The first time I heard about "American Splendor" was when my older brother rented the dvd. I picked up the case and I scowled at it. I couldn't see how a movie about a depressing underground comic writer could possibly keep my socially floundering brother from sliding closer to his impending lackluster life. That was all I wanted for him then. I wanted him to be happy and happy with other people. Harvey Pekar, the focus of "American Splendor" did not seem to be the sort of role model I was hoping my older brother would choose. I also knew nothing abou underground comics and figured they must be more akin to porn than anything else and my disdain was sealed.
My brother would often watch movies alone in the basement in the dark. At the time I wasn't too hurt he never invited me but thinking about it now it really would have been nice just to be asked. Eventually his lone movie watching turned into lone beer drinking in the dark. My brother continually took on Harvey's likeness as he drooped and sagged inside and out. I knew nothing about the movie or the man but I hated them both. In all honesty, I really thought this movie was another nail in my brother's coffin. He would never do anything with his intelligence or creativity if he idolized twice-divorced file clerks with gnarled teeth, jowels, a large stomach and man boobs.
A couple years ago my friend Jeff showed me his comics collection and let me borrow all of the graphic novels he had by Jeffery Brown and one called "Blankets" by Craig Thompson. These autobiographical revelations made comics more important to me than they were even when I was an avid collector as a child. Ever since I have been enamored with the underground comic "scene." Now that I knew about this world it was inevitable that I would come across Harvey Pekar. "American Splendor" was an tremendous acheivement in comics because it was crass, depressing, coarse and true. When I learned about all this I felt a wave of embarrassment because I knew I had shunned something that could have opened up a glorious new world of art that I had to wait several years to come into.
Perhaps I was not ready. I was very sunny as a high schooler and I wasn't quite into irony.
I watched the movie tonight. I cannot remember the last time I have felt so inspired. Seek out the comics and also the movie. Could change your perspective if you let it. I am glad I saw it so young.
brandonpiercegeary
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
compulsive
I would like to be obsessive but I am far, far too lazy. I am battling this, however. Even now. Look how late it is in my time zone. I have to be out west at 9 am tomorrow. That is much less sleep than I am accustomed to. I am spending more hours awake and thus doing more. At this fertile time in my life more is more. I did take a nap earlier so that was a couple hours out of my "doing" time but I am making up for that right now by doing so much I can hardly stand it. I am researching for an album review that I have not yet received the green light for but I don't need to be told when to do and how anymore. I am just up and away. I am doing. I am go. I am awake and it is midnight and I feel terrific. A sleeping cat in my arms and I can still type away. I have it all under control. Battling that laziness never felt more like accomplishment. I am making lists and following through. I suddenly feel a real jolt of the importance of what I am doing. Perhaps my first notion was hasty. I am on fire.
I am going to bed to be with my wife.
brandonpiercegeary
I am going to bed to be with my wife.
brandonpiercegeary
Monday, October 26, 2009
a dream upon waking
I wish to extend the content of my last entry. I was considering the ways in which I view my job in contrast to the prattling Kinko's employee or my crass supervisor. I think we all see our job as just that - a task to be done. I suppose the biggest departure in our understanding of our job is our duty. What is our relationship to our occupation as compared to our relationship to everything else in our life?
It seems to me that during my parents' and their parents' lives a person's job was mere occupation. The notion of a calling in regard to work was reserved for missionaries, families with a long history of doctors or lawyers, or people involved in a family business. A person had a job and worked because that was what one did. There was no room for personal ambition or fulfilment of desire because the practicum of the day-in-day-out had such a bloated importance. And I use the word bloated in the most reverent of manners.
My brother-in-law recently wrote about a lady who wrote a book about young people's collective and individual narcissistic entitlement frenzy especially as it relates to assumptions concerning degrees and subsequent careers. I can attest to the clear idealism that pervades the upper-middle class young Americans these days. I am just as guilty of the most disgustingly under-deserved self-important visions of grandeur as the next literate, laptop equipped youngster. And like the others I usually don't have the maturation of mind to understand it was all but a dream. Most white kids my age in America have it pretty good. There is great luxury in the very visible safety nets we hedge all of our bets on. In most cases our parents or our ruddy good looks and cleverness (or a strange combination of the two) will be our bail out. We can't lose.
I think it must also be stated that the rules and therefore the expectations have changed in the decades since our mommies and daddies were home bacon bringers. The new young professional is the upwardly mobile standard and an aspiration that seems crucial to all of us who not only want to take home a paycheck but also dignity. It does not feel like enough to come home around five thirty in the afternoon with head held high because a full-day's work was put in at the ol' office. It does not feel like enough because of what I was perplexed about in my last entry. What is a full-day's work anymore? When am I allowed to be satisfied? A person is confronted with the option of being their job or being very little. Many of my friends have jobs and have "side projects." These appear to be hobbies but a slightly closer look reveals them to be entreprenurial strivings. Small businesses are the new quilting bees. These are the ways we get involved with our neighbors and invest in our community. And not to mention move on that hope that the thing we love to do may be the thing we make big bucks doing. It seems this is the only way to get gratification from one's job and in this economy to just get by. I believe that is also why so many people are going to work for non-profits. Perhaps it is to prove that you can do what you love without being motivated by money alone (although CEO's of most non-profits make a pretty fantastic living).
We are a disappointed and disappointing people. Because we choose this pursuit of a "birthright as means of job satisfaction." As the middle class it sure seems as though that is what we are charged with seeking out - that sole occupation we can fill. We will know it when we see it, nay feel it. It is supposed to seek me out, I think. It is actually difficult to say. I know I may not have a place in the sun but I certainly have one out there somewhere. A progressive architecture firm dying for my copy writing skills. That must be it.
I think it is good that we have high expectations from within and without. Hopefully the dream lasts long enough so that when we fail we still have enough hope juice to strive towards the next impossibility.
brandonpiercegeary
My brother-in-law recently wrote about a lady who wrote a book about young people's collective and individual narcissistic entitlement frenzy especially as it relates to assumptions concerning degrees and subsequent careers. I can attest to the clear idealism that pervades the upper-middle class young Americans these days. I am just as guilty of the most disgustingly under-deserved self-important visions of grandeur as the next literate, laptop equipped youngster. And like the others I usually don't have the maturation of mind to understand it was all but a dream. Most white kids my age in America have it pretty good. There is great luxury in the very visible safety nets we hedge all of our bets on. In most cases our parents or our ruddy good looks and cleverness (or a strange combination of the two) will be our bail out. We can't lose.
