Speaks The Gimp…

I dreamt I had a blue eyed son that wasn’t mine. An infant that had imprinted on me, at which I stared in awe. I couldn’t remember who its mother was, and I searched my memory for a friend who had recently been pregnant as if I were trying to remember a word on the tip of my tongue. All I could think was that her eyes must have been just as blue as his. The thought of who the father was, wasn’t even a little bit of a question to me. I didn’t think it was me and therefore I knew it to not be, and that was all that I cared to think on the subject. What held me in awe was the sense of imprinting. This child represented a very real part of me; all my innocence maybe, or the wonder which I used to have when observing the world. However, I remember he was more of a representation of “us” rather than of just me. Whether that “us” was limited to me and his parents, or the entire human race, I have no idea, but it did not diminish the connection I felt towards this being to think the latter…

I still don’t want kids, but the whole experience was slightly refreshing…

Alexander

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I keep finding pennies all over my house.  I group them into bunches here and there so that I may one day bring them to my jar.  It’s all the way upstairs behind my computer; a creamy peanut butter bear jar with a roll of masking tape crowning him like a halo.  There are so many pennies everywhere and the strange thing is that I rarely pick them up.  I feel like I have to group them together because  the trek wouldn’t be worth it for just a single one, but then I can’t decide where to set as the point of extraction.  So I end up leaving them where they are with unrealistic hopes that they may make there own way to a pile on the coffee table or the window sill or the shelf or the counter in the kitchen.  

None of this should be too much…

Alexander

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A lot of motivation tonight has brought me to realize where I am in my life and in the world. This is just a passing thought, but what lingers is the idea of where all of my friends are. Our discussions are such brilliant mixtures of caliber that it becomes extremely evident that we really do represent a fine generation.

Lately I’ve been toying with the idea that all the philosophers of the world were right when they first started their musings. Hell, “I think therefore I am” doesn’t sound too crazy at all. It’s just that, at one point the their analysis of all the facets of their theories become digressions and begin to contradict themselves. That’s where everyone gets lost. Further evidence to support this theory appears when considering the works of other great people throughout existence; artists, writers (who are also artist) and scientists and so on. Hemingway could never re-write the stories his wife lost, and until the day he died he swore that he had never written even phrase that was better.

Now this could mean that we are all doomed to only be great at our careers for a brief moment at the beginning of them, but I don’t think so. There are people who have managed to maintain a level of excellence throughout their run. Sure sometimes they phoned it in, but it was always made up for the next moment when they created something really amazing, or thought of something completely new. What I think this means, is that each venture we make, either as individuals or as groups, should be singular if we want to ensure their greatness as well as their coherence.

But I don’t really know what I’m talking about so hey…

Alexander

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Some times I feel like I am on the verge of being very smart, but then I usually get tired and decide to do something immensely stupid.

Alexander

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If I lie to myself long enough, maybe it will become the truth, but would that then justify the lie?

I wonder how I will see this past year when it is so far away; when my mind will be in a different state, and my existence will be more calm.  Will I remember the good times then?  Sure I can think of a bunch now, but they don’t seem as great as they should be.  They lack the shine they require to be great.  So, will I remember the amazing moments of two-thousand and seven when I’m happy, or will I create wholly new ones to fill in the gaps?   Can my mind really re-write history after the war?

Alexander

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My father told me that my life lay in the future last night.  He was trying to impart wisdom in hopes to ease my frustration with my boss and those at school with whom I have to interact.  He told me not to get stuck in their lives; to see things the way they do and understand the different positions in which we all are, but not to let their problems become my own.

My mother told me not to lose to the struggle and not to let my patients wane.  To understand that these times of difficulty will be many throughout my life and if I am to lose patients now I will find it almost impossible to regain when I am wiser and want it back.

My sister told me to sober up and to treat myself as if depressed.   I don’t know if I am depressed, sometimes I think I am but then I remember that I’m exhausted and that’s probably why I don’t care about anything.  This does not stand as a rebuttal…

I used to have courage, and discipline to back it up; I would do anything I had my mind set to do.  I find hard to set my mind on any one task now though, and to call one thing a concrete milestone which I must reach.  I’m losing myself as I slow down with no direction; too many directions… and not many of them appeal to me.  I’m trying to find purpose and understand the benefits of mortality, but I still can’t.  I keep telling myself that I’m not ready to face the subject because my mind isn’t clear or I’m out to lunch with so many other issues.

