I don't know

There’s someone sitting in this room,
sitting next to me though she feels not the impending doom.

It comes from the sky;
unseen by the eye.

The music plays blocking the subtle noise
In the darkness it keeps it’s poise.

The swirling winds being to grow,
the radio no longer blocks out the blow.

The horrible scream, such a high pitched siren
It makes the strong turn to cryin.

It blows apart the buildings,
the ones inside so scared their bodies are a trembling.

It leaves as quickly as it came,
things no longer the same.

Time now for us to repair,
to be destroyed again by nature,
as we live by nature’s care.

- -

He speaks out loud though I pay no attention
I drown him out with no use of invention.

He speaks words of wisdom and I wish I did care
But sometimes his wit is just too much to bear

My ear catches some words that spark my attention
But it being seventh period my body falls into dissension.

I write these useless words not knowing my intention.
I wish I were more creative but I just use this classic rhyming convention.

- -

Beauty beyond mere Beauty’s words
The black and the blue merge into a purplish hue.

“How sweet and pure they look today”
If you give them a chance
I’m sure that’s what you’ll say.

With their wonderful dyes
They cover the skies
Theses bearers of rain
come swiftly from the plains.

How quickly they come
to be replaced by the sun.

Some may say
“They ruin my day”
But if you gander at them for awhile
They can bring a nice happy smile.

Since 1980, the only Western Conference teams to win the NBA Finals have been the Los Angeles Lakers or a team from Texas.

The paradox of wisdom is that you are aware that you know more than you use to and yet you are also aware that you know less than you think you know.

A mind is a terrible think to waste, but it sure is fun to get it wasted. . . (Cricket chirp…cricket chirp).

Same old threads of thought come to the forefront of my mind.
Something deep I long to speak
Though the same thought
Have I uttered before
Different words
Same meaning.

Here I am
Or so I think
For hear is not
But utter is
To speak is to be
Present
To type or write
To tweet or post
These are merely ways to pronounce
One’s presence
Not necessarily to be heard, but merely to put forth a record of one’s existence.

We used to chisel in rock or write our names in cement.
Now we tweet and it is more permanent than rock, even if our permanence is made fleeting and meaningless when dropped amidst the overwhelming multitude of thoughts and gibberish put forth.

We have never lived before in a state of never deleted history of action and thought.
We are who we are today and though we change tomorrow we are still saddled with everything that we have done yesterday. Unlike before we can no longer escape the knowledge of our past, because it is all laid out behind us, documented on youtube, facebook and twitter for all time. The fucking Library of Congress has added tweets to it’s voluminous documentation of history. Historians of the future will not be able to comprehend how their predecessors worked before the time of unlimited effortless documentation. Although, will this become a curse instead of the blessing I appear to posit. If all people put forth their thoughts, their mark upon our shared culture, will meaning lose itself in the flood of information? Will a “needle in a haystack” be replaced by “a meaningful tweet”?

Here I am, or so I think.
For time is not something I understand.
Who is to say that I’m not already there or not here yet.
If someone claims to know it is not I
I have enough trouble knowing who I is.

I enjoy the idea of tightly packaged thoughts buttoned up and returned to their start. Why not just rearrange the words in different ways to get across slightly different meanings.

Am I just trying to be clever or is it merely an outlet to my odd and rambling mind?

As always I retire, with nothing answered, yet much gained; for in spewing forth my mind upon this screen, the unnerving fear of what all life becomes, death, is put at bay and a peace settles.  If only for a time.

I have a fear, a quite overwhelming fear, of having children.
It seems like the risks and sufferings far outweigh the rewards.

My initial thought was to ask my parents about this topic.
Upon further reflection it seems ridiculous to ask an originator of my existence to objectively discuss the merits and pains that occur with the raising of offspring.

How can my father tell me having me was not worthwhile?
Unless he considers my birth a regret, the start of the end of his meaning and worth in life, he will view my birth and the 20 or so years raising me to be of the utmost value and worth. Otherwise all that pain and effort of those 20 years was of no worth and he wasted his time and effort in the attempt to produce a worthwhile adult in this society.
- -

“Hey pop, is it worth it, having kids?”