I think it must also be stated that the rules and therefore the expectations have changed in the decades since our mommies and daddies were home bacon bringers. The new young professional is the upwardly mobile standard and an aspiration that seems crucial to all of us who not only want to take home a paycheck but also dignity. It does not feel like enough to come home around five thirty in the afternoon with head held high because a full-day's work was put in at the ol' office. It does not feel like enough because of what I was perplexed about in my last entry. What is a full-day's work anymore? When am I allowed to be satisfied? A person is confronted with the option of being their job or being very little. Many of my friends have jobs and have "side projects." These appear to be hobbies but a slightly closer look reveals them to be entreprenurial strivings. Small businesses are the new quilting bees. These are the ways we get involved with our neighbors and invest in our community. And not to mention move on that hope that the thing we love to do may be the thing we make big bucks doing. It seems this is the only way to get gratification from one's job and in this economy to just get by. I believe that is also why so many people are going to work for non-profits. Perhaps it is to prove that you can do what you love without being motivated by money alone (although CEO's of most non-profits make a pretty fantastic living).
We are a disappointed and disappointing people. Because we choose this pursuit of a "birthright as means of job satisfaction." As the middle class it sure seems as though that is what we are charged with seeking out - that sole occupation we can fill. We will know it when we see it, nay feel it. It is supposed to seek me out, I think. It is actually difficult to say. I know I may not have a place in the sun but I certainly have one out there somewhere. A progressive architecture firm dying for my copy writing skills. That must be it.
I think it is good that we have high expectations from within and without. Hopefully the dream lasts long enough so that when we fail we still have enough hope juice to strive towards the next impossibility.
brandonpiercegeary
Saturday, October 24, 2009
I should be sleeping like a log
"I refuse to do anything work-related when I am off the clock." Someone in a sales and customer service training session at FedEx Kinko's once barked this out after being given a scenario where an opportunity to endorse a product arose outside of work and it knocked the wind out of the training manager. The manager told the story of this uncooperative employee with a tremendously angry scowl to the group I was in during one of my training sessions. I understood her anger and I shook my head, distastefully looking at the conference table and making a far deeper frown than was merited or that I felt. Even though the manager had my sympathies I could not help but mostly side with the rogue.
Where do my loyalties lie? Does my every waking moment belong to my employer? Not hardly.
I have had a similar quandary at my current place of business. My bosses are very strongly encouraging us to utilize our social networking sites to the advantage of the company. In truth, I am not that concerned that I would not be compensated for posting 140 characters about a sale or promotional push. I am more disquieted by the dishonesty. I, like most people I presume, only bring up my work if it is pertinent to a situation. If someone is having a problem finding a new pair of pants that fit the way they would like then I would be remiss if I did not suggest they look at the place I work. But then again I would also suggest they look at a couple of other places because my primary care is that my friend find decent pants and not that my company make money by hawking a less-perfect product. But sneak attack an advertisement with blatant intentions just feels two-faced. I have never promoted anything on my sites before, usually including my bands which I am fully committed to and deeply invested in, so why would I blithely remark about a 50% off womens sale? I don't enjoy partaking in self-promotion and I don't appreciate being used for commercial promotion.
It seems to me that this is a matter of boundaries. One of my former supervisors once told me during one of his more practical rants (he was given to vehement, nonsensical diatribes about bus drivers, fedoras, and the evils of noise music) that the advent of the mobile phone broke down all previously constructed walls between work and home. "Now you're always on the clock! Your boss has something to say to you they don't wait until you come to work, they call you up. How do you escape? You don't. And they fucking got you. And it ain't the money, man. Fuck money. It's the personal freedom. Don't tread on my goddamn freedom."
I understood him and I was afraid. I decided I never wanted to be salaried. Then they really have you. You could work a back-breaking 50-60 hour week and make a measly 40-hour week paycheck. There is no justice.
I would love to sit down at a desk at nine in the morning then pick up my blazer from my chair at five in the afternoon and pass the threshold, the line that must be crossed to make it understood that I am no longer at work - I am home.
It seems more people are desiring to go into fields where they can feasibly work from home. These people are either very clever or have no self respect and no sense boundaries. Hopefully someday I will become one of these people and when that time comes I pray to be self aware enough to report which of those things I am.
brandonpiercegeary
Where do my loyalties lie? Does my every waking moment belong to my employer? Not hardly.
I have had a similar quandary at my current place of business. My bosses are very strongly encouraging us to utilize our social networking sites to the advantage of the company. In truth, I am not that concerned that I would not be compensated for posting 140 characters about a sale or promotional push. I am more disquieted by the dishonesty. I, like most people I presume, only bring up my work if it is pertinent to a situation. If someone is having a problem finding a new pair of pants that fit the way they would like then I would be remiss if I did not suggest they look at the place I work. But then again I would also suggest they look at a couple of other places because my primary care is that my friend find decent pants and not that my company make money by hawking a less-perfect product. But sneak attack an advertisement with blatant intentions just feels two-faced. I have never promoted anything on my sites before, usually including my bands which I am fully committed to and deeply invested in, so why would I blithely remark about a 50% off womens sale? I don't enjoy partaking in self-promotion and I don't appreciate being used for commercial promotion.
It seems to me that this is a matter of boundaries. One of my former supervisors once told me during one of his more practical rants (he was given to vehement, nonsensical diatribes about bus drivers, fedoras, and the evils of noise music) that the advent of the mobile phone broke down all previously constructed walls between work and home. "Now you're always on the clock! Your boss has something to say to you they don't wait until you come to work, they call you up. How do you escape? You don't. And they fucking got you. And it ain't the money, man. Fuck money. It's the personal freedom. Don't tread on my goddamn freedom."
I understood him and I was afraid. I decided I never wanted to be salaried. Then they really have you. You could work a back-breaking 50-60 hour week and make a measly 40-hour week paycheck. There is no justice.
