Letter for a shrink:

Paying money to have someone listen to you makes it seem like there is a disease that can be cured. An overactive mind only makes one sicker and sicker. I envision someone with Asperger’s hugging his shrink. It’s quite delightful.

Obituaries

Father’s been reading the obituaries at the dinner table. He reads them outloud as we eat. I ask him why he likes to do this. He says he likes to read about what people did with their lives. It is the secret to why my parents like attending funerals. They like to know of biographies and the contributions made during people’s lifetime. Father reads one of an old man that devoted his life to God and his close connection to him while hiking. He turns to me, “I’ve read so much about this previous generation and think that there was something very special about that time when America was great. They all had God and really saw God in so many things. “
I look down at the table, “yeah Dad, I really believe that my generation is so agnostic that they are disillusioned and insincere. They don’t believe in anything and search for it constantly in material science or some kind of fountain of truth. We are very misguided children. “
The “we” slipped, probably because I am the most agnostic of them all.

I cannot deny that death has visited my thoughts many times. I have this dream that the angel of death has come to my door. She says I’m not so punctual to her liking, I’m constantly late. I ask her stupid questions, like why did she take Sarah Ward and George Carlin away? She asks to see my photo albums. I show her dumb pictures that are not at all edited, the ones that make me look bad. And I tell her that I’ve been waiting for her for a long time. I ask if she will take me away and if it’s because of genetic disapointment. She says that it was not in her place to give any reasoning. for hers was as rational as rationally could ever be-which ultimately it is not. she had an ethereal presence about her that was more alluring than distancing, she was desirable to kiss but there was an undeniable distance between thought and intiative. Her pet vulture made awful cawing noises but always knew how to keep time and rhythm. I tell her that recently, I’ve had many instance of dying but I always found some way to deflect it. Defense I found is an instinct. I also asked her why I cry so much and that I feel so antiquated. Modern times calls for us to be pleasantly happy singing songs about eating peaches and listening to the mating calls of dodo birds. Frankly, all this becomes insincere. It has a Lolita complex, this wanting to stay youthful and to not endure pain or going through some right of passage. My generation is all about running away from it. So why should I believe in the depths of love, and love someone so deeply, when I know that they would toss it aside as simply as they do with all their other things.

I want to tell her that I have truly loved my men but that I found it to be so irrational that I was not willing to accept it. Or maybe I wasn’t willing to admit that I was truly in love and wanted them to be around all the time. I just never wanted to be so heartbroken as I have been before. So it was all a lie, this amazonian cold woman. That I was a lady of the river walking over slippering stones in the dark in pursuit of nocturnal pleasures or simply, a moth that found all its guidance by the virtue of the elusive moonlight. So I ask, when will I end?
“My dear,” she scoffs, “you ask of when as if you understand time. Don’t use your human logistics to justify the means to an end, don’t go look for a reason, and certainly don’t conceptualize your existence. As I can see it, you are living and perishing constantly. Death, you believe is the finale, but you are far from knowing finality. “

I looked down at my hand as it was becoming more and more transparent. No matter how much I wished for it to return to it’s normal state, it kept disappearing. She stood up and with her vulture on her shoulder, she left my room.

Baby Bird in Fender

Baby Bird in Fender

Originally uploaded by

Two Things:

Two Things:

which a non-caffeinated brain must recall.

1) to write of synesthesia with descriptive pleasure is presumptuous of the author and not necessarily entertaining to the reader.

2) writing of the past, of allusions and metaphor, had references of nature. For that was what people knew and engaged with. This modern society makes references to technology and name brands, pornography, drugs, globilization for that is what we know.

An alert mind is high on the market for speed is a prized possession. But I never seem to shake this drowsiness to finally wake. The present is as blurry as memories and no, hindsight is not 20/20. So why do I write, and why now when I gave up writing a while ago? Is it my response to the horrid Joanna Newsom and her inflammatory writ? Her stupid metaphors for her super feminist and non insightful popularity? Perhaps, I hate over poetic people who have no substance. I also hate ugly non profound women, it makes them useless.

So why should I have this redemption, and believe that I have decent things to say and how I say them? I don’t know, I have a hard time not being bitter and angry. As a child I had none of this and I wrote much better- I had imagination and unlimited access to beauty. Now I’m overly critical and find that good taste comes with a bit of bile in the salivating mouth.

Language was becoming obsolete to me. It’s why I went to Germany, a country that speaks a language I’m completely unfamiliar with. It’s why I fell in love with a Russian immigrant who had difficulties with German and even more so with English. It’s format, it’s restrictions, were not optimal for the communication I wanted to have. I was sick of description and even more so, sick of nouns. I couldn’t give vocabulary to anything anymore. Lines that were so easily distinguishable no longer existed to me.

Writing was just becoming more frustrating than it was charming. The profusion of words spilling from people’s mouths, writing, text messaging, it was all being defiled… it felt like bafoons just kept talking and talking and no one was listening. Verbal diarrhea. What happened to editing? The perfect example of Babylon and Judiasm’s critique of gentiles speaking. People keep babeling with that forked tongue, and who do you trust when no one says anything of sincerity? It’s as if everyone wants to be experts on stream of consiousness like James Joyce yet say absolutely nothing.

Then you ask, what gives me the write to go on complaining as I do? Because I really want to get this past me, I’m tired of not being satisfied with language and I want to see its evolution. So I apologize for not being refined now. I don’t need to take upon a style from the past and antiquate the human condition. It seems that the world is changing, and there is a need for a new vocabulary. Perhaps I would like to be an active participant.