Achtung, Baby...

Simply to say, 

The list on the left,

Constantly changing,

Is filled with friends,

Who incessantly inspire   

And endlessly educate,

So go and gather,

All their wonderful words.

Then, recognize radically,

Just how much others matter.

At the Crossroads of Heaven and Hell...

I listened as the words repeated in a haunting echo.

“Lay your body down. Lay your body down.”

Just as the chorus kicked in with a crescendo of volume, the screen saver jumped on.

And there they were. Little, rounded monuments.

The first photo to show up was a landscape shot of an English graveyard in Belgium.

The white gravestones were only offset by bright red roses.

Maybe my computer was trying to tell me something.

“Lay your body down. Lay your body down.”

Absalom! Absalom!...

I was reading 2 Samuel today, in an attempt to actually be in the Word (huh... what a novel idea). 

And I was struck. We think about how beautiful and striking literature is, and how well humans can write. But honestly, everyone is inspired by something.

Even pure irony can be inspired. 

The son of David, no, not that Son of David, was named Absalom.

Absalom (or Avshalom) is Hebrew for "my father is Peace".

Absalom became enraged with his father and tried to overthrow the king of Israel in a violent coup.

Pure irony.

How completely inspiring.

Music Which is Almost a Religious Experience, Pastoral and Fervent...

Sometimes you think you've found beauty.

'I could stare at this piece forever.' 'I will never get sick of that band.' 'That will always be my favorite play.'

But aesthetics, like the tide, is an ever-changing constant. 

And sometimes, when the moon gives the ocean just the perfect extra, little gravitational shove, the ocean's essence becomes that much more unbelievable, that much more overwhelming, that much more beautiful.

So, just when you think you've found that beauty, something happens to redefine and reshape your definition of beauty. And like the moon to the ocean, it can be the most outlandish and opposite element added to that beauty that makes your heart smile. 

But then you think to yourself 'Of course a serious gravitational pull would enhance the velocity and force of the ocean's movements!' and what you are really thinking is 'Of course adding the eloquence and valor of the French language would enhance the poetry and gravitas of British music!'

Sometimes you really have found beauty:

Mumford & Sons - The Banjolin Song / Awake my soul - A Take Away Show #105 from La Blogotheque on Vimeo.

All musical and genius, (c) La Blogotheque and Mumford & Sons.

All rambling musings, (c) Moi.

And to Think, I didn't Like Steinbeck Before This...

I think the difference between a lie and a story is that a story utilizes the trappings and appearance of truth for the interest of the listener as well as of the teller. A story has in it neither gain nor loss. But a lie is a device for profit or escape. I suppose if that definition is strictly held to, then a writer of stories is a liar - if he is financially fortunate.

Maybe we all have in us a secret pond where evil and ugly things germinate and grow strong. But this culture is fenced, and the swimming brood climbs up only to fall back. Might it not be that in the dark pools of some men the evil grows strong enough to wriggle over the fence and swim free? Would not such a man be our monster, and are we not related to him in our hidden water? It would be absurd if we did not understand both angels and devils, since we invented them.

And this I believe: that the free, exploring mind of the individual human is the most valuable thing in the world. And this I would fight for: the freedom of the mind to take any direction it wishes, undirected. And this I must fight against: any idea, religion, or government which limits or destroys the individual. This is what I am and what I am about. I can understand why a system built a pattern must try to destroy the free mind, for that is one thing which can by inspection destroy such a system. Surely I can understand this, and I hate it and I will fight against it to preserve the one things that separates us from the uncreative beasts. If the glory can be killed, we are lost. 

-East of Eden-

The Death of Virtue: Part IV

‘Well’ Daniel looked up at the ceiling in a symbolic gesture ‘You do work in mysterious ways, eh?’

John-Michael shot out of the oversized, underused black leather chair. He was breathing hard. Too hard. He had to rip air out of the atmosphere, just to get it into his lungs. He felt encased in a frigid sweat, with a pool near the small of his back. As his vision began to clear, and static was leaving his hearing, he remembered what woke him up.

It was just supposed to be a short nap. In fact, he wasn’t even intending to fall asleep. His apartment was dark. The wood floor echoed the dull and faded light. Combine that with the soft roar of the city beneath him, the warm tea within his arm’s length, and only mild interest in the magazine article, and he was destined to nod off. And nod off he did. John-Michael was fast asleep in that chair for nearly forty-five minutes.

That’s when he shot out of his slumber.

He was gasping and clutching at oxygen. His eyes darted around the room. “Where is that damn thing?” He was near panic, and had no idea why.

He got up out of the chair, every joint aching. Maybe that pain was from sleeping in a lounger, maybe it was the extreme amounts of adrenaline, endorphins, and testosterone squeezing through his bloodstream. He did nothing but stare at the floor, but in his head he was meticulously sifting through every object in the three-room apartment. 