An affirmative response affirms the parent’s decisions and actions of being a parent while it also affirms the existence of the child.

A negative response strips the child of worth and destroys any meaning or purpose to this (uncaring jackass) parent’s life and the time they “wasted” on the child.

Of those couples who have kids, most will claim they are better for it, while most couples who do not have kids will claim the same. (Studies have shown that couples who do not have children are “happier” than those who do; most of these studies also say that the majority of parents wouldn’t trade their kids for this supposed “happier” life.) Do parents construct this “reward” of parenting unconsciously to rationalize the suffering they go through raising crying, shitting, little monsters?

Are we positing and examining emotions where no amount of analysis will ever provide true insight into an evolutionary impetus that is beyond higher level cognitive understanding?

In a world that faces the threat of overpopulation are we giving in to an innate desire to produce little replicas of ourselves like an alcoholic gives in to that 10th jack and coke?
Or do we resign ourselves to the fact that this is our most basic impulse and make the best of it?

I can not come to an objective conclusion because I enjoy my life, or the life that posses this body. Therefore I’m glad I was born. (I’m also glad all of my friends and family were born. Otherwise this whole thing would be pretty dull.) Do I owe it to a potential being to “pay it forward?” I did not ask for life, I was thrust into it. Do I hope that the being I could help create learns to love the life they are thrust into, what if life is too much for them and they long to return to the nothingness? Am I not responsible for the pain this being is going through, for I’m one of the originators of this being?

Whatever the answers to these questions, I do know one thing.
I’m very grateful for my dad who put up with the crying, shitting, little monster that I was and the even more trying adolescent, asshole teenager, and arrogant college kid that I became. (I’d put something in here about my post college years, but I’m still to close in time to this phase to accurately evaluate it.)

Happy Father’s Day!

Thanks for being a great dad.

Hopefully it’ll be mostly rewards and a lot less suffering from here on out.
I’m not making any promises though.

In this Podcast, Chris and Brandon discuss Reincarnation.

Subscribe to the podcast on ITunes.

Weeks or months have passed.
I no longer trouble myself with keeping track of time that has already been actualized.

Fear is pulsating throughout the globe, our globe.
They have declared we only have a short time left.
I can’t help but feel this “short time” is an eternity.

There are many who have given into the fear, surrendering to the inevitability of it all.
Others, like myself, are more or less at peace, at least with the fact that there is no point in giving up on our routine lives. So we are going to perish, I still need money for food until then, so I continue to work.

I do not fear that which I can not control, that which I can not prevent.
Death may come tomorrow as was always the case.
The only thing that has changed is that now I know when I will no longer be able to live.
It is nothing special though, because everyone knows the furthest date to which I, or anyone, can aspire to continue breathing.
This date is a deadline, “The deadline” by which we must attain all our goals.
There will be no extensions, no exceptions.
I work better with deadlines, so in a sick way I like this deadline which is not self imposed.

Before this tragic series of events, many books had been written hypothesizing the effects of an end date for our reality.
It has always been fascinating to look at how we as a species react to the full awareness of mortality. There are those who say “fuck it all” I’m going to party and have “fun” from now until the end. Vegas has been inundated with masses of humanity trying to succor themselves with the joys and thrills and bliss of gambling, drinking, drugs and sex.
I blame them not for these actions; I only wonder what was keeping them from it before now.
Many have turned to “God” stuck in denial and pleading with this unseen being to save them, or at least provide safe passage from our current reality into the one they believe awaits. There are those of us, who have come to terms with the “nothingness” that awaits. We have no need to change our ways as we have been awaiting this in our own ways for months and years prior to the awareness of a specific end date.

Here I am typing, knowing that my thoughts put down into words, stored in this digital format will soon cease to be. I am no longer typing with the hope that others will read and find comfort in the knowledge that someone else is as fucked up as they. I type because I have to. The thoughts I produce, the ideas that emanate from my being must be let out. The simple act of typing brings them into being in this universe. While no physical trace will remain of me except the atoms and sub atomic matter and energy that I will become, these ideas and thoughts that I type will forever exist within the timeless reality and plane of existence that is all time and all things. I am living for the past, as no future exists.
-

I am a member of a tangential reality that must come to an end.
All I have left is to enjoy what remains, to be who I am.

