A recent surge in sentimental energy and my inability to write anything worthwhile for anyone else to read, has prompted a reprint from M.W. #5:
One inherently human trait is the ability to torture, and we certainly utilize this skill every day with the utmost capacity. We torture everything from small woodland animals (such as the cow) to "immense" members of our own human race. Still, many identify torture with long past Medieval times or some Southeast Asian country, but there is evidence of this ghastly activity in my own front yard: Ants are the most annoying creatures in the universe, so it is very safe to assume that everyone has taken it upon themselves to utterly destroy their little mounds from time to time. This is a display of our superiority as the sentient species of the Earth, as well as the incorporation of our ability to torture in the everyday lives of those around us. So using this as an example, it is reasonably correct to assume that we, as humans, torture animals as a means of reassuring ourselves that we are dominant to a point no other living thing can match; but if we're all dominant then why do we still torture each other? If every human is equal in the eyes of Nature, why don't we act like it? Greed? Envy? Hatred? It is an impossibility to secure the cause of war, but let us examine various manners of torture:
LOVE
Most see love as the ultimate gift of God upon the human race, but those who have never experienced
this wonderful human emotion are constantly tormented by those who are loved; and even more
agonized are those who have been a witness to love and unwillingly relinquish this glorious bondage
of affection. These are the worthless victims of love.
INDIVIDUALITY
Upon first glance, the development of one's own personality is beneficial to his health and
advancement in society. But this separation incurs some heavy penalties from his friends and loved
ones. He is now different and virtually incapable of identifying with anyone else. They persecute him
by pressing their beliefs on him. He is constantly reminded day by day that he isn't like everyone else
and is shunned because of it. He is finally alienated to the point of depression.
EDUCATION
When a young man reaches a certain age he goes to school and officially enters the world. He meets
all kinds of new people and has loads of fun... at first. Soon, after having several in depth discussions
with his precocious classmates, he becomes confused and bewildered at the hand of adverse ideology.
His mind slowly deteriorates until finally his entire world crumbles, and he is forced to retire to his
bed for the remainder of his natural, miserable life.
FRIENDSHIP
Friends are forever, but some aren't what they seem. You see someone as your 'best' friend. You
confide your deepest secrets in this friend of yours. Later, this friend betrays you in the most awful
manner. You feel that you don't really know the person whom you thought you fell in love with.
He is so much more different than you ever realized. You are reminded every day of how much
broken promises hurt; forever tortured.
PHILOSOPHY
Literally, the love of wisdom; in actual usage, the science which investigates the facts and principles
of reality and of human nature and conduct and usually the science which comprises logic, ethics,
aesthetics, metaphysics, and the theory of knowledge. This is possibly the most disturbing manner
of torture which plagues our overwhelmingly credulous civilization. In the action of studying the
human mind, one may find that he is a stranger to himself. A forced pilgrimage into the inner depths
of consicouness eventuates in the realization that he is nothing. His life is nothingness; his death
is nothingness. The universe is more voluminous than his comprehension will allow him to actualize,
and he is nothing.
"In response to the letter..." He throws on a ripped cardigan and pulls the curls back from his eyes into a more manageable position. The paper is lying in the dark and his pen is lying by the paper. He starts with a clich�d salutation and waits for everything else to come. He expresses comfort in hearing she is in good health and adds that he is also doing well though it is cold in modern suburbia. He goes on and on: ramblings are the most important part. The cats miss her, she has mail piling up, he wishes he could have gone with her. He closes with a touching, generalized word or two, then puts it all in an envelope. But the address was forgotten weeks ago, and her letter is buried under a ton of junk mail. It can wait until the morning.
His mother is a really smart lady. She thinks a lot about everything. His father fell
in love with her a long time ago and never had to fall in love again. Her mother has an
attractive, honest elegance all over. She was interested in him first, then he saw how special
she was and fell in love for the first time.
