By Nous

                       May 25, 2005

CAN'T STOP

Animism is not the fear that inanimate objects are inhabited by
spirits. I've always had that sort of feeling, but it's really
just this kind of game where you treat the object as nicely as
possible, because it is a living thing just like you and I. It
is the feeling that perhaps the object "also has a soul."  And
the idea that maybe it is not just one another that we should
treat with respect, but all things, all around us.
This is sort of what animal rights activists believe.  Maybe
we should treat animals with a little more respect. But that's
a fear, right? We're afraid these animals have souls, because
by God they might take our place in Heaven!

"No greater lie could be conceived than that humans could
become gods."
Fuck that, man. Let's get an example going. We've all seen
X-Files, so we've all come across the notion held by some
people that humans were created by aliens from another planet.
Why did the Neanderthals die out so suddenly? Why is there a
"missing link" and what is it?
Well, the alien theory says that aliens came down and mixed
their own DNA with Neanderthal DNA in order to make modern
humans. The idea of DNA, by the way, helping to explain how
Noah got all of those animals on his boat.
So now we're supposing that "God" is just a superior alien
race. Is it impossible to become gods? Of course, not.
So a reasonable, in my opinion, explanation has been offered.
Because if God is intelligent, then we can indeed become
gods. How? By simply reaching such a level of intelligence.

IF IT AIN'T GOT THAT SWING

Let us cease this idealizing of the body. While we're at
it, stop calling softcore porn "art." Yes, even if it is
of children, otherwise known as The Sexless Ones. Culture
survives without putting the human body on a pedestal.
I'm not getting preachy, am I?  My only point in saying
this is I know you've been checking out Gene Kelly's ass
in An American In Paris. Yeah, the cardboard scene, with
the yellow body suit. You know what I'm talking about.

LILY, MY ONE AND ONLY

My cousin is getting married, which I had forgotten about,
and I'm expected to bust out some violin skills and bring
the house down, which I won't do. Why? Because I just took
my violin out of its case for the first time in about two
years and I feel like I've never played it before in my
life. My ability has decayed, but hopefully I can inject
it with some life serum and manage to do okay next Saturday
at the wedding. If not, it will simply be an embarrassing
memory, of which there is a dearth in my life (though it
may not feel like it sometimes).
Kelly, the pastor's wife, wants me to do a trio thing with
her and her daughter, who happens to be as it turns out
not that bad of a human being. I guess I should reserve
my judgment from now on until I have all the facts.
Anyway, I have a week to get ready for that and I may not
make it. At the same time, I'm trying to learn how to bake
these brownies and so I need to buy vailla extract and
measuring cups. Plus, I'm supposed be learning musical
theory because I lack initiative and I want to actually
start doing things. Not to mention reading a lot more.
Oh, and it's after three, so I need to go pick up some
photos.
Keep me in your thoughts, and if that's unpleasant just
read this next sentence aloud:

Orange soda tastes much better now.

More sentences like these to come!

QUE SERA SERA

Whatever will be will be. The future's not our's to see.
Que sera sera. And those words shall ring forever true,
I suppose, to a point. And there is indeed a point where
anything is possible in the sense that our futures will
be in our own hands, destiny by will.
So don't even worry about it, Nous.  Because there are
some things in this world that are not quite meant for
you though you may bend the rules a little so as to feel
for yourself certain things.
Feel is a word that means to experience by some sense,
in my case not necessarily requiring touch.
Here is what I'm driving at: I don't understand people.
I don't get you. And yet I'm able to see things in some
people that helps explain away certain apparently stupid
things. The worst part is not hating the stupidity of
certain situations that arise from actions, but rather
in realizing that those actions stem from the desire to
be in the "stupid" situations.
Let me be more vague for the rest of you in the audience.
I'm dying. Or rather I'm willing myself to die, so I do
not mean "death" in the emotional, mental or whatever
sense. I mean it quite literally. I'm willing myself to
die. And here's the thing. I have only now realized that
I've been doing it. It's been going on for quite some
time. Liberating is not the word, nor is depressing. It
is really as Doris Day sang in The Man Who Knew Too Much.
Que sera sera.
I don't see a reason not to do it. It's the way my mind
works. Self-destructive? No, not really. Some might call
it a defense mechanism. And what a mechanism it is!
Survival of the fittest. Pull the plug.

EXPOSED AND NUDE

You know I love to sulk. And why do I love it?  Because
the drama blows the situation out of proportion, to the
extent that I realize how ridiculous it is to sulk.  I
am nothing and neither are my troubles. That is not at
all depressing, but comforting. The only problem is my
sulking hungers for more sulking and sometimes I find
myself in a bit of a quagmire of self-made drama.
But it's like concentrating all my energy into a tiny
little ball.  Feels good.  Self-pity is pretty dumb, I
guess. But I ain't livin' much longer, folks.
God willing, anyway.
I've been telling myself over and over again, "Don't
even worry about it, man. Don't worry about it."
Then I realized, oh wait, there's nothing to worry
about. Absolutely nothing. What is it that I'm feeling
bad about? The same old thing, every year. Always the
same and never different. Oh, sometimes in a different
form, but the roots are recognizable.
There is almost no problem in my life that does not
have the same root. After a moment's consideration, I
think I'm willing to say that all of my problems are
the same problem in a different guise. I wonder if
everyone is basically fighting the same kind of battle,
where the enemy is the same one you thought you beat
last year.
Maybe I just need some sodium amytal.

