fade to some sort of browish, purple thing

it is simply evolution. a purified and corporate selection. spend all your time with people, every real available minute of your day, and you get to know them without knowing a thing about them.

soon you start to identify the drunks. the ones in pain and the ones with an agenda. the ones looking for prey. the ones looking for a prayer.

the overworked. the poor. the sad, the lonely, the hippie. the pensive. the shy. the cold, the naive. the self-assured. the cheaters. the good friends.

weaning myself off the coffee, slowly and slowly; that just means that i've had a little less and less the last few days. that just means i've been sleeping less and less and compensating less and less, the last few days.

i don't get headaches. my skin doesn't crawl, i don't get dizzy. i'm more susceptible to shivers, cold fronts along the backside. goosebumps and spasmodic muscle cramps. i'm more likely to shake. but right now is just the tired wired buzzing in my ears. meetings and formalities.

what a farce, this platform. the world is but a stage, of course. i ask, instead, if you know the play. i ask, instead, if you know your role. i ask if you know cues, i ask if you know lines.

do you know who the freaking audience is?

the suburbs burned last night. burned down, homeless cattle everywhere. rhythm and song, beating down the walls. burning down the house. roofs were raised, backs leaned back. minds were lost, up in here. up in here.

strings have been cut and harsh realities realized. bring on the loss, bring on the degradation. bring on the disappointment and the heartbreak. we've lifted off, now, and all these are trivialities, amongst the dirt and rubble. trivialities, of no concern to me and mine.

i was at breakfast this morning, with a couple hours of sleep under my belt. table shared with germans and brits and americans. the girl across from me, cheese omelet puffing out some steam as omelets are wont to do, she looks at me and notices my name tag. she asks if i'm indian, and i say that i am.

"my old boss," she said, "he had your name, he is indian too. where are you from?"

Pujab, i said.

"Punjab?," she nodded knowingly. "I hear people from there make good friends."

it's my party

why, in the name of everything everything everything everything everything everything in the universe and past present future, in all discovered and undiscovered dimensions, does it never get easier?

why is the mind never secondary, why is it never something to just float over and scan? why is it never just...under control???

why am i always the different one, why am i always the charming, witty, engaging, funny, cute and entertaining freak? why am i always the step away, why am i always watching everybody laugh and everyone in love and everyone enjoying and everyone in ecstasy and causing all of it but never really part of it.

why do i get a fleeting glimpse of feeling like a part of something. why do i only get some minute chance to feel every part of me just shake with knowledge that i've been invested in something, part of something, holding real emotional stakes? why does that happen so rarely that i get so confused and unsure when it comes around?

i'm a slinky. retro and childlike. i've been through it all, i was a joy to children and a nostalgic memory for adults, a comfort present and past. i was the affordable friend, the distraction and the entertainment, and every time you think of me you remember something good.

thing is, nobody plays with a slinky for long. thing is nobody goes out of their way to find a slinky. thing is nobody ever cares about one until it's sitting there, then they need it deeply for those few few minutes of worth...then back to the shrouds of yesterday.

why get angry? why get obsessive and pensive and analytical? why think about things that don't deserve your time, why think about things that signify nothing?

a slinky is only valuable with potential, with a difference in height between the ends. when front and back, past and future, allow for a path. lateral movement does nothing, motility is in the gradient. the potential, the difference in height. because you start where you are, but end up someplace else.

i might have to miss seeing alumni. might not make it out. might not catch a break, might not realize i've caught one. might not might not might not might not might not go so long again without seeing the sun.

it's nice outside. it's always nice outside. you just have to stop for a second and realize it.

the duck goes quack, the cow goes "lay off, I'm divine. Rock."

it's such a plaintitive death. quiet and reserved and totally passive. uncomfortable but calm. not ideal, but painless. breathe in, breathe out.

"let's move on to the C category," says the speaker. class moves on and my thoughts congeal and there's good and bad and innocent and redemptive in the world, all hiding in a corner with crobars and cigars. wating for me.