When she sees him now, she sees everything she loves in her father, but different
and not perverted. And when he looks at her, he knows she is a real person; someone who
will think and be knowledgable. They see each other and they see a best friend. They fall in
love for the first time. Then they build a big house with rooms upstairs and two bathrooms
and a small kitchen and a pantry full of canned foods. And they take long walks when they
can and look. He stares into her green eyed soul for hours while she plays with his hair.
And when it's cold they take an old musty quilt that's been under some shelves in the
pantry for almost ten years and wrap up on the front porch and watch the dogs play in the
yard. Then she gets a little playful herself and throws snow at him and then they have a
battle with the dogs and they never once doubted their love.
It was two past eleven so I finished up and left. The automatic doors sliced open exposing
the near-midnight horizon with all its twists and turns. It was casually beautiful; something
you don't really notice after a while. I walked out. On the flourescent bathed sidewalk,
millions of Junebugs were crawling all over. I didn't notice it at first. They crunched under
my soles like the snow in November.
We played around that day, just as friends. You came out of the house later than me. It
was the first snow in years and there were tons and tons of the stuff everywhere.
Everything was new and awkward. I didn't know how to feel about it. I thought maybe it
was good, and if it wasn't meant to fall so early, it would just melt away in a few days. But
you had different ideas. You said it just made everything so much more difficult. You said
you wanted it to all go away.
But here I am walking to the car crunching Junebugs in the middle of July. The snow
melted too long ago. Maybe if you would have given it a chance, we could have rolled
around in it and enjoied ourselves while it lasted.
What is reality? Reality for me is the fact that I see colors at sunrise. Reality for me is crying when I think about family. Reality for me is being unsure about everything. Reality for me is this and much, much more. But I can be certain that not everyone sees the colors of the sunrise or takes the time to think about their insecurities or family needs. So with this, we find billions upon billions of realities resonating and reflecting and jumping from one life to another. My reality influenced me to question the realities of others and in doing so produced this fine piece of literature that you are so graciously taking the time to read, and hopefully I have collided with someone else along the way and this person upon another and so construes the linear continuum of wisdom and aesthetics that has survived from the beginning of time. Taking this as a true statement, all of our minds are linked by an ancient pathway that winds through our fathers and mothers and sisters and brothers and friends and enemies. One life touches another. One reality touches another. But reverting to the initial question: What is reality? This can be answered with a simple story: A wise man was wading through a river in the Tibetan highlands. When he reached the other side, a villager asked him if the water was cold. The wise man simply cupped his hands in the river, tossed water on the bystander, and walked away without a word. End of story. The wiser of the two men knew that what he felt as cold in his reality would undoubtedly be different in the villager's reality. The only truth is that you have to experience to understand what reality and what life actually is. No one will ever know if we see the same colors, or hear the same sounds, or feel the same sensations. My red could be your yellow. My silence could be your noise. My pain could be your inadequacy. Reality is the only thing we have as human beings. Once reality is ascertained, then and only then can we begin to know what we are as individuals and as a large mass moving at carefully calculated intervals.
When she slides her words together, it makes me want to be a schoolgirl. I want to giggle and peer around corners and dream of the clouds on Saturday nights. I want to let my grades slip and fill every inch of paper with illegible ramblings about white picket fences and stray toys on the front porch. It makes me want to endure filthy, uncomfortable movie theaters and long drives to the park and early morning breakfasts. When she shows her crescent teeth, it makes me feel like the end of the world. I feel like a man back from the last time he'll ever have to see the urologist. I am sitting on the moon looking at the water and she stares down at me.
They Might Be Giants: Factory Showroom
Upon receiving news of the newest TMBG release, I rushed to the
big name music store to pick it up, utilizing a third of my meager
paycheck. It was a good move even if I had to go hungry for a few days.
To briefly describe this new album: 13 songs of They Might bliss. Even
though I never have been able to narrow down a favorite song since I've
been in existence, I must say that this record is one of the best to come
from the Brooklyn duo.
