As a new month begins, making transitions
between cities, embarking on journeys of
professional and artistic endeavors, or
progression with relationships one has with
others, while finding centered moments and
learning to thrive with a third guiding force
of intuition on not only significant matters
but sustaining peace and helping others
achieve the same awareness, seems like
exceedingly practical goals to accomplish.
These days many people seem to be
overextending their skills because they can
identify elements in need of support while
accomplishing requirements of one’s position
but are unmet with support from superior
authorities of seemingly less creativity-inclined
mindsets. The interview with Nicolas Ghesquière
proved the vitality of recycling the feeling of
empowerment within a place of work.
What was clear was the disintegration of
language juxtaposing the eerie immediacy
of information, which one cannot refute
as a sort of ambiguity in establishing
how one can grow when the original
responsibilities of one’s occupation
no longer carry the same intensity while
moments of reflection demonstrate the
cloudiness masks an abusive demand for
one’s skills. Is this the plight of all
creative entities? Perhaps, however, as
aggressively as the wind pushes against
bare tree branches, it seems one must
navigate through cumbersome hierarchies
in pursuit of support for successful
achievement with exceptional stamina in
order to overcome rigidity of tradition.
I wonder how long it will take for Playboy
to move beyond the impediments posed in Goa.
If change incites skepticism from occupied
positions of power, how do creative gusts
of wind garner enough momentum to motivate
a wholesome and effervescent evolution?
“The way you wear your hat, the way you sip your tea, the memory of all that, no, they can’t take that away from me.”
As this song drifts in my mind, I can’t help but think about how to show an interest in the Charlotte culture when I have so many memories of the past floating in my mind’s eye. Everywhere I look, thoughts race through my brain and make no sense as I try to slow the stream. It’s like I’ve reverted to the days I scribbled notes of madness in the journal given to me by my brother as a gift a few years ago. I can’t help but smile and chuckle a little bit because avoiding the mess of contemplation no matter how hard I try to organize my thoughts is rarely a possibility. The pursuit of fulfilling employment has proven vital the organization of thoughts as I search for a space of my own where I can thrive in finding a voice in literary mumbo jumbo.
Twas the night before…too dated and season specific.
As I find myself sitting…too existential.
In all of my days, one never seemed so…I’m onto something.
Slow movement in the right direction never hurt a soul except for the impatient…closer.
Begin with a J and continue with the medicine of frivolous behavior…so I’m Mary Poppins?
Scribble some notes and be on your way, damned wrinkled thing of a brain!…am I summoning Dr. Seuss?
Make the impossible one of reality’s closest relatives…this requires an intoxicant or two.
Find peace in thy mind, twas there no better time to establish tranquility…no words.
After taking stabs at a few voices, I find the challenge awkward, redundant, silly and occasionally enlightening. A balance must be required when trying to rationalize diction, tone, speed and clarity in addition to making characters move through time and space. I wonder though, as I sit in a room with a partial view of the buildings of Charlotte and a rather intrusive view of a living space encased by pink windows, why does this difficulty seem most imperative to resolve during moments of uncertainty, restlessness and debauchery?
[written in February 2012]
What is the feeling one gets
when one feels pressure to do
something in order to achieve
a goal or task, which may have
been acquired after meeting an
individual capable of enhancing
stimulation of the conscious state?
And what is the expression one uses
when one needs to accomplish something
of a strange sort but resources available
somehow obscure one’s comprehension of the
strangeness of that something? While
I haven’t listened to the song yet,
Gates, thank you for gracefully
capturing this debacle in
A Vague Ambition.
[this was recovered from January 2011
but the reference to A Vague Ambition
lyrics was not made until 2013]
Lost, it’s lost
the words I last wrote
about the emotional rope
off of which I now fall,
they’ve vanished and I know not
where I placed the damn notecard.
So silly, so jovial, perhaps even witty
my flight of thought
seems to have taken me.
But, oh, the days I could linger
with sanity in the park
and upon my finger.
Now every moment feels as though
every carb I eat
consume this skin covered meat.
Sit still, I say in the dark
and smelly room, only to find
I am not so shrewd.
