On This, My 24th Christmas

It's been an odd day. I'm not angry about it, like I've been in the past. Some what...sublime. That's probably and honestly the best word. This day wore me out. Overstuffed with food, decaffeinated, lethargic. How else could a holiday be? How else should a holiday be? I can't blame the mothers of my families for attempting a tradition. These families are falling apart. I can't blame my mother for trying to glue together something that can't be welded. Still, it just seems so hollow. Trying to remember the past, trying to remind me of my past. My heritage, the oldest son of a farm girl. There's small town in my blood. There's barely and diner and dying economic strategy in my blood.

She asked my father to drive through Manning. The nearest small town to her childhood farm. He obliged, it's her day. She asked me what I remember from Christmas. I muttered some pleasant memories of cousins. I asked her. What else could I do? A closed business here. An abandoned barn there. The grain bin with a whole ripped in it. Unrepairable, unused. Empty. I wonder if this hurts her.

I've driven this road hundreds of times with them. From ideal to resentment, I went in my moods and I chit-chat with my uncles. I drink a beer and fall asleep. My recent defense strategy. Pass the time in slumber. I try to present myself as best I can to the family matriarch. She forgot me. I hope she has some memory, any memory. Baking cookies while my father got open heart surgery, discussing the marriage of priests. Remembering the grandfather I never met. Something has to be in there.

It coincides with my own schedule, this erasing. Our last fluid, lucid conversation was in 2003. The summer before college. Every so often she would ask me where I was going. A mild nuisance, but she retained the information for considerable stretches. I bid her goodbye that day. Metaphysically and physically.

It only got worse. What grade was I in? Who's child was I? Where was I from? Details lost and lost and lost. My resentment for this blood cemented a year ago to the day. I tried to start a conversation, to make the best of the situation. I asked how she was doing.

She asked who I was.

Now she is this landscape. She is that grain bin. Alzheimer's left in irreparable hole that her intellect, cooking ability, and love leaked out of. Even if she could be patched up, where would she get herself from? Her true, intangible essence. Lost in a few short years. From what's your major, again? to who are you?

Now, I wait. Her death as inevitable as my own. I bury her memory in snide comments and sarcastic witticisms. I'm not ashamed of her, I'm ashamed of me. Of my pain I mine and process into bitter self-loathing and resentment for my blood. There will not be another Christmas, just a funereal. Attended by the daughters still loyal, the grandchildren who have no family of their own. The sons flung over the country may never know.

I'm sorry, Laura. Grammy, it had to be this. You had to be this. You brought nine people who brought twenty-seven people to this world. You were the brains behind the family and now you don't have death's dignity and awe. Just a death you keep dying and a life not worth living. I'm sorry I can only remember this you, not my care taker. Not who you were. Just that you are. I'm sorry I can't overcome my fear of time to spend ten minutes with you. I'm sorry this nursing home is a best case scenario. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

I'm sorry.

I was born by a river
In a little tent
Oh! And just like the river
I' ve been runnin ever since
It's been a long, long time coming
And i know , a change gone come
Oh! Yes it will

It's been to hard living
But i'm afraid to die
Cause i don't know whats up there
Beyond the sky
It's been a long, long time coming
And i know a change gone come
Oh! Yes it will

I go to the movies
And I go downtown
Someone keeps tellin me don't
Hang around
It's been a long, long time coming
And I know, Change gone come
Oh! Yes it will

Then I go to my brother
And I say brother help me please
But he winds up knockin me
Back out on my knees oh!

There's been times when I thought
I wounldn't last for long
But now I think I'm able to
Carry on
It's been a long, long time comin
And I know a change gone come
Oh! Yes it will

I was born by a river
In a little tent
Oh! And just like the river
I' ve been runnin ever since
It's been a long, long time coming
And i know , a change gone come
Oh! Yes it will

It's been to hard living
But i'm afraid to die
Cause i don't know whats up there
Beyond the sky
It's been a long, long time coming
And i know a change gone come
Oh! Yes it will

I go to the movies
And i go downtown
Someone keeps tellin me don't
Hang around
It's been a long, long time coming
And i know, Change gone come
Oh! Yes it will

Then i go to my brother
And i say brother help me please
But he winds up knockin me
Back out on my knees oh!