But wait, who are "They Might Be Giants?" TMBG are collectively
and literally John Flansburgh and John Linnell. Their music can only be
described as original. It was born out of the monotony of 80's pop and
quickly rose to represent the lighthearted yet heartfelt longings of all
those lost in the world.
The best thing about this release, as well as all past efforts, is that
every song is different. Almost every style is represented here: from jazz
to rock to R&B to TMBG's own particular mix of everything. It's amazing to
me. An example is track number four: "Exquisite Dead Guy." It starts with
a harmonic idea reminiscent of a barbershop duet with a small rhythm
section in the background, then dives directly into a tear-jerking ballad
for a fallen hero. This is in extreme contrast to the opening song, "s-e-X-
x-y," the Johns' first ode to getting it on. My immediate reaction was:
"What?" It has John singing in a low, seductive, barrywhiteish tone with
the groove just happening behind him.
This record also contains some old tracks resurrected and/or
transfigured in TMBG fashion. One of which is certainly one of the most
catchy tunes I've heard in a while. "New York City" was originally
recorded by a group called Cub from Vancouver. The original Cub
version was an inspired piece of garage-grrrl rock. The Johns took some
liberties and threw some New York New Wave into the mix while they
were at it. Overall a great piece. I'm listening to it right now.
But of all the great pieces contained within the latest TMBG
enterprise, "I Can Hear You" will have to win the prize for most unique. It
was recorded during a small show at the Edison Historic Site in West
Orange, NJ on an Edison wax cylinder recorder. Aside from the non-
electric recording device, this song is also quite a witty little ditty. For
more info on the Edison Historic Site, look 'em up on the World Wide
Web. It currently features a display of the TMBG performance (but seeing
as I take great strides from writing to publishing, "currently" may mean
a few months from now).
I will kill you if you don't buy all of Johns' records... or maybe I'll
just spit in your face... or maybe I'll just suggest that you listen to the ones
I have. If you want to hear a good song, utilize "Dial-A-Song" at: 1-718-
387-6962. And if you want even more, visit the website at:
www.tmbg.com
All I know is that she lied. My school girl days are over after I cry to all
my friends. I still don't think it's because she's too focused. We're in high school.
Geez. Schoolwork is the last thing on my mind. I gotta make a speech
tomorrow... so what. I have a chemistry test on Wednesday... I'll study in 1st
period. I'll get by with a 3.8. I'll come out on top, but what does it matter if you
don't have a best friend.
I'm left to dance. To turn on the radio and hear your awful soprano
schreeching through my hair. Radio can always convince you you're alone. I
love you too mcuh to kill you. A dissident is here to contradict moving on. I'll
hound you. I'll make you listen to my ramblings as I have to listen to you turn
your pages on the other end. I'll forgive my tongue of inadequacy after that.
Local Celebrity:
He's only about 5'7" but he's like a concrete tantrum on stage. He's
solid with beady eyes and broad, stubby fingers that could crush another man's
fist and caress your mother's all in the same moment. I saw him three times off
stage. The first was when I went to hear some of my friends sing. He was like a
rock in the middle of the audience, laid back and hunched over with his legs
crossed, touching the uncomfortable people beside him with his expansive
shoulders. His hair was clean but greased into a forward-pushing wave that broke
naturally to the right. I saw him smile during some of the performance then he
went back to squinting and drawing in his full-bodied lips. The second time was a
few weeks later at the record store. I punched Josh and pointed. He didn't think it
was a big deal. I was aghast. He was gleaning the popular section. Popularity
condensed into one his little toes. The way he hunched over the rack and squinted
at the words annoyed me. But I thought it was cool. He would step back, squint,
look left, look right, then step up again and grab a CD, pull it close, and squint
some more. The other hand would be hanging loosely in his pocket. The he walked
away. The last time was at his house when I was on my way home from school. I
saw him step out of his dingy white car. He closed the door as his feet moved and
floated with a jerky resilience to the front porch. And then he disappeared forever
through the front door.
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