I would love to sit down at a desk at nine in the morning then pick up my blazer from my chair at five in the afternoon and pass the threshold, the line that must be crossed to make it understood that I am no longer at work - I am home.
It seems more people are desiring to go into fields where they can feasibly work from home. These people are either very clever or have no self respect and no sense boundaries. Hopefully someday I will become one of these people and when that time comes I pray to be self aware enough to report which of those things I am.
brandonpiercegeary
kin
I burnt my hand quite badly and also made a delicious potato onion thing. This was the first proper injury and meal in our new home. We now live on Nicholas Street and have all the conveniences of a quaint, one-bedroom apartment of the 1950's. I haven't used this sort of gas oven for a few years and I forgot about the pilot light underneath. I had stored some of our plastic pot covers under there and now they are the consistency of Vermont maple syrup. Before it cooled down in our sink anyway. When I had reached beneath the oven to retrieve a lid for the pot I was cooking some green beans in I touched something metal and much too hot to be touching. I have a nice scar on my right, ring finger knuckle and about an inch above my wrist on the back side of my hand. This is actually the exact place on Melissa's hand where a ganglion cyst has been disappearing and reappearing for a couple years now. I feel a new level of affinity to her. We are misshapen and pained by our cursed spot. We are Lady Macbeth. We have secrets. We are kindred and we most certainly have each other for sharing.
brandonpiercegeary
brandonpiercegeary
Thursday, August 13, 2009
a minute
There is honestly a great deal more I should be doing than this. My wife grew up with a thing called "mental health days" which I am still not convinced is as health as it sounds but I am big proponent of "mental health fifteen minute sit and stares." So in honor of stability I just want to say that some of the trees just outside look particularly beautiful right now. I must say I prefer the sort of leaf that is compounded and "fern-like." I must also say I have always enjoyed pondering the "greater than the sum of its parts" conundrum. In the case of these compound leaves neither the usual cliche nor its inverse are particularly accurate. I am pleased to look at them up in the tree from this distance only getting a vague (and blurry since my eyes are beyond flawed) sense of the intricacies of each individual portion of the full leaf. Everything is beautiful. All of it. The ins and the outs and the parts and the wholes. It's got the whole package, you might say.
Ah, I feel much better.
Ah, I feel much better.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
no idea
I was just reading an acquaintance's blog and about his "integrated" media company he built from the ground up. While I highly admire the raw ambition and headstrongness it takes a person to see such a thing through I could not help but recognize a widening emptiness as I read about the possible capitalizations to be made on said entwined media -- producer engages consumer -- experience. He spoke of having a "set apart" sensation from early childhood and that this media exploration of his was to be the conduit through which his intrinsic purpose could be satiated. From my perspective it is no wonder he also remarked on this not actually being his "true calling." It seems to me that if a person has an authentic, birth-rite purpose and if this person believes this to be a God-ordained purpose then pursuing a dream that (from his own description) appears to only serve to put money in people's pockets who have a great deal of it and push content on undiscerning consumers solely for the sake of having more content. Integrate because you can. It's the future and the future is all that matters. It's all we have. The future is fucking now.
New media has always fascinated me mainly because it seems to be a phenomena that isn't. It is only special because someone says it is. Any device that spreads information in a slightly tweaked format is the harbinger of a cultural seachange. It is an irony that I cannot stop laughing at. It is all so self-glorifying. Everything is inward and it is no surprise that most new technologies usually serve to isolate and divide rather than foster community. I suddenly have a notion to entirely throw off all amplification of myself beyond that which can come about through my true voice and body. I could stop this blog immediately. I could never use the telephone again because it only allows a sliver of who I am to reach the receiver. Even letter writing is dangerous. Too much amplification. Too wide spread. Any music I play could only broadcast as loud as the unsupplemented instrument can carry itself. That blows considering my primary instrument is the electric bass which is next to impossible to hear without juice. I shall hone my accordian and saxophone chops then. All is not lost. There are too many stringed instruments anyhow. I need people to come closer. Maybe I will just play my bass on the street corner so people have to crane their necks and press their ears right up to the strings to hear anything and then certainly we will know each other better through this interaction. Much better than a mediated conversation could afford. I want to read books aloud to children and speak without microphones.
I want us all to be heard as we are and not as we seem to be through infinitely integrated systems of "communication." John Lennon and Yoko Ono had this "project" they called real communication. It was quite hokey but the sentiment was earnest and provocative. The project was more of a lifestyle of artistic expressions that drew out honesty from yourself, even if it didn't make sense what you were expressing, with the purpose of engendering community and (of course) peace. They did bizarre things like wear only black trashbags or staying in bed for 24 hours (with plenty of media coverage to be sure). Things that I am not sure were not merely ways to express their desire to attract attention but I suppose there were no moral stipulations on their "real communication" so self worship was hardly taboo if it was merely honest self worship.
I don't know. I have no ideas.
New media has always fascinated me mainly because it seems to be a phenomena that isn't. It is only special because someone says it is. Any device that spreads information in a slightly tweaked format is the harbinger of a cultural seachange. It is an irony that I cannot stop laughing at. It is all so self-glorifying. Everything is inward and it is no surprise that most new technologies usually serve to isolate and divide rather than foster community. I suddenly have a notion to entirely throw off all amplification of myself beyond that which can come about through my true voice and body. I could stop this blog immediately. I could never use the telephone again because it only allows a sliver of who I am to reach the receiver. Even letter writing is dangerous. Too much amplification. Too wide spread. Any music I play could only broadcast as loud as the unsupplemented instrument can carry itself. That blows considering my primary instrument is the electric bass which is next to impossible to hear without juice. I shall hone my accordian and saxophone chops then. All is not lost. There are too many stringed instruments anyhow. I need people to come closer. Maybe I will just play my bass on the street corner so people have to crane their necks and press their ears right up to the strings to hear anything and then certainly we will know each other better through this interaction. Much better than a mediated conversation could afford. I want to read books aloud to children and speak without microphones.
I want us all to be heard as we are and not as we seem to be through infinitely integrated systems of "communication." John Lennon and Yoko Ono had this "project" they called real communication. It was quite hokey but the sentiment was earnest and provocative. The project was more of a lifestyle of artistic expressions that drew out honesty from yourself, even if it didn't make sense what you were expressing, with the purpose of engendering community and (of course) peace. They did bizarre things like wear only black trashbags or staying in bed for 24 hours (with plenty of media coverage to be sure). Things that I am not sure were not merely ways to express their desire to attract attention but I suppose there were no moral stipulations on their "real communication" so self worship was hardly taboo if it was merely honest self worship.