‘The briefcase? No, I never put it in there. Pants?’ He threw his hands into his pockets. Nothing but car keys and loose change. ‘The counter?’ Finally, his body moved with the reality in his head. His dark-tile, bar-style countertop was barren, minus the typical pile of bills, junk mail, and old subscriptions. ‘Where the hell did I-‘

As he neared the apex of frustration, he actually recognized what his eyes were staring at. The jacket. His feet flew to the wrought-iron coat rack hung in the entryway. His dark, pinstriped jacket ruffled as he rifled through the two outside pockets. He let out an audible sigh of relief as he pulled his much-sought-after cell phone from the inside breast pocket of the coat.

Unknowingly, he hung the jacket back on the peg, and turned back towards the leather chair. His fingers were already swimming across the buttons on the phone. Before he had reached the chair, before he even took more than five steps, he had opened the address book, found her name, and selected send message. John-Michael spun around and sat on the stretched out leather leg-rest. The digital glow of his phone glared off his face. The blank message was staring him down. He shook with a chill, gazing at the plastic and glass. All it read was:

New Message

To: Annie S.

The blank message was too much. His fingers said so much by not being able to type at all. He was paralyzed with fear.

Finally, his thumb broke its silence. But instead of typing what he wanted to say, it rebelliously clicked the Call button. Her normally comforting picture flashed. He cheeks filled with blood, his head with even for fear than before, and his entire being screamed “NO!”

She picked up too fast for him to run.

“J-M?” The words bounced around his hollow apartment. He couldn’t hear the sorrow in them.

“Hi… Hi Annie. How… How are you?” He tried to hide the uncertainty in his voice. ‘Why did I call her? This is too much. This is so stupid. This is-‘ His mind was speaking so fast, and so strongly, but his mouth refused to listen.

“I’m alright. It’s… It’s been a long day J-M. What’s going on, why did you call?”

“Annie. I’m sorry to bother you. Everything’s fine I just… I… Well, this is going to sound weird but is everything OK? I just woke up from a nap with the feeling that something terrible happened to you. I don’t know. Just please tell me I’m crazy and that you are just fine and this is a stupid feeling.”

Annie could not muster a single word. ‘No. No, no, no, no. I will not bear this news twice. This is not my place. This is not my role. NO!’

The utter lack of words from the phone made John-Michael’s hurt drop miles, deep into his stomach. Time simply halted, and while she was only searching for words for six seconds, he had been waiting for minutes.

“Oh God Annie. What happened?”

The Death of Virtue: Part II

There it was again. Reality detached itself from his mind. Vertigo was all Peter knew. The impact of her words sent him careening. Except this time the words stuck with him. Reality was gone; all that was left was dizziness, burning, and those three words.

Annie could not get comfortable. The wooden coffeeshop chairs were harsh and unforgiving. She shifted her weight in every way possible, and yet her body ached. Annie knew it wasn’t the chair that made her so uncomfortable. Despite her best efforts, she could only look at the cold, ceramic table from under her clenched right hand.  The phone line was silent, hollow.

Telling Peter the news was difficult. That was an understatement. Telling Peter was excruciating.  The news was heavy enough, relaying it was a burden, but explaining to someone who rejects all ideas of hope and afterlife that one of their best friends was dead? That was near impossible. And yet, she knew she had to.  Peter deserved to know.

And now he knew. She had done the most difficult part; she had played the messenger. So, why didn’t she feel any better? Why did her stomach still churn, her heart still ache, and her head still throb? The silence from the phone wasn’t relieving any of her anguish.

She was expecting him to take the news badly. They had known each other for nearly their entire lives. She was expecting tears, yelling, rejection, anger, even a hang up, but silence? The absolute void staring her in the face from the other end of the phone line was even more unbearable than the actual dialing of the phone. And that had taken her ten minutes. She just kept staring at the keypad, heart fluttering, palms sweating, and stomach nauseating. She ran through every scenario she could think of, every one of Peter’s typical reactions. But she never expected silence. And now she couldn’t handle it. She had to say something. Anything. Any noise would make this echoing, evil silence disappear.

“Peter. I am so so sorry. I’m sorry about James, I’m sorry it happened, I’m sorry you had to hear about this fro-“ Peter cut-off her hurried and unpolished apologies.

“ Yeah, Ann. Me too. Thanks for telling me. I guess we’ll probably be talking soon.” Then, nothing but the slow, measured beep of her phone telling her the call had ended. Annie looked at the screen. Contact: Peter R. Call time: 3:50. Three minutes, fifty seconds. That’s all it took.