"team 23. Give a round of applause," speaker says,"for table 23."

take a bat and resculpt my skull, plaster the walls with grey. please please please please don't send me back. please please please please just let me be. debrief. listen learn test score graph talk listen. remember and struggle with lost wishes. smile smile smile.

my personality test says i'm warm, friendly. two-way flow, a good listener. enthusiastic. stimulating. easily excitable. often one-way, can inspire others. an attacking behavioral style.

it wasn't me. it isn't my fault. it wasn't my fault. it was not my fault.

i don't know anyone, any of these people. fiancees and boyfriends and girlfriends and siblings, they know them. i am here temporarily, a shimmer of slacks and tie. but the pointlessness lasts only a few minutes, brought back by the newness of all these same people.

hours later, now. school can be engaging, when filled with activities and goals and documents to be written up. print, stamp, file it all away. look back and find out how to take meeting notes. take the notes, file it all away. repeat.

i am not lazy. i am not confused. i am not slow, i am not unable. i am not unwilling. i am not uninformed. i am not broken and i am not down for the count.

i am elemental, a force of nature unnatural. i am the calm and the fucking storm.

a generation of men raised by women. i think fight club might have had it right all along. something to consider, folks, next time you lose your head. or hold onto it too tightly.

the break for lunch had me going back to my room, intending to nap. rather there were emails to be sent and IMs to be replied, and so i turn on the television.

almost with a smirk, lovely fate delivers unto me...the cosby show.

two episodes, two whole great wonderful episodes of the cosby show. i tried to sleep, i honestly did, but it just wasn't gonna happen. things happen that way sometimes, i guess, so you just have to deal with it. no complaints here, though.

back from two episodes, in class. prepped for and rolled out a mock interview with my team. things went smoothly, if a little unpredictably.

few more hours and end of class. probably won't go out tonight; things happened last night that warranted delving into revelry to distract me. i think the aftermath has me a little stomachy and hesitant to imbibe as easily as the night before.

i had a conversation and had to stick it out. i had a conversation that i wanted and didn't want, with feelings and statements and revelations that i did and didn't want. i don't settle; i trust my gut and when it tells me that things can be a certain way i simply don't let go. occasionally this feeling goes away, and that's okay.

it's when that feeling won't go away and there's still nothing to support it. when the feeling won't go away and everything around and everyone around points to having to let go. when there's a sanity to it and a madness to it and having to deal with one of the incredibly few times the distinction blurs on all fronts. it's when you don't want much and still can't seem to have it...it's hard for someone like me to wrangle with. i don't settle.

besides all that from last night, the haze of the world is shifting perception and identification. future plans and scanning this new face in your mirror. spontaneity and duty, responsibility and childish urges. memories of winter fading, despite all the times you close your eyes to recall them. despite all the times you try to remember something good that's now gone.

back to class. just won another game. what is the prize today?

MAGNETIX!!!

basically little magnetic tubes and balls that can form joints. make bulky little wiremesh-like geometrics. odd looking dogs, canoes with no hope of floating.

something tells me to wind down, though. maybe it's the smell of play-doh, the metallic clang of ball bearings. lack of sleep, not enough cheese. simple written exhaustion. at best, it's a lack of direction. for now.

"if you don't know where you're going," the cheshire cat says, "any road will take you there."

for godssakes, guys. brown socks? then BROWN SHOES...

manic. just plain old, everyday manic. out of the ordinary manic. friggin manic.

depressive.

but manic. manic in fluctuation, manic in randomness. manic in instability, manic in vacillation. manic in not knowing what the hell i'll be feeling in five minutes.

don't push this button, don't flip this switch. don't even breathe on the lever. don't brush the pedal, don't turn the knob. don't twist, don't shake, don't tilt don't twirl don't don't don't.

don't tempt, don't entice. don't insinuate. don't jive. don't lie, don't hate. don't moralize. don't preach. don't sneer, don't smirk, and don't you dare order me around.

don't look down your nose at me.


there's no ties here, no coats. no cufflinks and no vests.

i have yet to see another pair of wingtips.

blue, black, grey. white and pinstripes. open collars and 12-hour shadows. accents: scandinavian. parisian and germanic. brits and hicks, patrician snorts and sighs.

there's lots of pink shirts.