YOU OWE ME A HUNDRED-LEVEN DOLLARS

Peaches. In their own juices. And an orange bowl that
has that little scratchy point on the center of the
bottom. Damn plastics. You'll never take out my boy
Metal. I'm in his corner.
This syrup looks really gross. Like medicine. And for
some reason whenever I stick a spoonful of peaches in
my mouth, I think of placenta, or embryonic tissue. I
think "bodily functions" and even "black oil."
X-Files reference.
It's all swimmy and much less viscous than it should
be. It's watery and full of what appears to be viral
and bacterial entities, hundreds of times their normal
size.  But the taste of the peaches sort of balances
all that out. Still, every time I swallow the smooth
little moon-shaped slices, I shiver. Honest to God, I
shiver.
I thought turning off the light would help, since it
would mean that I couldn't see all the weird fluid-y
stuff. But it only seems to make my situation worse,
but on a different level.
I'm in my room sitting by myself, in the dark, eating
a bowl of peaches from a can that has a syrup I know
to be gross-looking. It also happens to be texturally
unpleasant.  And outside the sun's rays are obscured
by the gray clouds. And something in one of the peach
slices just made a cracking noise.
My God, days like these and I'm no use to anybody. I
can only sit and listen to the same CD over and over
again, because that CD it is now utterly clear to me
encapsulates, summarizes, and explains my life.
Oh, not that it's always the same CD. No, in the past
it has varied, from Debussy to Joni Mitchell to Hem.
The only problem is that today has no soundtrack. My
life lacks verbalization through music. I need it.
How else can I possibly move through this day? In my
mind, Today is a painting of a swamp, with swirling
greens and browns. Rust-red and canned-peach-yellow.
Yes, Today with a capital T is a barren wasteland,
and I remember walking with Brian Richards as he led
the way to a field where the plants had been pulled
from the roots, and the dirt freshly dug up. And he
said, "Sorry, dude. I didn't know this was a barren
wasteland."
And now I'M sorry, dude. I didn't know this was a
barren anything. Or a something wasteland. I was even
unaware that this was a something anything.
All I have left is rambling; I must find a CD quick.
Cuz if i dont.
Oh, God, not Vespertine. That is one era of my life
I vow never to revisit, and the one era of my life
in which once, long ago, I dedicated my love to a
tree somewhere in southern Texas. And that love went
unrequited for quite some time. It seems that just
about all of my love has been unrequited.  Ignored
and even worse patronized. But that was on special
occasions.
No, it absolutely must not be Song To A Seagull, as
the time for fantasizing has ended. That point in my
journey has clung to my heels and the broken remnants
are dragged throughout the streets. And once in that
make believe I called Life I swore that I would do
all that I could, because I was sent here by God to
change the world in some way. And sometimes it was
too much to bear, and I found myself seeking solace
in unfortunate places.
Eine Kleine Nachtmusik!  Ridiculous.  Though at one
time I did believe hopelessness to be a fact of life,
I now see that while incredibly powerful and almost
completely unavoidable, it must be ignored. A large
tunnel with a tiny hole is no place for anyone, and
so we must believe that hole is somewhere far off in
the distance. Don't think short term, but long term
whatever that means. And in this place I discovered
that I could not keep my strange desires to myself,
and that it all mattered with whom I shared what.
So I never opened my mouth for anyone ever again,
nor will I.
Yes, Ladies And Gentlemen We Are Floating In Space
was quite unbelievable.  Nowadays, though, I can't
ignore some simple opinions which substitute for
fact. And here it was that I realized how fragile
my mind and heart are, and I never got over that.
So one night I went to the only place I could go
and forced all my wickedness on a girl who could
not understand anything I said.
Let us not speak of Rabbit Songs. The long days are
dreary but sleep cannot overcome anything. And a
wish that some day in the future might glow for a
while and that someone should wake me when that day
arrives achieves nothing. That chapter introduced
one of the only truest friends I've ever had, and
no one has any idea the friendship exists.
There's nothing here, nothing to explain what it
is these days are like. But today I put in my tape
of swing music and met somebody who had been deeply
scarred. Hook line and sinker. I continue my double
life and in the background, Sing Sing Sing plays.
My bet is that the days will continue in this manner
for at least a year. And then the cycle will begin
again.
But for now I must tackle this sandwich.

BLANC SLATE

I drove through the calmness of eveningtime and I
came to see a bird in the middle of the road. Not
wanting to run it over or hurt it, I hit the brakes
and swerved, but the bird didn't fly away. Actually
it walked, and quickly, too.  Before I turned the
corner, I looked back and saw the bird hopping away.
It was the weirdest thing I'd seen in about two years. 

DRINKING SODA FOREVER YOURS,

Nous