There's been times when i thought
I wounldn't last for long
But now i think i'm able to
Carry on
It's been a long, long time comin
And i know a change gone come
Oh! Yes it will

I Guess I'm Just Disappointed

This will be my last posting as an undergrad.

Two B's and a B- so far. Most likely a C+. There's a small chance for an A- lurking in there somewhere. I set out to get all A's this semester. Oops.

I can do better than this. I have done better than this. I wonder what killed it for me. I acknowledge these grades were my responsibility. I'm not stupid, just speculating. When I first signed up for this major I rocked this shit. Now I go from an A in poetry to a B. I feel like this is a reflection on my dissatisfaction and disenfranchisement with the university system.

How odd that I can work so well with the intellectual community. Yet when required to focus this energy to the classroom, to the page, these are the results. This is my shame (well one of them) my readers. That I talk so well and walk so poorly.

So now what? I'm twenty-three with a degree in English. This semester proves the absurdity of grad school and my faint notion of law school.

I've depressed myself.

Just thinking at a late hour

I popped in 2001, not for a serious engaged viewing but rather for a review session of sorts. I think one of the more fucked up scenes in this movie is when Frank gets the birthday message from his parents.

As those of us who understand the move know: the key to 2001 isn't what's happening on the screen but why what's happening on the screen is absurd/odd/strange/weird. In other words, the general engagement of the viewer's critical thinking.


The birthday message is painful to view because on the surface it's a simple greeting of good will, but when viewed critically it is shallow and futile.

At this point in the film the characters are seven light minutes from Earth, ergo direct communication is impossible. In one short burst, in under a minute, Frank's parents spit out everything they have to say and disappear while Frank looks at the message with the same ecstasy one usually reserves for clocks or walls. Within this simple frame Kubrick's brilliance shines (yet again).

It's all such a sham. Such a painful, unnecessary, oh-so-human sham. Frank doesn't care. He's lounging on a chair, passing the years a journey to Jupiter requires. His parents don't care. They're busy running their own lives. The concept of a birthday in one's thirties is just a gimmick, an excuse to hang out. All the rites of passage and milestones are part of the past.
Yet all the players in this absurd melodrama come together to send an apathetic and inconsequential birthday greeting.

Along, these same lines, and while I'm on the topic, human contact as a whole is placed on the autopsy table for Kubrick to rip apart and examine. Is communication with HAL human contact or is time delayed messages with the Earthbound?

When engaged with HAL, the astronauts of the Discovery are involved in intellectual discourse. They discuss issues of their lives. They entertain each other. They expound upon feelings and suspicions. When the astronauts receive a message from Earth, it is mechanical. The above example illustrates this. I also point to the scenes with Mission Control messages; short, to the point with no interaction. or reciprocation. Just orders requests and permission to grant them.

In sense, the astronauts have become the machines, HAL is the person. My evidence for this assertion is as follows. First of all, HAL is the most developed character in the movie. He has the detailed back story and the most interesting choices. The humans don't choose to kill anyone, HAL does. The humans don't run the ship, the computer does. We barely know Kaminsky, Hunter, Kimbal, Bowman, Poole or Floyd except their education. Kubrick never reveals their marital status, area of expertise, motivations for leaving Earth or where they grew up. We know HAL is the latest in artificial intelligence. We know there is a philosophical debate about his identity ("The latest generation of computers to reproduce, although some experts prefer to say mimic, all the functions of the human brain") and he has never made an error. Most importantly, HAL feels "a certain pride in his work." The human perform with apathy and indifference.

In conclusion, I have too much time on my hands and don't like to sleep. My various assertions on 2001 are supported by evidence and it is unlikely anyone reading this blog will read this far to see my self-depreciation. Anyone who read this far should add to my conversation in comments or on their blog, leaving me a link in comments. I am curious to see what others think about this movie, which admittedly, a single-minded passion of mine.