and that's why i don't wear them. not because they're effeminate, not because i'm insecure. because it's so gauche, so standardly and conformally 'chic.' a little magic color that suddenly makes you daring and fashionable. gimme a break.

but that wouldn't have stopped me. i still would have done it, still would have worn one, given my reasons at the time. those reasons are gone, for the moment.

i've been seeing a different genre of drinking, lately. fraternal, social, more than a carnal perfunction. familial, almost. chummy.

i've been seeing a congealing genre of people, lately. professional, capable, but with the human twinges unseen during the 9-5. open, honest. not so honest. wanting and leering, chasing and hiding. proud of country, proud of heritage. proud of life and place. cocky, self-concerned. there's selfishness and civility with a dash of indifference.



i'm tired. haven't slept and haven't wept and haven't stopped breathing for a second. i'm tired of facades, i'm tired of plans and dreams and structured centuries of life. i'm tired of nods. tired of waiting. tired of wanting and wishing.

i'm tired of living quietly.

that face in the mirror looks familiar

i can't believe i forgot. i forgot. i can't believe it.

i forgot what it's like to walk into a hotel lobby, glass doors sliding open and everything you need to survive strapped to your back.

opening your door with that little magnetic card and throwing it into your pocket with fingers crossed because you really are anxious over maybe forgetting to take it once you leave again. throwing your garment bag and messenger bag onto the bed, sitting down on that chair behind the desk that you'll never actually use.

a sigh and a survey of your surroundings.

air conditioner in the corner, humming away and making you feel like precious dollars are being wasted when you can just as easily open a window. but still, you leave it on. the little fridge that isn't practical for anything other than deli ham or shots of vodka. but still, you cram in liters of coke and oversized styrofoam leftover boxes from the late night before.

then...the television. the cable card propped up somewhere nearby. conversions: fox 12 to fox 37.6, NBC 5 to NBC π. and, being the A/V soul that i am, the tube is invariably ignited. the gentle lull of mindless commercials and mini-drama are somehow the most primitive of natural background.

too many lamps.

plenty of blankets. pillows? forget about it.

the crux, you see, is preparation. hotel/conference center gaggles of people. all of us the same age, all here for 'professional' reasons. the marketing club of high school, you see, is a pounding four years of reiteration and repetition, training you to cast aside any real concerns when attending conferences and training classes and all other forms of career-driven future-malaise.

the marketing club of high school hones your suddenly-social abilities, breaking shy shells and self-doubt. the marketing club of high school prepares you and introduces you to the life that blindly passes you by.

the throngs of young people, rambling around and drinking and talking and trying so hard not to expose their insecurities. their reasons for being here tainted by naive expectation and inexperience with the corporate tapestry. their hopes that the weeks will pass without demerits and maybe a good amount of drinking. how predictable.

the week has progressed in time, though possibly stale in other ways. old friends become less than friendly, old friends become less than memories of a different time and different persons. old friends become new friends.

the cast is complete, for the most part, excepting a few one-line appearances. the comfort level is rising, and the shooting dates are approaching fast. the expectations are high and excitement volcanic. things are moving along.

the most illuminating this week is the realization of surroundings. the understanding that things simply aren't right. an unveiling of all the things that you would change, if you could. friends and clothes, hairstyles and car and outlook on life. blankets. relearning an old instrument, discovering a new one. the way you stick out your tongue too much, the way you quibble over semantics. the way you view reality.

suddenly your surroundings shouldn't be surrounding you.

two weeks ahead, full of work and learning and socializing and gallivanting. cavorting. cohorting. doing things.

the weekend was full of rachel weiz, oddly enough. every video, every dvd, every movie reference. there she was. movies rented and there she is, couldn't have seen it from a mile away.