I don't know. I have no ideas.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
no excess
I found this story on the "New Voices" portion of Granta.com. Please read it. It is short and very fascinating. I remember in college attempting to write a story from the second person and becoming so entirely befuddled at how to make it sound natural that I recall crying for days. The young writer of the story I linked to not only beautifully used the second person but seamlessly intertwined it with a first person that does not break up the flow or seem like a cop-out. I am jealous and intrigued. Also I love the brevity of each thought. There is no excess and in that way it gains a true poetic voice. It reminded me of the first twenty minutes of the new Pixar movie, UP, in how it gently and reverently guides you through a couple simple, romantic lives without belaboring anything yet skimping on nothing.
I am truly, truly inspired by this story. I want to write like that. Ever since college I have been so enamoured by authors who can write volumes by writing a few perfect paragraphs. I wish to live my life in that manner as well. Full and simple.
brandonpiercegeary
I am truly, truly inspired by this story. I want to write like that. Ever since college I have been so enamoured by authors who can write volumes by writing a few perfect paragraphs. I wish to live my life in that manner as well. Full and simple.
brandonpiercegeary
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
a shower a day...
It goes without saying that having a day off is a welcome respite. Or should be rather. Today I had a day off work and I feel more exhausted than ever. I do not feel like going to get our car looked at (even though the accident wasn't Melissa's fault and the lady's insurance will surely cover the expenses). I do not feel like reading the Haruki Marukami novel that I should have finished by now (even though everyone else in the reading group read ahead and finished the novel before we had a chance to discuss the first four chapters like we were supposed to so now I look like an even slower reader than the one I actually am). I do not feel like picking up after myself (even though I have been all day). And I do not feel like sleeping (even though I have stumbled through my day in a mysterious half-slumber since I got out of the shower).
And I believe I have finally discovered the base issue. I should not have taken a shower this morning. I find that if I wake up before seven o'clock a shower is just the right remedy for a newly awoken body. I also find that if I wake up after ten o'clock a shower is a lengthy chore that puts a kink in an otherwise productive day. I can prove this is so, just look at today. Lethargy city.
brandonpiercegeary
And I believe I have finally discovered the base issue. I should not have taken a shower this morning. I find that if I wake up before seven o'clock a shower is just the right remedy for a newly awoken body. I also find that if I wake up after ten o'clock a shower is a lengthy chore that puts a kink in an otherwise productive day. I can prove this is so, just look at today. Lethargy city.
brandonpiercegeary
Thursday, July 16, 2009
stupid is: stupid does
"Any idea that is worthwhile is very nearly a stupid one." (or something like that)*
- Michel Gondry
*not actually part of the quote
I feel like all my ideas are stupid. And not the secretly brilliant ones disguised as stupid but objectively ridiculous. Except for starting to write letters to my father. That was a good idea. But everything else, no good. Actually I take that back. In truth I think far too highly of my ideas. I love them dearly. I hold them so close that no one else can see them. Mine all mine.
I actually just got a great idea. I must water our house plants and water our garden. I believe our brown little conifer on our table is beyond help so maybe instead of watering it I will just sing to it and hope that it had lived long enough to bear seeds and multiply. I think we will be enjoying its kin for years to come... somewhere.
brandonpiercegeary
- Michel Gondry
*not actually part of the quote
I feel like all my ideas are stupid. And not the secretly brilliant ones disguised as stupid but objectively ridiculous. Except for starting to write letters to my father. That was a good idea. But everything else, no good. Actually I take that back. In truth I think far too highly of my ideas. I love them dearly. I hold them so close that no one else can see them. Mine all mine.
I actually just got a great idea. I must water our house plants and water our garden. I believe our brown little conifer on our table is beyond help so maybe instead of watering it I will just sing to it and hope that it had lived long enough to bear seeds and multiply. I think we will be enjoying its kin for years to come... somewhere.
brandonpiercegeary
Sunday, July 12, 2009
pontifical man
I surprised Melissa with a trip to the movies the other day. It wasn't the grand romantic gesture I worked it up in my mind to be but it sure did make her happy and therefore was a success. We saw Enlighten Up about a documentary director making a documentary about a young man she hand picked to be the center of an experiment to find meaning in yoga. It was mentioned in the film how it seems she should have just performed the 6-month experiment herself since it was her own diminishing faith in yoga that prompted her to devise the scheme. But she held that she wanted to see if yoga could have "transformative" effects on the uninitiated. Nick, the subject, said he had never considered yoga or any spiritual endeavor before agreeing to submit to Kate's , the director, plan.
The film seemed to come at yoga from nearly every angle people approach it from except for perhaps someone who would consider yoga offensive, if there is anybody. They did talk a little about how in India, at some point but perhaps not in modern day, people talked of Yogis as demonic wanderers who steal away children and wreak general havoc as opposed to individuals who are merely yoga enthusiasts. Other than that they explored the physical and metaphysical practices associated with yoga. Nick began as a willing skeptic and Kate as the waning believer. By the end they weren't much closer to discovering "true yoga" or a universal transformative power it might hold. The actually ended up nearly right where they began with only a greater sense of the history of yoga and a vocabulary useful in discussing its various forms. Sure it was only six months but I expected a little bit of transformation or perhaps maturing. But perhpaps this is all we can hope for. More knowledge, no wisdom. The two seekers did find they had a deeper desire for the purer things in life: family, health, quiet meditation.
I wonder if their journey's flaw was the fact that they said they were pursuing a means to be happy and fulfilled. They didn't request wisdom or even greater insight into living at peace with others. They kept wanting to find a wholeness in-and-of themselves. I suppose one could spend a lifetime pursuing wholeness in all of its manifestations and never be consumed by it because it seems to me that looking at one's own self constantly gives you the same view consistently. Perhaps if spending ourselves on everyone else and in effect being that magnanimous person of grace before we feel like we have attained what we think is required to live in such a way we will gain a truer perspective of ourselves and see G-d. I think a greater virtue than pursuing inner peace is to make peace.