Annie shook her head, sniffed and coughed, wiped her eyes with the back of her sweaty palm, and closed her phone. Nearly four minutes. It took her longer to order her coffee than to tell Peter that James had died. ‘God. I hate this’ The thought screamed in her head as she subconsciously threw her paper cup away and shuffled towards the door. With her head down and her mind a hundred thousand miles away, Annie didn’t even notice the man in front of her until she bashed straight into his left shoulder. Normally, Annie would have felt terrible. Normally, Annie would have stopped, apologized, helped to pick up the 3.36 in change that sprayed from his hand across the painted cement floor. Normally, Annie would have looked the man in his dark green eyes and tried to form any bit of human contact with the stranger.

But not today. Today was far from normal, and so was she. Annie hurried through the glass doors without even thinking of turning around to see the man whose path she had just interrupted hunkered over the floor, delicately picking up every coin. Her soul ached so badly, and her focus was so keen on contact with people far away and long gone, that she didn’t even notice the immediate, physical contact she had just initiated.

It all just hurt too much.

The Death of Virtue: Part 1

His ears were ringing. No, they were burning. All he could hear was a sharp, popping noise. His ears felt like he was in the ocean, water pressure pushing on every micrometer of his eardrums, and coral was all he could hear.

He was staring at the carpeted staircase, but he couldn’t see anything. Somehow the fog had crept its way into his living room.

His hands were heavy, and too far away. His blood felt diluted and sluggish. His heart was an un-oiled engine, with every pump more difficult and more damaging than the last.

He hadn’t felt like this since the car crash.

Slowly, the ringing gave way to something else. A soft, but growing noise that hurt as it built upon itself. Reality was ripping its way back into his conscious. The noise culminated in a painful crescendo as he became aware of holding the phone to his ear again. Her words were like audible lightning, and her usually sweet voice seared as it left the clammy, black receiver.

“Peter? Peter did you hear me? Are you still there?” Earth regained its axis; gravity kicked back in; and oxygen flooded into his lungs once more. He was clutching the railing of those carpeted stairs; his body was holding itself up, but he had no idea how.

“…I’m here. Sorry. So sorry. Wait… What did you say? Please tell me I didn’t hear what I think you just told me. You’re kidding. You have to be. This is some sick joke. Annie, this isn’t funny. Stop it. Please tell me this I heard you wrong. Please tell me -“ The soul completely bypassing his brain, his words streamed out at hurricane force. Emotions sped past so quickly that his voice could not keep up the pace. It cracked and strained as he spat out syllables, sounds, anything. The silence coming from his phone was as hollow as the tightening in his gut. Then her words came crashing back with all the force of a sonic boom.

“Peter. I’m so sorry. Its… I…” Annie stopped. Words stumping her flustered brain. She breathed deeply. Reset herself, closed her eyes tightly, and tried to exhale without sighing, but couldn’t. The sorrow escaped her lungs, “James. James is…” She reset herself again. Her tear-stained palm involuntarily clutched to her forehead. She was freezing, shaking, and nauseous. Every mumbled sound felt like a scream, no matter how hard she tried to stay level and quiet. She could only smell the copper of blood and taste the salt of tears. “James is dead.”

There it was again. Reality detached itself from his mind. Vertigo was all Peter knew. The impact of her words sent him careening. Except this time the words stuck with him. Reality was gone; all that was left was dizziness, burning, and those three words.

Staring at a White, Blank Page...

Inspiration. 

It's kind of a funny word. It has such a positive connotation. It makes you think of muses, music, and melodies. Basically: Beauty.

But that's just the thing about inspiration. It never flourishes in beauty. 

Inspiration only visits the dreamer when he's having nightmares. 

The beauty only comes from the breakdown.

 The real beauty, that is.

There is something. Some deep, dark, and hollow spot buried in every human. When it's struck, when something else, some inspiration, raps on its edges, it resonates. And it echoes within those hollow spots in others. And it's that rattle and hum that we call Beauty. Even Genius.

Somehow, we've managed to place our descriptions of the most hurtful, or most longing, or most destructive, at the very apex of our Beauty hierarchy.

We're enraptured with our own self-destruction.

Perhaps that's just sin.

So what's the point of all this melancholy macabre?

Simply to say that inspiration comes when life is here, at its fullest.

Sometimes that muse drops in on the Dreamer when he is clutching the sheets. Uncomfortably strewn across his bed. Neck back, ears clenched, and deep in a cold sweat. But other times she comes when he is sound in his sleep. His eyelids flickering from the rapid movements underneath. Sometimes inspiration reveals her gorgeous and demanding face when the Dreamer is overwhelmed in the well of information that is somehow coming from his own brain. Simply put: Inspiration is unpredictable. The only method of determining when she'll strike next is to know when she won't. And that's when the Dreamer is comfortable. When he is so far in his own sleep that he doesn't even dream.

After all, glass needs either fire or lightning to be formed.

In the Layman's terms: Busyness has served me well, there's a lot to write about as soon as I have the time to jot it down.