"it's a sign," i said. "clearly. now all i have to do is figure out what it means."

i'm a bit of a short-writing machine of late. ideas pumping and dumping and lolling around. the last couple of weeks have been good, at least in intention. production could have been better, but there's time for that.

same goes for theories, too; the meandering into physics is back again, recreating scientific history in my own head the way i've been doing since high school. someday it'll be ahead of the curve; for right now, it's in the middle of what most are seeing in grad school. and that's nothing to complain about.

given the monotony of the average day, you'd think i have a routine. but i don't. there are constants, of course; taking showers, getting dressed. and i'm proud to say i brush my teeth every single day. but still, all else lacks the rigid structure of a rut, so monotony is of a vaguer form. what to do, where to do it, and finding it all moot because such things aren't able to be done. so let's see what happens with a schedule this fortnight.

too much espresso. too much unfinished business. too much time and too much ambition. too much ego. too much jade and too much else that can make you happy. there simply isn't time for routine and rules. there simply isn't time for conformity.


and wouldn't you know it, i forgot to pack toothpaste.

four-score and still plenty left to go

there are days when i wish i were forty years older. days when i fucking wish that when i'm left with only memories like this i could have a more gripping story than these meager couple of decades.

earlier this week i realized i'd been inside for a fair stretch of days. no one was about, as usual, so off i went to the nearest diner, to partake in coffee and to spend way too much time there.

i, of course, ended up ordering food after about two hours of lounging. the kid serving me was clearly in his first week at most and apologized drippingly after making the most minor mistakes. i stayed there, drinking coffee and nibbling an omlette for something like five hours. reading my book and contemplating how right it felt to be back in a groove i had shunted off and cast aside so long ago. five hours of reading and coffee and refills and apologies.

i tipped him about 70%. it was just one of those days, the kind when you know doing something a little extra will be appreciated and not taken for granted. when something that you've done for someone else will not be glossed over or disregarded. when you honestly don't care what happens next because all you wanted to do was something that might mean just a little bit more to that someone else.

the week abounds with stories of diners and of pensive recollections. i finished a short this week, another screenplay treatment about 10 minutes long. i finished the first draft in a diner, waiting. i finished it with my headphones on and a laptop sitting next to me, writing in a notebook and listening to Fight Club on my ipod (yes i ripped the audio track and listened to the entire dialogue...hardly the first or last time). but it was when an older gent came in about half an hour later that i wanted to take a sledgehammer to my own head.

he was an older gent, alone like me. seated in non-smoking like me. he pulled out his laptop, like me, and kept it to the side like me. he pulled out a notepad like me and a pen, like me. he pulled out a book, like me. he sat there and wrote, like me, after putting on his headphones. like me.

the clincher being, of course, that this older gent spent his time writing and eating a bowl of ice cream. so very much like me...at least in principle.

this older gent, nothing distinguished about his dress or his air or his anything. nothing at all about this gent, this gent like me. i was staggered, i wanted to figure out where i could buy a sledge like the one i'd thought about before and actually put it to good use. i thought about this man, all the experiences in his life and in his mind, this man like me. i pondered and wondered and just kept going on and on and on. his ice cream and his writing, his book and his laptop and headphones and coffee. like me.

this went on for half an hour, maybe an hour, when i noticed what should have been noticed a lot sooner.

on his left hand, the left hand of this gent like me, was a ring. a golden band. simple. perfect. nothing if not classic. this ring that would, someday, be just like me. the man was, if not now, at least at some time, married. and that made the sledge seem far less meaningful. and makes the pensive wanderings turn to thinking that maybe there's hope for me yet.

the short, the first draft, the first treatment. it wasn't enough. not edgy enough, not loud enough. not brash enough. not different enough. just not enough. so after another day of thought and what have you, out comes the second draft. it will be read tomorrow (meaning later today) and we'll see what will come of it. the movie took a whole mess of drafts, so no harm will come of this needing the same.

there is a tide. unseen, unheard, and undeclared. but it turns. and is turning. just a little longer and it will wash up something very, very different.

the scariest thing about change is basically what scares the whole human race, at the core...uncertainty. not knowing what to do now. not knowing what will come or not knowing if you can even prepare yourself. what fear it is, to know that you have simply changed and that it will be another struggle to come to grips with yourself all over again.

being a different person, changing yourself...it is only scary when you don't see it coming. it's the realization that things have been gained and lost, that realization that opens up a whole new darkness. understanding that you haven't got a clue, anymore.

the next worst thing about change is knowing that it can happen again. knowing that there are things unveiled only upon inspection. knowing that there are experiences in life for which there is no preparation. knowing that someday you will have to look up and be changed again. knowing that someday you will have to face the unknown no matter how much you'd thought about it.