The film seemed to come at yoga from nearly every angle people approach it from except for perhaps someone who would consider yoga offensive, if there is anybody. They did talk a little about how in India, at some point but perhaps not in modern day, people talked of Yogis as demonic wanderers who steal away children and wreak general havoc as opposed to individuals who are merely yoga enthusiasts. Other than that they explored the physical and metaphysical practices associated with yoga. Nick began as a willing skeptic and Kate as the waning believer. By the end they weren't much closer to discovering "true yoga" or a universal transformative power it might hold. The actually ended up nearly right where they began with only a greater sense of the history of yoga and a vocabulary useful in discussing its various forms. Sure it was only six months but I expected a little bit of transformation or perhaps maturing. But perhpaps this is all we can hope for. More knowledge, no wisdom. The two seekers did find they had a deeper desire for the purer things in life: family, health, quiet meditation.
I wonder if their journey's flaw was the fact that they said they were pursuing a means to be happy and fulfilled. They didn't request wisdom or even greater insight into living at peace with others. They kept wanting to find a wholeness in-and-of themselves. I suppose one could spend a lifetime pursuing wholeness in all of its manifestations and never be consumed by it because it seems to me that looking at one's own self constantly gives you the same view consistently. Perhaps if spending ourselves on everyone else and in effect being that magnanimous person of grace before we feel like we have attained what we think is required to live in such a way we will gain a truer perspective of ourselves and see G-d. I think a greater virtue than pursuing inner peace is to make peace.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Modern guilt won't get me to bed
About a week ago Melissa and I watched the award-winning movie Milk and while I viewed I ate a plate of pretzel sticks and ranch dressing. I gave practically no thought to my light snacking much like any popcorn popping movie-watcher doesn't consider the hand in the bucket and the munch in the mouth. Eating and watching a movie is mindless until tragedy strikes. Usually this tragedy takes place on the screen but of course there is the ill-fated kernel or nacho not masticated properly that winds up wedged deep and painfully in the snacker's throat. At his point is completely impossible to ignore the snack itself since it is clearly not to be overlooked without a fight.
In Milk, the true story of the first openly gay individual to be elected to major public office in the
Thursday, May 14, 2009
bottemless beverages
I truly believe that life is full to bursting. I like to look at optimism not as taking potentially disappointing situations and seeing them as efficacious such as in the old "glass half full" euphemism but more like a bottomless fountain beverage that is never empty and if we are thirsty enough the glass never has to be quite full either. "Drink and be merry for tomorrow we die." Bottoms up.
I don't know, I was talking with Melissa earlier and she said some simple and profound things about feigning happiness to not honestly feel something unfavorable. It caused me to rethink my motivation for positivity. As far as I can tell and have been told I am a generally, or perhaps more sincerely, haphazardly optimistic. If I am merely compensating for feelings that leave holes in me then I indeed create more holes through my self-delusion. But if I do not delude myself and excuse and then suppress poor situations and instead continue throwing back life so that even when I reach the end and the straw starts making sucking sounds I will pound my tumbler on the table and demand my free refill. We don't have to stay at the bottom trying to slurp the watery backwash trapped under the ice cubes. And to take this miserable metaphor one painfully silly (or astoundingly poignant) step further - when the fresh beverage slides across the wooden planks and into our palm we can continue the fellowship and discourse over the bountiful meal with our friends. We can pour into each other.
Good poopin' that was ridiculous but I meant every word.
I don't know, I was talking with Melissa earlier and she said some simple and profound things about feigning happiness to not honestly feel something unfavorable. It caused me to rethink my motivation for positivity. As far as I can tell and have been told I am a generally, or perhaps more sincerely, haphazardly optimistic. If I am merely compensating for feelings that leave holes in me then I indeed create more holes through my self-delusion. But if I do not delude myself and excuse and then suppress poor situations and instead continue throwing back life so that even when I reach the end and the straw starts making sucking sounds I will pound my tumbler on the table and demand my free refill. We don't have to stay at the bottom trying to slurp the watery backwash trapped under the ice cubes. And to take this miserable metaphor one painfully silly (or astoundingly poignant) step further - when the fresh beverage slides across the wooden planks and into our palm we can continue the fellowship and discourse over the bountiful meal with our friends. We can pour into each other.
Good poopin' that was ridiculous but I meant every word.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
oceanic
enrich, enrich, ENRICH. Enrich and be enriched. I was going to wait to write this morning until I felt some grand new revelation but after reading my wife's blog I decided that was inspiration enough. She speaks of being peaceful, in love and content. I have dulled my ability to feel these things in the past week. I have let loneliness be my security and I forgot there is no comfort in it. I get more and more eager to hear her voice on the phone and I stare at pictures of her for long stretches of time.
While I was in California with Melissa I was so peaceful, lovely and content. I got to know the full weight of her recovery and I found so much strength in it. I felt stable next to her. I left home and I despaired because even though she will be home soon I can't see it. God has granted me the tremendous grace of being Melissa's husband during this time of her healing and learning. I am just not sure what I am supposed to do with it. I feel the need to take it as love and pour it back into Melissa but since she is still gone and I mostly mope around I don't pour it out anywhere else. And it evaporates. I am getting dry and I need to soak in the ocean.
While I was in California with Melissa I was so peaceful, lovely and content. I got to know the full weight of her recovery and I found so much strength in it. I felt stable next to her. I left home and I despaired because even though she will be home soon I can't see it. God has granted me the tremendous grace of being Melissa's husband during this time of her healing and learning. I am just not sure what I am supposed to do with it. I feel the need to take it as love and pour it back into Melissa but since she is still gone and I mostly mope around I don't pour it out anywhere else. And it evaporates. I am getting dry and I need to soak in the ocean.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
As it happens, I am devolving. Reverting back to a lackadaisical and also sleepless me has exhausted my will. Thankfully last night was the first and only time this has happened but it shall be the last. I stayed up until five-ish o'clock watching metal music videos and reading years old comments on my myspace. I haven't even visited my myspace in months. This was my first tip off that I was acting suspiciously.