Words come to mind
Yet the do not do justice
To the feelings deep inside

Fading, faltering, forgetful
Countless and simple
Yet confounded and dismayed

She lies in wake for his presence
Never to come again

The tones and sounds, lyrics intermixed, what song is this…
What music claims to know my heart?
Yet here it is fully displayed with a simple strum of the guitar.
– —

As I ply myself with less than spirits,
yet strong enough to bring the consciouslessness I desire,
I yearn to produce words and lyrics, sentences and paragraphs
of beauty, of horror, of the two intertwined;
as the greatest art is not beauty or horror,
but a depiction that does not separate the two.

For life is not either/or
It is both and all
We live not one way or the other but as hypocrites of all
–

Lyrics require a song
It’s almost as if I can’t
Write lyrics
Because I haven’t heard the tune yet

With some of the words that pour forth
From my finger tips,
There is a rhythm in my head, at least to the words that come out.

Little do I know if this rhythm is heard by anyone else.

Little do I know if this rhythm becomes an undercurrent in the minds of those who engage with my work
(I say my work because I want to sound important, as if my musings, ponderings, ramblings, tangents or digressions amount to anything of worth)

Worth is what I seek; it is what I hope for.
Worth is what I hope to create.
Yet what is worth, but what we deem it

If I can create worth enough to satisfy my appetite, that is worth enough for me.
(or so I believe)
But, for me is different than what is enough for you, or her, or him.

Worth is taught from birth to rely on the out\sider to determine
Or is it intrinsic?
I doubt.

What is possibly intrinsically valuable?
Gold prices soar and crash. As do stocks, diamonds, gas, orange and paper futures…
Nothing is intrinsically of worth.
Except you and what you deem to be of worth.

Sure you may agree with others that all human beings are of worth,
but this is not true to you until you embrace it, until you decide it is truth to you.

Is this relativistic, am I saying there is no pure truth?
I don’t know
I’m a bit drunk, and slightly high.
But isn’t that the excuse I always use . . .?

A loud crack split through the low murmur of the coffee shop.  She had momentarily lost her grip upon the mug and it had dropped straight down shattering bits of ceramic across the floor.  To her great relief the mug had been vacant of the scalding hot agent of morning need, which moments later it would have contained, as it slipped from her hand.  It was her first week and this was her first casualty of the learning curve.  She quickly searched for a broom and a dustpan.

Though he had been completely absorbed in his head, the headphones which fully encased his large elfish looking ears were blaring some Arcade Fire song which was to block out all sound so his mind could wander and traverse the absurd tangents that sprung randomly from the ether of his unconscious, the crack resonated at the right pitch to draw him back into the surroundings of this den of caffeine fiends.

As she was bending over sweeping the remnants of this now deceased vessel of morning pep, she happened to glance to her left and momentarily caught his glance.  She was confused at this glance as she was unable to interpret its meaning.  Was it a look of irritation?  Was he trying to sneak a peek at her ass while she was bending over?  Or was it a much delayed reaction to the stimulus of the shattered coffee mug?

He wanted to look away as she had caught him glimpsing.  His eyes were innocently heeding the impetus of evolution, when there is a sound out of the ordinary we look without thinking, but the moment he had looked and his eyes had seen her eyes seeing his, he became concerned that she would get the wrong idea.  He wanted to look away, so as to extricate himself from the awkwardness and anxiety overcoming him, but he did not.  He kept his gaze, because her eyes in that brief moment seemed to have penetrated his being and he wanted to bask in this penetrating gaze for as long as possible.

Her anxiety melted as the blue eyes staring into her own drained her of worry and concern.  These eyes were not filled with lust, or longing, or irritation.  There was a simple curiosity, a desire to know and yet she sensed fear hiding behind these eyes . . . fear, yes, but it was really a sense of guilt, the guilt of an innocent child who has been scolded too many times for merely behaving as a child.