the weather, the tide, the temperatures and the mind. they're all rolling into a new era. they're all re-molding themselves without a care in the world.

it's just that, some days, i wish i were forty years older and done with it already.

no pudding here

how do i set out to prove that i boil over with foam and floxum, follies and a flux of do's and dont's?

i'm getting an itch.

an itch to leave town, an itch to get away. an itch to ditch and leave and look back to only memories. but memories rarely hold solace.

it's human nature to love what you can't have. is it really that simple? because the realization of truth comes at quite a cost. it follows harsh trials and harsher trails. it comes with the loss of innocence. will you, do you love what you can have? is that an anchor for innocence, knowing what you have and what you want and loving only what is willing to be loved?

and then the analysis. the knowing what you can and cannot have. the understanding and the willingness to go after what you can or cannot have. the infantile and the romantic notions that allow the most humble and ambitious to change the world in the only way that is available or possible.

the thoughts that convince us all that our obstacles are so low. when you grow up with the mentality that anything is possible, you accomplish things that are so often impossible. the thinking that urges the genius to pursue only that which (for all intents and purposes) they cannot immediately have.

the thinking that defines our desires and accomplishments. cognito ergo sum (just look it up).

monroe-bridge-guy brightened up the day yet again this afternoon, 'round 4:30:

"bum, chic-ka bum, chic-ka bum, chic-ka BUM...USA!
bum, chic-ka bum, chic-ka bum, chic-ka BUM...THANK GOD IT'S FRIDAY!"

and there is much to be noticed in way of solicitation of donations. so let me break it down for you, a subtle layering within a seemingly homogenous group: the samaritans, the selfless, provide aide with a quiet dignity. the guilty outcry and lobby, with protest and indignation.

because there is a measure of guilt by the profession of righteousness.

but now to tangent. there is a group of bike messengers that gathers 'round the thompson center in the middle of the day, most days. of course there's no definitive way to call them bike messengers; though each having a messenger bag strapped to their side while straddling/resting their arms on a bicycle would suggest the profession.

do bike messengers have a union? a group or social circle? do they have an actual reason to congregate? discuss.

it's that time of year to look back and pin down all the invevitably painful influences on your life that allowed you to rationalize and wipe away any regrets you might have in the name of 'fate.'

i went to buy some ice cream the other day (zip it...you know who you are...) and took a second to acknowledge the older woman cashiering me. the name tag looked a little rough, at least not new. it had her name carved out in the plastic and, right below, had a succint little prologue:

serving you for over 20 years.

20 years, working at this grocery store. 20 years of stories and talents and experience and loss, all cooped up and contained in a store and a tag. her life story could never be summed up in series of books, and here it is. attempted in a flap of plastic molded to a metal pin. i'm sure it says something about mankind or the board of directors of this particular grocery store chain, but i'm not sure what that is.

quod erat demonstrandum.

take a note

it is important to remember that bad dreams have a tendancy to make you feel things are actually worse than they are, good dreams making you feel as if anything is possible.

captain obvious suggests you get up and walk around after a bad dream. talk to people, converse. interact.

he also suggests that after a good dream you go out and find those who have had bad dreams and help them out a little.

there's something to be said for obvious truth from time to time.

thanks, stevie

i believe when i fall in love
with you
it will be forever.

i believe when i fall in love
this time
it will be forever.


not a bad way to end a movie.


not a bad way to end the day.

she called and i am happy

i am a night person. i missed the night, the complete lack of responsibility.

knowing that nothing can happen until the sun comes up. knowing that this is your time, free as you like, no responsibility as long as you can keep your eyes open.

i miss winter. it's refreshing to know that right at the end of winter i missed summer, knowing that the end of summer i'm missing winter. fall and spring and all the greys in between.

i miss the quiet waiting to be broken.

i missed being surrounded by cool breezes and the idea that the only activities available are those that i have to create. the idea that nobody else is out and about, everyone in their little apartments and homes and houses. painting, sculpting, writing and reading and sitting in front of fireplaces.

i miss sitting in front of a fireplace and not having to think about tomorrow. and not worrying about what other people are doing right now and not letting my mind race with all the experiences i'm missing.