But it wasn't just my behavior. My very feelings went to some strange, familiar, and less me now kind of place. I think was about three o'clock that I was watching some "music video interpretation" of the song "ravage ritual" by the band zao that some sadly misguided kid made for a school project a few years ago and posted on youtube and at this point I realized something very wrong was happening to me. It is hard to explain. I was sitting there actually feeling as though what I was watching was important in some soulless way. And this after three hours of watching OnDemand freezone music videos at my in-laws' house. (bytheway the video for "Airport Surroundings" by Loney, Dear is quite terrific).
I could not conjure a reason convincing enough to actually just go to bed until I was so burnt out and lonely that I nearly wept all alone. Pathetic. It is a glorious truth that yesterday is in the past.
But it wasn't just my behavior. My very feelings went to some strange, familiar, and less me now kind of place. I think was about three o'clock that I was watching some "music video interpretation" of the song "ravage ritual" by the band zao that some sadly misguided kid made for a school project a few years ago and posted on youtube and at this point I realized something very wrong was happening to me. It is hard to explain. I was sitting there actually feeling as though what I was watching was important in some soulless way. And this after three hours of watching OnDemand freezone music videos at my in-laws' house. (bytheway the video for "Airport Surroundings" by Loney, Dear is quite terrific).
I could not conjure a reason convincing enough to actually just go to bed until I was so burnt out and lonely that I nearly wept all alone. Pathetic. It is a glorious truth that yesterday is in the past.
Friday, May 8, 2009
approximate me
I rediscovered the camera for myself today. I made my first craigslist post. I played with a remote control truck that mostly only goes in reverse. I learned that a former mentor of mine is now a #1 best-selling Christian author. It was a very revelatory day for me. For whatever reason, all of these (re)discoveries have left me with an amusing sense of displacement. What do these things say about me? Not much. Hence the amusement. I seem to be accidentally adopting all manner of zen-like attitudes towards every practical thing.
Like I said in my last post about closeness sometimes I require a feeling of knowing I am in proximity to myself. And yet it seems the closer I find myself to myself the tinier I realize me to be. I can't get near enough. Or perhaps I am actually honing in on my true nature or a truer identity within which my quantitativeness amounts to not so much. Thankfully this doesn't render me wallowing in insignificance because at the same time I gain a superior calling than mere self-reflection but significant co-mingling with (oh, coffee maker just beeped announcing it's turning off. Last call for hot, late-night beverages) the rest of creation to partake in each other. To honor each other and honor God. But then again, the times in my life when I have been able to be the most mindful of God and creation were when I did not do so much self-examination which mostly led to disconnection. I am too inward. Time to take me to the streets.
Good pooping, Beck is awesome
brandonpiercegeary
Like I said in my last post about closeness sometimes I require a feeling of knowing I am in proximity to myself. And yet it seems the closer I find myself to myself the tinier I realize me to be. I can't get near enough. Or perhaps I am actually honing in on my true nature or a truer identity within which my quantitativeness amounts to not so much. Thankfully this doesn't render me wallowing in insignificance because at the same time I gain a superior calling than mere self-reflection but significant co-mingling with (oh, coffee maker just beeped announcing it's turning off. Last call for hot, late-night beverages) the rest of creation to partake in each other. To honor each other and honor God. But then again, the times in my life when I have been able to be the most mindful of God and creation were when I did not do so much self-examination which mostly led to disconnection. I am too inward. Time to take me to the streets.
Good pooping, Beck is awesome
brandonpiercegeary
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
so, so and so close
I just finished a mix of songs I am giving to Melissa. This is the second mix I have made for her since she left for treatment. The first I called "now" because I made it as off-the-cuff as one can. This one is called "immediacy" because that is the only thing I have craved while she is away. I just want the satisfaction of being near her. I just want to feel close.
I was listening to the cd and I think I made it too somber. I was trying to compile songs that make me feel close to those I am listening with. Perhaps I feel closest when I relate with people's troubles and frustrations. Or when they relate to mine. Melissa and I are going to feel inscrutably indivisible when we are near one another then.
I was listening to the cd and I think I made it too somber. I was trying to compile songs that make me feel close to those I am listening with. Perhaps I feel closest when I relate with people's troubles and frustrations. Or when they relate to mine. Melissa and I are going to feel inscrutably indivisible when we are near one another then.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
everybody, get outside
It never fails that having my friends from Cincinnati visit for even a short evening engenders all manner of grave nostalgia. Nostalgia can be quite destructive if even for the most brief moment it is fully indulged. Because it is a faux joy. A memory of joy. It isn't present and it isn't lasting. It is pleasant but it can certainly, at best, distract and at worst obliterate the fullness of living that is attained when attention is paid to the present and the hope of the future.
All this calls to mind the first time I saw the movie "The Wrong Guys" starring Louie Anderson and Richard Lewis. Several years ago I walked in on my mom watching it some Sunday afternoon on one of the local stations. She usually watched the worst of movies on any given Sunday afternoon. The beginning credits had just begun and there was a voice over by Louie Anderson. I recognized his nasal passage of a voice from my religious watching of "Life with Louie," Anderson's Saturday morning cartoon that lasted eleven episodes in the mid-nineties. As I watched the movie the camera eventually zeroed in on a very nostalgic and also very unhappy Louie Anderson sitting on the front porch of what turned out to be his mother's house looking at old pictures of his boy scouts troop. I asked my mother what this movie was about.
"It is about what happens to people when they don't know how to just let go."
That is mostly correct. Louis's character gets so nostalgic that he gets his old troop buddies back together for a camping trip to the mountain they couldn't "conquer" as young scouts. They run across an escaped conflict and the initial plot gradually disappears but it is an amusing movie nonetheless. Something about my mother's cynacism tainted the way I watched the entire movie. In every scene I looked for traces of regret, self-loathing, and slovenly - all the things I associated with poorly lived lives. And these guys were miserable.
"People shouldn't live in the past" my mom said. It certainly is alienating to live in the very self-obsessed fantasy of your precieved "good times," the halcyon days of yore. Thank God it is a mighty pleasurable thing to reminiesce for most of us but that grace has not reminded me of how grand life truly is as much as it has caused discontent and selfish restlessness.
If I am unsatisfied may it be for future ends not tied as opposed to what has be sealed for years and cannot be exhumed.