I caught myself in the mirror

For the first time in four days I felt coherent enough to shower. In the blizzard of term papers and revisions my more basic requirements fell to the wayside. In the all-nighter-crunch-time madness I had neglected bathing, changing clothes, shaving and the capital sin (to those of us who had braces) brushing my teeth.

Yet through it all I had a sort of dignity. A pride in the sacrifice this college career demands. This is not the first time I've made this transaction with myself. I thought about the past few days. I am reminded of something from the Bible.

Between the Last Supper and the Resurrection, tradition tells us, three days passed. These three days were hell for everyone involved. I imagine the Apostles felt much like I feel right now when it was all over and they could rest without fear.

So now I have some focus. Not much, but enough. In a short span of time I will hold my degree in my hand. It seems so pitiful. A piece of paper representing what school is. I feel almost ripped off. But I did it. And I have at least one thing to show for my life and it can't be taken away.

I'm Free?

I just finished my final final-paper.

Strung the fuck out

Watching inspiration dwindle is hysterical. Watching the clarity and prose recycle itself. The first paper was brilliant, the second was good, the third was the first but in worse shape.Words and words that sound neat but so generic.X demonstrates Y, A indicates B, L gives us insight into M. Solely, wholly, and on down the line. This is why drafting exists.

I think I see tracers. A blur here and there. Increase exponentially as neurosis sets in. Cradled in my inability to enjoy myself, I steel myself to push through the last six pages. This is where it gets tough. I am torn. I want to kill this. I want it over and done and finished. On the other hand I love the authors I am comparing and contrasting. Stuart Dybek, my first creative writer that touched me with his words instead gimmicks. Such prose, such sorrow. My newest creative writer, Philip Roth, such turbulence. Such sorrow. I feel an obligation to try, if nothing else, to represent these two icons as clearly as I can.

Then there's the drafting. The poems I must make better a dirge for my Platonic self. Dan: the writer, the poet, the voice of generation. These things are best done in private. My ego is too good at it's job.

It's not acid in my stomach, it's my motivation. The burning stomach, the headache, the cracking and popping joints. They won't go away until The Portfolio is in my "teacher's" mailbox. Then I can sleep the sleep of the dead. I've earned it.

Preparation for Departure...

So here I am on the verge of graduation. At this late hour I can't help but reflect. That's what I do.

On Wednesday at 9:30 I will be an unofficial college graduate. The next three days will be a sado-masochistic paradise. Coffee, cigarettes and cynicism will abound.

So much for those vague delusions from when I showed up. Hooray for the vaguer, grander delusions I've picked up along the way. By this point in my life I doubt I'll be James Joyce. Fortunately my romantic self-indulgence will keep me in self-hatred. Maybe this is part of growing up. Making logic replace delusions.

I can't help but turn my attention back to Brian, that eternal symbol of how not to live. I wonder what he's done since then. There's no way to find out, of course. Even if there was I wouldn't pursue the lead. He died in the Husker Courtyards. I can't forget watching him go from semi-intellectual slacker to a gelatinous pile. Listening to those SOCOM gunshots until five in the morning while trying to study. My mother suggested a mental disorder, I don't know if I can share her empathy this time. I think he chose, with a completely clear conscience, to sacrifice himself to his ego.

This is the one person I actively choose not to be like.

Well, let this madness commence.

Maybe I'm too cynical...

I'm watching the news, this almost non-stop coverage of the West Roads shooting. It's amazing to me to watch people cope with death. There's a very dark kind of comedy here. The Critical Theorists might call it "comic irony."

The scene is simple.

The front of Von Maur. Flowers, letters, stuffed animals on the stairs in front of the store. Five or six people standing outside, staring at the store. The news flashing brief biographies of the dead. Telling me, a random and disconnected stranger where I can go for the funereal. The funereal will consist of people walking by a dead body and staring at it. I'm not exempt from these rules. I'm subject to the same probabilities as you. A meteor could kill me as easily as you. If it can happen once it can happen again.

Why?