I understand though.  I used to adhere to all of those words of advice and I lived free of any fear except that of death.  It was easy for me to empathize with a man in the midst of crisis or people far too politically correct for their own good.  I used to appreciate the times spent in waiting while I always knew of the slippery slope that was the alternative.  One summer a long time ago I made a decision to stop seeking happiness by losing sobriety, along the way I fell off a few times but each time it just affirmed my resolution.  However, I have no resolve now.  I lack the courage I once had to make such strong declarations and head such powerful charges.  I fear my mistakes will haunt me if I make any really bad ones, but I don’t know why…  maybe it’s because those small ones which I have made have already caused repercussions which far out weigh the initial errors themselves, and that I am constantly beset by them.  Each time I feel as if I may be able to do some good, chance makes a phone call and I am reminded of what I have done wrong, and worse: that which I have merely done and was only seen as wrong.  So even those fine decisions which I have made become errors and serve as evidence for my prosecution….

But still… Where did my courage go?

Alexander

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I know these people who live in constant states of busy.  They exist in panic and wish they had more time to do things they want to do.  They never know whether that which they are doing is what they should be doing.  It bothers them whenever they get a moment to be bothered, acting as the slow idle of the panicky engine that keeps them alive.

I learned something today that was said by Heraclitus:  “The Kykeon separates if it is not stirred.”  It refers to the constant state of motion the world is in, and how without it life would separate from it, and we would all be dead.  It is often said that we must surrender to the flow of life and surrender to it’s eventual end, but this does not mean that we should surrender our swims across the river or our efforts to divert the current.  Sometimes you need those people exhausting themselves against time; fighting what they don’t want to know, so that we can change the course.

I’m probably delusional, and soon about to drown, but I really just want a moment when everything can stand still.

Alexander

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My sister was telling me a few months ago of how everything was changing. She was trying to convince me of the fact, as I had pretty much lost all hope of anything ever really becoming any different. Things have changed. A lot of things have changed… but of these things which have changed, none was the one I had wanted to change. I feel like I’m constantly fighting fate. I hate fate… loath it. The very concept of a predestined future bothers me a great deal in my times without sleep.

What if it doesn’t work out the way I want it to?

Alexander

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A woodpecker was on my apple tree today; looking to take the lives of creatures smaller than it. I watched it climb and spin around the trunk effortlessly with its head cocking from one side to the other to pick through the crevices in the bark. It was black and white and had red around its eyes, and all I could think about was how much fun it must be having.

I held a beaten-up mouse in my hand yesterday. It had gone “tharn” from my cat’s claws and play. It wasn’t dead but it didn’t move, and when later, once the trance had passed, I checked in, it did not seem frightened by me. Monty was the same way after the cat caught him. His attitude toward life seemed mellow, as if he had already at one point accepted his imminent death and was now simply counting the rest as a bonus. He has a large chunk missing from his ear which appears to represent a certain worry he may be without, and although when I look at him he stops and looks right back or scrambles on top of the others I always see a calm face. The new mouse was eating the food my sister gave it, which means it will probably be fine. I hope the remainder of its days are as peaceful.

It’s funny, as it was cupped in my hands, motionless while I tried to find a receptacle for it, I felt bad for taking her toy away. She followed me everywhere badgering me to release it so she could catch it again, and she spent about a half hour or more next to the container; listening, sniffing… but as I watch her now on top of the couch, shaking her head at a fly that might have landed on her or flown by, I figure some early morning she’ll find another one and then there will be seven.

Alexander

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My English teacher in grade eleven used to tell us all to write what we know… and I’ve heard it from other people too; writers who are acclaimed and admired. When ever she used to say that all the students in class would go head down and start churning out little bits of their lives as stories and anecdotes, but I never could. When ever she would say that I would always wonder: What if I don’t know anything.

I grew up in a middle class family with about as much trauma as any other child of said status, which was not much considering… and of the stories I could tell of my childhood, few would entertain any person enough to satisfyingly drag them in. Of those which could, they are all just copies of other stories which have already been told countless times by better writers.

So how does one write when there is nothing he knows?

Alexander

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