Mmm, memory - "she's a crazy animal when she screams"
All this calls to mind the first time I saw the movie "The Wrong Guys" starring Louie Anderson and Richard Lewis. Several years ago I walked in on my mom watching it some Sunday afternoon on one of the local stations. She usually watched the worst of movies on any given Sunday afternoon. The beginning credits had just begun and there was a voice over by Louie Anderson. I recognized his nasal passage of a voice from my religious watching of "Life with Louie," Anderson's Saturday morning cartoon that lasted eleven episodes in the mid-nineties. As I watched the movie the camera eventually zeroed in on a very nostalgic and also very unhappy Louie Anderson sitting on the front porch of what turned out to be his mother's house looking at old pictures of his boy scouts troop. I asked my mother what this movie was about.
"It is about what happens to people when they don't know how to just let go."
That is mostly correct. Louis's character gets so nostalgic that he gets his old troop buddies back together for a camping trip to the mountain they couldn't "conquer" as young scouts. They run across an escaped conflict and the initial plot gradually disappears but it is an amusing movie nonetheless. Something about my mother's cynacism tainted the way I watched the entire movie. In every scene I looked for traces of regret, self-loathing, and slovenly - all the things I associated with poorly lived lives. And these guys were miserable.
"People shouldn't live in the past" my mom said. It certainly is alienating to live in the very self-obsessed fantasy of your precieved "good times," the halcyon days of yore. Thank God it is a mighty pleasurable thing to reminiesce for most of us but that grace has not reminded me of how grand life truly is as much as it has caused discontent and selfish restlessness.
If I am unsatisfied may it be for future ends not tied as opposed to what has be sealed for years and cannot be exhumed.
Mmm, memory - "she's a crazy animal when she screams"
Monday, April 13, 2009
Sunday, April 12, 2009
dance and dance
Melissa had a group therapy session today where the participants were asked to choose someone they would like to dance with living or dead. Her mind was compelled to dwell on me and she began crying fiercely and had to leave the room.
I miss my incomparably beautiful, sensitive, glorious partner.
She is so full of emotion and love and passion that the mere thought of dancing with her clumsy husband sends her into fits. What new mystery is this? I don't understand but I guarantee you I share the sentiment in that I cannot contain the verve that violently gushes whenever I consider for the slightest moment the unfathomable impact her love has had on me.
Thank God for your existence, Melissa. Thank the living God for your livingness. You have so much of it. I have never been so inspired by a single person.
I miss my incomparably beautiful, sensitive, glorious partner.
She is so full of emotion and love and passion that the mere thought of dancing with her clumsy husband sends her into fits. What new mystery is this? I don't understand but I guarantee you I share the sentiment in that I cannot contain the verve that violently gushes whenever I consider for the slightest moment the unfathomable impact her love has had on me.
Thank God for your existence, Melissa. Thank the living God for your livingness. You have so much of it. I have never been so inspired by a single person.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
It's always sunny in Omaha...
except when it is cloudy, of course. But as I was walking towards downtown I once again realized how truly dwarfish our "skyscrapers" are. We have two buildings that jut slightly over the heads of the "lesser" buildings and structures but I honestly find it hard to be terribly impressed by them. One First National Center stands a whopping 634' and the Woodmen Tower, made moderately famous to those unfamiliar with large insurance companies by director and local hero Alexander Payne's movie About Schmidt, is a hardly notable 478'. As I passed them today I didn't have to crane my neck or strain my eyes to see their top floors. I thought about how I would feel perhaps a larger helping of local pride if there were immense monuments declaring something to be proud of.
Although this derth of height helps keep a definite humble air about town, even with the fact of being eighth in the country in both per-capita billionaires and fortune 500 companies, it also helps the sunshine reach the wide city streets and numerous neighborhood parks. So when the sun shines it pours all over every cove and alley in Omaha. So in retrospect I am quite shamed by my lack of attention to things that actually matter in making a city truly great. Tall buildings are probably more of a hinderance to helpful pride and happiness as they separate rather than bring community. Even these relatively short buildings distracted me from noticing elements far more lovely than any edifice could afford.
Although this derth of height helps keep a definite humble air about town, even with the fact of being eighth in the country in both per-capita billionaires and fortune 500 companies, it also helps the sunshine reach the wide city streets and numerous neighborhood parks. So when the sun shines it pours all over every cove and alley in Omaha. So in retrospect I am quite shamed by my lack of attention to things that actually matter in making a city truly great. Tall buildings are probably more of a hinderance to helpful pride and happiness as they separate rather than bring community. Even these relatively short buildings distracted me from noticing elements far more lovely than any edifice could afford.
where in the blue, where it's new
I read a book this week in the shortest amount of time I have ever read a book. Two days. It probably took about 7-8 hours altogether. I do not read so very fast and this was a very short book. To the tune of only 129 pages with each individual page only amounting to about 3" x 5.5" and the margins were also quite substantial. So I am not sure how much pleasure I can take in this feat. But that is okay because the content of the book was quite humbling. It was C.S. Lewis' fantasy about the inhabitants of Heaven and Hell called The Great Divorce. It was a truly remarkable read and without a doubt has deeply affected my view of the two places.
It kept bringing to mind this collaborative song by The Chemical Brothers and The Flaming Lips called "the golden path." It is about this guy who is in a sort of dream where he is confronted by "demonic forces" while navigating "a supposed golden path" to "silver mountains" in the distance. There is a part of the song when he decides to stand up to the "specter" who is tormenting him with questions about how he might have come to die and what to do now. He cries out to God - "Help me, Lord. I've found myself in some kind of hell." But then he feels foolish because he "doesn't believe in a Heaven and Hell, world in opposites, kind of reality." But he trudges on toward these mountains where he hears singing (Wayne Coyne to be precise): "Please forgive me, I never meant to hurt you."
And this is very akin to the journey many of the characters in the The Great Divorce found themselves on. The only difference is that the song's poor soul is all alone save a few ghoulish roadblocks. In the book a host of glorified spirits descend from the mountain in order to discuss with the inhabitants of Hell the obvious benefits to living encapsulated by love and joy for all eternity as opposed to, well, anything else.