Well, the answer is easy. You never had as much control over your life as you think. Maybe to look reality in the face: no matter where you go, you can die.
I can't blame these people. I won't laugh at their meaningless actions. I do it too. I laughed at his HIM hoodie. I mocked the people who were shocked they could die randomly. This is how I deal. Make it dark comedy before it's true tragedy.

Cardboard is poor insulation

But I guess this is a self apparent truth.

Being poor sucks, as always, but tonight, huddled in the alley behind Walgreen's on 14th and O, this phrase took on a new dimension.

It wasn't bad when I first laid in the cardboard, the other hobo's stoned and yelling. This I could tolerate. One of them, the Leader Tommy, said 'It's gonna get bad," this turned out to be a prophesy. In the time it took me to stamp out a cigarette, wind rushed down the alley, kicking up boxes, knocking over buckets and making garbage dance. This chaos was united by the ice crystals I could see blowing down the alley.

They drifted off, one, then another. Leaving me and my sleep deprived mind to deconstruct the situation.

First complaint: my knee and hip bones only had a few pieces of cardboard protecting them from concrete. No matter how many mild adjustments I made I still strained to keep them from bruising.

Second complaint: When heat is more valuable than gold, moving becomes impossible. To move means to allow precious heat to escape. There were a few times where I got myself up to a decent temperature, only to remember complaint one, adjust, and restart.

Third complaint: Hobos don't shut up. Even in their sleep they talk. This irritated me. The highlight of this complaint came when Leader Tommy, in a vodka slumber, yelled out "NO BITCH!" This was followed by complaint four:

Complaint four: Gourmet Grill and Steel Reserve cause gas.

Woefully under prepared I threw in the towel at four thirty in the morning. I will attempt to return to the Urban Pioneering. This time with blankets, better shoes, and more pants.

Thanksgiving 2007

I like to walk in graveyards. It's one of the few public utilities dedicated to aesthetics, at least by comparison to the sewer system or the power lines.

I like to walk in graveyards in a variety of situations. Alone, with friends, drunk, sober, running from what I think are police. Night, day. Rain, cold, warm, snow. It is safe to say I've been in my favorite cemetery under a large variety of contexts.

On Thanksgiving though, it was special. Always the monk, I forsook the warm beds and turkey-swollen stomachs that are the due of the less-morbid. It was cold. The grass froze on the surface and crunched under foot. I walked like a faithful son to his father's grave on Memorial Day. Of course my father is still alive and most likely asleep at this unholy hour. Maybe this was practice. The gate was open, it always is. Grounds keeping here must be a task out of Greek Mythology.


Not that it matters with someone as easily amused as myself. I wasn't mystified, but I played along. Social conditioning is a fun thing to indulge once in a while. Feigning reverence because that's what a good, Catholic boy is supposed to do.

All these graves, statues, reaching for the sky, that's what we've always wanted. This is as close as we'll get I'm sure. For once the cold doesn't bother me. For once I'm more interested in the real world than my own perception of it,

The Bookshelf

Author's note: Due to the increasing magnitude of my insomnia, I will be cataloging my adventures in red-eyed coffee buzzes the next couple of weeks for future reflection

Insomnia isn't a disorder, it's a condition.

Not alphabetically, but by class. Not in the Marxist sense. By class taken, chronologically, down to the very scheduling for same-day classes. Each book in the order it was read. Will reference memory if adequate, will reference blackboard if necessary and possible.

It's not neurosis at this hour, it's therapy. Although I think the difference between the two comes down to the insurance claim. Each book, in place by approximate date of exposure.

Reach back to that first English class. The one with the old guy. A guest lecturer from SCC. the students were more interested in me than him. Shock value goes along way. The problem is eventually you can't top yourself.

Here's where I re-found god, here's where I re-lost him. Not as violently this time. The first time I lost god it was like losing The Hope Diamond. The second time it was like losing a pen cap.

This isn't aesthetically pleasing, the shelf becomes a skyline. My hard-covered copy of Sylvia Plath's Ariel absolutely dwarfs Woman Hollering Creek. So on and so forth until the shelves are jagged, occasionally smoothed out in long stretched.

