give ever grant me the wonderful and immediate satisfaction of giving them, because I cannot know whether the gift will actually be of any benefit. Of course, I'm talking about the peculiar gift of literature. Some people are known to become disoriented when they're handed a book. However, I should imagine that my friend would only give gifts that are subject to illicit brazen joy on the spot and -- well, now that I remember correctly, I should mention that Ryan also gave me a book, Neruda's memoir in Spanish, along with the poster, which changes the whole focus of my post really, because he hit me with a sort of double whammy, but -- whatever! The show must go on. I must substantiate the LJ Cut.
Imagine a good friend that is on-and-off estranged for several years, but at a certain point in time, he is also distanced by a hemisphere. What are you doing in that nether part of the globe, Ryan? He used to read my Livejournal y pudo divisar muy facilmente que me agrada Neruda. When friends rarely make each other's acquaintace, they forget each other's quirks, but more importantly, they fail to notice the startling changes that doubtlessly occur in increments all the while that they're away from each other. In this case, Ryan was aided by the seemingly permanent words in my Livejournal, which then grafted onto his memory, his memory of me. Oh, Livejournal, will you forever infringe upon real life?? It's easy to conclude that because I indulged in the activity of translating and writing about Neruda, because I expressed my admiration for him those years ago in a public post, I should be fascinated by all things Neruda from that day forward, for the rest of my life. Ryan, the thoughtful traveller, remembers my post by the simplest association and sees fit to flesh out my supposed fascination. The square peg in its place, somewhat in reverse, an interest clothed in merchandise. What can be more appropriate?
I know it's hard to imagine, but Ryan is in Chile. Thrust into an alien environment, a man is forced to start building. Bewildered by his new surroundings, he ventures to obtain pieces of it in order to create useful material. This is the nature of the gift. Upon viewing the gift-object, Ryan is infected by the germ of caprice that will usually engender the builder of a happy moment (gift-giving). His mind conjures multiple images that blur in his mind for less than a second. Stray faces, my face, poetry, the actual words of Neruda, a girl he'd like to dupe with Pablo's verve, Livejournal; these fragments serve to color the blur.
So, Ryan sees the poster showcased with the rest. A decision is borne of the confusion, the blur of the initial reaction. The object is as good as purchased. It's difficult to say whether Ryan saw his own poster first or the one he was going to give me, but it makes me laugh to think that perhaps his pride could never allow me to have the better one. In any case, I don't want to sound selfish, but if he bought a poster as a gift for me, then I assert that he must have been thinking of me, at some point. However, it is impossible to think of me correctly, the way I truly am. He was thinking of an incomplete, intangible version of my self, and, in the occult act of buying a gift for someone who doesn't exist, he managed to give it life. Suffice to say, every gift is accompanied by an invisible herald, which is an imperfect duplicate of the recipient, the transparent doppelgänger. This herald is powered exclusively by the ecstatic will of the giver. At the receipt, the herald either implodes or he is re-absorbed by the recipient with slight discomfiture. For someone as perceptive as me, this feeling is magnified.
The herald is a complete stranger to my self, having been born in another's mind, but he bears many identifiable features that are inarguably my own, however far removed. In order for a gentle reader to feel my anxiety at receiving a gift, one must conceive of the anxiety of being introduced to someone new with the catch that this someone new is also you, and that this someone new is also yours. The moment is vibrant with expectation, recognition, assimilation, etc. Please keep in mind that a gift is supposed to arouse a certain reaction and the failure to evoke a fair amount of gratitude can be misread as an insult. Did Ryan ever stop to think about how my jaw would drop? The nemesis of a gift is disappointment and the subsequent tragedy is similar to the embarassment of a typo.
I believe that the perfect gift is one that surprises both the giver and the recipient, so the latter doesn't feel like he has fallen into a system of favors. The perfect gift should concentrate on pleasing the intellect, instead of the senses, because pleasing the senses is commonplace and barbarous. I have to say, in all truth, that the poster/book Ryan gave me was the best unexpected gift I've ever received, but I suppose what made it that great was moreso the action and mileage behind it, than the swell of the infamous thought.
A gift is a trick of the memory that is practiced on another's intellect with heavy indiscretion. If we weren't fooled into being happy by whatever bauble comes into our possession, then we'd all feel naturally slighted.