Over the Hill

Shit. The light is green. Facing into the wind, I struggle. I am going uphill and I see the green light ahead. Undoubtedly, as soon as I reach the top of the hill, and the crosswalk countdown comes into clearer view, I will see I have four seconds to make it from the top of the hill to the light. That’s not going to happen. My one reprieve, my one last grasp of hope, that of being able to cruise downhill after using my every last bit of strength to get to the top, is diminished. If I attempt to run the red light, I’m battling a convoy of two ton machines that just escaped from the highway; my Schwinn frame is no match for them. The light is still green. I have three seconds. Green = go. But going ^ hill = (-)velocity. Therefore, green now = stop.  Or yield at the very least. These symbols are supposed to be clear: perfectly translucent enough for all of the population to follow for a society to run smoothly. And now? 

Now the signals are confused. Does not compute. I thought I could go, but instead must halt. Stop. All of the signals say “Go for it,” but that’s according to the old system. Stop. Begin anew. Yield to the new way. To yield: harvest, crop, produce. Therefore, to yield = to gain. To progress. To move forward. To go ahead, as green once defined it. And red?

Red doesn’t mean stop. It doesn’t mean go. It doesn’t mean yield. It doesn’t mean, but is not meaning-less. It implies: perseverance, imagination, strong will, a quick wit and ability to get back on the bull. That charging bull that sees that apparitional red, toreadored away while blood-red eyes focus on the goal. Red means keep trying. Because things change. Rejection, detraction, convulsion: it passes. 

The light turns green. I pedal forward.  

Bookcases

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I got my first bookcase today. But I have grown to abhor the idea. Books are a living thing, not a piece of static furniture, of no thought or worthwhile opinion of their own. I would rather my books be strewn across my bed so I can sleep with them, hidden in my dresser so I can wear them, resting / playing on my hardwood floor, living as they desire, with no order to them. Travel guides meet philosophy, drama meets biography, classic meet contemporary. Sartre and Eggers can be neighbors, Kushner and Keats friends (and not because of alphabetical ontology). I want to rifle through unsorted stacks of fiction, to find what it is I need right now, to find the right Kundera or Camus. I am open to disappointment, that I may not find what I am looking for. I expect it; I almost need it. And sometimes: the right book finds me and calls my name. We open each other up.

She Lights Another Cigarette

She couldn’t fool me. 

Sitting on my porch with all of Bucktown in front of her, she tries to tell me that there are no more deep thoughts in her head. They’re all gone. She’s worried. She lights another cigarette. 

Sitting on my porch with the whole street in front of her, she says she doesn’t feel anything. She feels nothing; she knows how nothing feels. She’s worried. She lights another cigarette. 

 Sitting on my porch with the whole world in front of her, she tries to tell me that there are no more deep thoughts in her head. Here I am facing a brick wall. She has the whole world in front of her and I’m left with a wall. Should I believe her? She lights another cigarette. She’s not smoking these cigarettes. She’s lighting them to watch them burn: she keeps the fire going (the art of destroying things that destroy). She wanted to give up. She was worried. But she couldn’t fool me. She kept the fire going. 

Our words are cigarettes. We keep them going, we speak and talk // express and declare // state and proclaim to try to get every little microscopic thought that enters the orb that holds our brains and eyes, the orb which our ears straddle and whichever way our hair styles, to get what’s inside there, into the world, into the other orbs. That is why we write. Language is a living, breathing, smoldering thing. It is our duty to keep the fire burning. 

She stops looking worried. She lights another cigarette. 

Did He Hit His Head?

Did he hit his head?

God is in the details. But I was enveloped by bigger things. There were a few stars obscured by clouds. The City was beaming and it was Everything; the Lake was crashing and it was Nothing. My ears surrounded by seductive horns and triumphant percussion. His arms went straight up. He swayed to the right (he’ll regain his balance). He leaned to the left (oh shit). He went down. “Fuck, dude, are you alright?” “I’m fine, let’s keep going.” “Let’s just take a minute.” “Nah, let’s keep going.” 

Karl X Johan - Flames (uncompromised cut) from Emotion on Vimeo.

Did he hit his head?

We continued along, we caught up with the others. We took a new way, we found the river. The River. The intersection of Everything and Nothing. One becomes the other without schism: they flow into each other. The lights of our City are the stars of our generation; reflected on the water, shimmering, waving to us, it is the manifestation of starry night in 2011. 

“Did I hit my head?”

I am an atheist; God is in the details. So why did I feel the need to focus on one individual leaf of the trees that were zooming past, zero in, and try to grab it? I didn’t want a handful of leaves, I wanted precision: I wanted one.single.leaf. on every tree. And I was already plotting on the next tree before I had picked the leaf off the first. 

“Did he hit his head?”

I’ll never know that answer. My focus is backwards. Is my focus backwards? I should have paid more attention to the details. I hope it’s not too late. 

Perhaps the City is Nothing and Lake is Everything.

Vinyl

Wrote this one a couple months ago. Apparently I find value in writing short prose pieces. Meaning in the temporary and fractured thoughts and all that. So it goes:

 

 

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Life is like vinyl records. You are born already with so few caring about your existence. But it is relevant to the few who matter. As life goes on, there are more pops and hisses in your life, cracks and chips, but there is still a group of dedicated people to you, who want to maintain your longevity. Despite all the cracks, you still have your groove. The majority of the world doesn’t care about you, but it is because they are impatient; they are not clever enough to see your side B. To be sure, how well you perform depends on the care of others. Sometimes you get stacked improperly, with the weight of other records above you. It wasn’t your fault but it is your fate. If the needle isn’t properly maintained, you will wear out sooner than you should have. Change your needles, change your minds. Shop local and buy records.