i'm missing the feeling of not missing life.

but right now it's waiting to find out about my new project. waiting for emails and phone calls and referrals and suggestions. waiting to see where i'll spend half my life in the coming months.

how easy it is to shrug off life and say 'i've changed.' to let your pains and pissed off commentary to fall into a box, close it up, take a black marker and write 'i'm a different person' in big calligraphed letters. it's so damn easy, but that's only after you've figured it out. until you've figured it out it's nothing but difficult.

blah bippity blah blah blah.

so what's up with movies? people complain about hollywood and hollywood and all the big budget monstronsities. have you ever SEEN what most indie productions are like? The kinds of shorts and features that regular joes and unorthodox schmoes spend grands and grands to produce? the competition, for us at least, is less than competitive. ghastly and really really bad.

and this is all coming from a guy who really really really likes movies. the guy who can redeem any piece of floxum with comments like "that pseudo-twist in the middle that gave her the change in outlook was totally against the grain of normal noir mores" and other equally pointless observations.

so glasses up, smiles on, and clink the drinks to our hapless little group's cannon shot towards recognition.

anyway.

i'm drowning in a sea of voices. television, brother, father, mom, another television, and the movie i had to pause on my laptop before my head imploded (high fidelity, by the way). plus a problem with my nose, something like a sniffle coupled with demons dancing in various membranes.

network keys and insurance quotes. new cars, old cars, social security numbers. laptops, comcast, broadband. cable. oil changes, shanghai nights, computers sweating sneezing and turning on a fan. more computers, passwords, network keys. routers and routers and cable modems and where did i put my bag?

two things happened on the way back home from work.

the first happend on the madison bridge. the madison bridge, that lovely little strip of tens of feet of iron or steel or whatever chicago chose in constructing the bridges 'cross her river. that little strip where the madison-bridge-guy occasionally works his magic using nothing but drum sticks, large plastic buckets (turned downwards of course), and the kind of smile on his face that makes the best of us want to dance a little bit. and makes me want to dance way more, given it's me. so this madison bridge, this steel or iron strip, was loaded with the sounds of madison-bridge-guy when i started to cross.

now the thing to know about madison-bridge-guy is that he basically riffs the same riff (though a drum riff rather than guitar...yeah so i'm a dork. shut up.) and inserts a quotation or a line from a song when there's that pause in the beat.

like bum ba dit ba, bum bum ba dit bah, bum bum dit dit dit dit..."have a good day chicago!"

or bum chicha bum chica bum bum dit dit dit dit dit dit bum bum..."bring it on home!"

and so on. yesterday, this last time, so long since i've seen him on the bridge, madison-bridge-guy finishes his riff, takes that extra half second, turns to me, and says

"i want a tie like that!" and goes on.

the train ride home was less inspiring and must serve as a cautionary tale to those who choose to embark. it is a warning, a dire dire warning, a plunging into the inner depths and disgustions that seed the fruit of men and women in and out of their prime.

so, you have been warned. because, quite frankly, it starts with me picking my nose.

that's right, bucko. ME. PICKING. MY. NOSE.

it wasn't disgusting, it wasn't gross and nasty and ungodly. it was the practical need that we've all felt. completely utilitarian.

completely utilitarian.

but that alone is not a story. because it is not a story when the practical bit lasts five seconds or so. probably less. the story is after the practical bit. the story is when you find yourself with fruit of your utilitarian endeavour sitting on the end of your finger, caught underneath your fingernail as expected.

the story is when you're sitting on a train and this thing on the end of your finger is waiting to be flicked. the story is when you're sitting on a metra train and this thing on finger...

the story is when you flick it.

the story is when you flick it and it lands somewhere.

the story is when you flick it, and it lands inside the shoe of the guy sitting in the aisle over. the guy who took off his shoes and kicked up his feet and is sleeping while you flicked this thing into his shoe.

the story is when you laugh to yourself and imagine it sitting there inside the leatherbound container.

the story is when you try and contain yourself when the guy wakes up and puts on his shoes, imagining the squish of the thing being pressed down and pushed into the shoes and all the sounds it would make that could never be heard.

high fidelity is a definitive chicago movie.