English 253, 352, 487, 302, on and on the last four years of my life. The poetics of recall. Here's the book I read when I met her. Here's the one I was reading when we broke up, her insights were always better, and here's what I read that reminded me of that.

The incandescent bulb is glaring, I swear to you, fucking glaring. Now they're in a pile around me. When did I get this dictionary? Well, time line or not it's going at the bottom. I'll have a separate shelf. And what about those books from before college? I couldn't time them if my mind depended on it. I'll try anyway. Did I like Steinbeck before or after Palahnuk?

The shelves are empty and the computer displays the syllabus from some class three years ago. Right, right right. How silly; Measure for Measure THEN Much Ado About Nothing THEN The Tempest.

Around and around and around. Each boook carefully chosen out of the pile. Opened (maybe for the first time in years) each page rushes by, looking for underlines, notes, quotes from songs I like or liked. Sleep would feel better, but then I'd reminisce.

Now cancer's a factor. I'm smoking. Chain-chimney-dragon-Neko-Case- murder-weapon smoking. This is the most control I have right now and I'll take it like a rez dog takes food. And what about duplicates? From those books I moronically sold back, regretted, and re-bought? Oh these author's are too obscure. They deserve this. I'll count it as the original.

The Anthology I attacked with gusto for a month before cold despair took the place of malevolent optimism. I got a B, even though I missed about eight class periods. Well, hell, this is an English department after all...

And these whim books, things I bought in a momentary epiphany of ignorance before coming to terms with it and moving onto other books. I swear on my grandfathers' graves, my First Communion Rosary, and my bank account I'll read them, all of them. Every word. Someday, someday, someday.

But the sunrise reminds me of the futility, these class need to be attended and will proceed regardless of how awake I am. I strap on my backpack and hope my cell phone's alarm is enough.

The Last Two Weeks

Uncomfortable. More so than usual. Much more so.

Waking up is hard. Not as bad as going to sleep, but still not easy. The days go on and on, disconnected. A fog of term papers, test scores, and impending change. These things amplified by the cold. The cold. The cold. It gets through the lines of defense I invested in. The gloves, the jackets, the shirt, the shirt, and the other shirt. The hat. The moisture from my hands crystallizes in my gloves. Popping joints feel like surface ice run over by a semi.

How long can you stay awake in bed before the futility overcomes you? An hour, two, three, six? Tumbling like a weed. The fung shui of drifting off. North to south, east to west. Build a nest of blankets. The couch, the bed, the floor. None seem to work.

The paper to be written, the poem to be revised, the concept to memorize. Using you tube to watch the same episodes from the same sitcom from childhood. A kind of safety blanket at this dark hour.

The traffic lights are sentinels. Invested in keeping order where it isn't needed. So human. Red, yellow, green, yellow, red. A car hasn't been this way for an hour. Red, yellow, green. Sometimes a car pulls up to a red light. A brief pause to check for cops, then right on through. Red, yellow, green.

The closed signs buzz and it's deafening. It almost feels wrong to look through a shop's window. The tools and products laid out as their master demanded. Still, the quiet louder than the sign, each item stands, designed for people and only as they see fit.

Of course, the real temptation is to commit a crime. Just to break up the march of tedium. Nothing fancy. Smash a window, steal a statue, maybe turn every doorknob until one opens. Just to have a problem. A real genuine, tangible problem. Running from sirens, the thrill of being shot at. Never to be told. Just something between you, the victim and the police report.

There's no salvation in this scenario. Occupy yourself until the union opens. Sleep on a bench. Go to class with bleary vision to feign interest.

October was bizarre, November was a dirge. December, a time of purging through spiritual malaise and memories from summer with the pain filtered out.

Is this normal? Does that matter? The cigarette burns out and Phillip Roth loses my attention. It's too late to read and too early to sleep. I speculate on his college years. Did he all-nighter like this? Smoking and caffeinated until he was brilliant? Dehydrated more and more with each stroke on the typewriter.

I should've done a lot of things, I did do a few, none of them were me so I digress.