It kept bringing to mind this collaborative song by The Chemical Brothers and The Flaming Lips called "the golden path." It is about this guy who is in a sort of dream where he is confronted by "demonic forces" while navigating "a supposed golden path" to "silver mountains" in the distance. There is a part of the song when he decides to stand up to the "specter" who is tormenting him with questions about how he might have come to die and what to do now. He cries out to God - "Help me, Lord. I've found myself in some kind of hell." But then he feels foolish because he "doesn't believe in a Heaven and Hell, world in opposites, kind of reality." But he trudges on toward these mountains where he hears singing (Wayne Coyne to be precise): "Please forgive me, I never meant to hurt you."
And this is very akin to the journey many of the characters in the The Great Divorce found themselves on. The only difference is that the song's poor soul is all alone save a few ghoulish roadblocks. In the book a host of glorified spirits descend from the mountain in order to discuss with the inhabitants of Hell the obvious benefits to living encapsulated by love and joy for all eternity as opposed to, well, anything else.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
the good times are killing me
When I was much younger and had only been writing poetry for a couple of years I wrote this poem called "listen." I entered it in a contest in ninth grade to get put in this collection called The Ohio Anthology of Youth Poets. It was chosen to be among hundreds of other dilettantes in the publication. One of the last lines in my poem, a line at which I know cringe miserably, has taken on actual meaning to me. I can't help but believe I originally wrote it for the immature and yet common writerly notion that it sounded very much like something I would read in what was my understanding of "poem."
(the line breaks are what I think they might have been. I don't actually remember)
Even though this is terribly cliched and seems to me like a reinterpretation of something I misheard when eavesdropping on my grandpa and father discussing my dad's childhood and old phonographs it actually popped into my head while listening to the Modest Mouse song "The good times are killing me" and the sentiment seemed to be the same. If this is as good as it gets and I am miserable (which I am not currently miserable, I am actually extremely content and jovial) then I don't want to detach from "the bad times." They musn't have been that bad after all. Perspective is becoming more and more obviously crucial to me. And I am becoming that true perspective can only come from truth. From honesty. Especially honesty with ourselves. Honesty that even a grand, spectacular day doesn't have to the end all and be all. We can hope for better days. And we can be honest with ourselves that the dark days had glimmers of some kind of heavenly light within them. Maybe a song.
If these are the best days of our lives,
I want to be listening
to the songs of yesterday.
(the line breaks are what I think they might have been. I don't actually remember)
Even though this is terribly cliched and seems to me like a reinterpretation of something I misheard when eavesdropping on my grandpa and father discussing my dad's childhood and old phonographs it actually popped into my head while listening to the Modest Mouse song "The good times are killing me" and the sentiment seemed to be the same. If this is as good as it gets and I am miserable (which I am not currently miserable, I am actually extremely content and jovial) then I don't want to detach from "the bad times." They musn't have been that bad after all. Perspective is becoming more and more obviously crucial to me. And I am becoming that true perspective can only come from truth. From honesty. Especially honesty with ourselves. Honesty that even a grand, spectacular day doesn't have to the end all and be all. We can hope for better days. And we can be honest with ourselves that the dark days had glimmers of some kind of heavenly light within them. Maybe a song.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
what was once the only thing...
...has transformed into everything.
I have never been so calm in an airport before. This is usually the place that engenders in me the most bestial, brutal feelings. I am usually turning green and slipping into some purple cutoffs. It isn't just the perceived organization of airports or even the advertisement barrage, but it is just how transitional they are.
Airports are one place that I have never been able to be content in or thankful for. They are the farthest thing from home. Familiar, sure, but comfortless because it is all just amusement here to keep your vitals at "just so" in order to ensure your body gets on that plane whether or not your soul ever made to the airport is irrelevant. I have floated soulless as the tomato sitting my window sill back home through many airports. But right now I feel full. Yes I had an airport Pizza Hut Express pizza but I feel fulfillment as well.
I should be discontented. Due to reasons undisclosed to me my flight from Denver to LAX was delayed three hours so no I am departing at 12:30 am Mountain Time. But I feel warm and fresh. I am tired but I am alert. I am practically alone save for about five custodians who keep passing with their large yellow trash cans on wheels. I feel in control in a place I usually feel under attack and helpless. I am going to hold on to this.
I have never been so calm in an airport before. This is usually the place that engenders in me the most bestial, brutal feelings. I am usually turning green and slipping into some purple cutoffs. It isn't just the perceived organization of airports or even the advertisement barrage, but it is just how transitional they are.
Airports are one place that I have never been able to be content in or thankful for. They are the farthest thing from home. Familiar, sure, but comfortless because it is all just amusement here to keep your vitals at "just so" in order to ensure your body gets on that plane whether or not your soul ever made to the airport is irrelevant. I have floated soulless as the tomato sitting my window sill back home through many airports. But right now I feel full. Yes I had an airport Pizza Hut Express pizza but I feel fulfillment as well.
I should be discontented. Due to reasons undisclosed to me my flight from Denver to LAX was delayed three hours so no I am departing at 12:30 am Mountain Time. But I feel warm and fresh. I am tired but I am alert. I am practically alone save for about five custodians who keep passing with their large yellow trash cans on wheels. I feel in control in a place I usually feel under attack and helpless. I am going to hold on to this.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
hope for a tree cut down
Whoa, I apologize for leaving that utterly life-sucking entry up so long. Well, I mean, I know it is still "up" but now it is not the last thing I have posted and therefore the last thought I have left some people concerning my current state.
So apologies.
ahhhhhh, good lord, my headache!
So apologies.
ahhhhhh, good lord, my headache!
Thursday, February 26, 2009
"i feel like i'm in someone else's home"
I am so cold.
Is it inconceivable that a person can be happy? Eh, probably not. I feel I am pulling away from myself and the detachment isn't providing the escape I suppose I was hoping for. Not that I have truly intentional split myself up, but since I could see it happening I figured I might cull some silver lining from this inevitable counterpart to being twenty four, having much expected of me and having little to show.
I will make it there.
pierce
Is it inconceivable that a person can be happy? Eh, probably not. I feel I am pulling away from myself and the detachment isn't providing the escape I suppose I was hoping for. Not that I have truly intentional split myself up, but since I could see it happening I figured I might cull some silver lining from this inevitable counterpart to being twenty four, having much expected of me and having little to show.
I will make it there.
pierce
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