Simple instruction, and consumption in moderation,
those beliefs in temperance
seem to only madden
as I determine how best to use
my tools of satisfaction.
But that cannot be a sensation
worth the trouble of a roller coaster through emotions,
conversations with inner monsters,
and the passively strong forces
of an insignificant nature.
The days I’ve contemplated titles
for projects that have been on my
mind are the days I become so
moved by the imagination, which
takes flight upon visualizing
publication of stories past and
present. The impact they will
have on marginalized and
introspective beings could be
tremendous yet there is a
possibility of the stories
being perhaps too honest, too
insouciant, to a degree of
concern. Oh, bring on the
degree however severe it may
be to the monitored eye.
Enlightenment is desired and
how better provide it to
the masses than with sullen
speculations of a Midwestern
writer? It seems the main
objective of those who
have published their
literary voices is to
explore the dimensions
through which vague senses
of self floats and weaves
belts of connectivity.
These explorations may
be therapeutic for writers
but most certainly
are craved by the audience
for whom the tales and
hypotheses are transcribed
but is it because the audience
is incapable of exploring
within themselves fascinating
themes and questions so far
tucked away into the unconscious
due to overwhelming schedules
and elements of home life,
which incite literary fervor?
Perhaps. I’ve noticed the most
avid readers tend to be some of the
hardest working individuals I’ve
been blessed to have become
acquainted and the more
lazy readers I’ve known are
more noticeably less motivated
to make sacrifices and challenge
their minds with non technological
stimuli. With this thought process, I
hope to de-clutter the fragments of
stories I’ve accumulated in order
to create cohesion in plots and
day bring smiles and laughter,
introspection and confusion, then
enlightenment and hope for the future
but the question of when others may
appreciate such tales of honesty
and betrayal, mystery and self-
loathing, roundabout woes of
contradiction if too they
happen upon such worrisome
avenues of thought also rises.
Hopefully sooner rather than
later for positive changes
must happen with the utmost haste.
As I transcribe the words
of a person sitting on my right at the
outdoor area of Common Market,
I find the content of his speech
rather superfluous for his companion.
I realize in my desire to capture
distinct surrounding affects,
I need not rely on conversations
of others in order to animate
the mind. Many would likely
avoid wasteful contemplation of
those in close proximity since there
are many who bask in bromidic cordialities
that impede understanding the depths of
consciousness with which we crave
acquaintance. I hate ending a
sentence with a preposition
but the help of this grammatical
crutch can be extremely advantageous.
It’s been over a month
since I arrived in Charlotte
and I am learning my patience with
verbalization, despite the veil
of interest that can be used
to extract what it means
to be, is dwindling.
However, I still crave
listening to stories that
cultivate one’s mind during
today’s economic and political
chaos of American and global
societies. Then again, with
coverage of frivolously
political dras, and
it seems easy to fall into
ignorance of positive impacts
on marginalized and disturbed communities,
which ones who live in bounteous bliss can incite.
As I end my second glass of Merlot,
I find my mind traveling further
from reality while male and
female voices around me
seem progressively foreign.
Perhaps the speakers’ blaring
99 Luftballons alters a comprehension
of brogue more so than Bordeaux merriment.
I also arrive at the point of intoxication
where the validation of inquiring for a
cigarette is inevitable and I cannot
avoid laughing at my laudable
expenses, which contradict
saving money to address
the financial obligations
accrued during unique
But what of bodies
of legislative, judiciary
and executive exploits, how
are college graduates expected
to fulfill repayment standards
when governing bodies, both
domestic and abroad, seem
incapable of setting
a positive example?
This thought bubbles
after taking heed to the
perspective of a commentary
created by an insightful minority
as does the influence of social
networking on conversations
enjoyed when in public.
How can online sensations
serve as points of elaboration
for those in close company while
jointly transforming into pivots of babble?
First, with how much wine should I fill another glass?
Riding the train is one of the best ways to travel because it forces one to evaluate a forthcoming vacation or move and anticipate the risks and adventures. Before taking a vacation or making a big move, there is one inevitable question that may flee past the corners the traveler’s mind: How does one decide what to wear for traveling?
As I was packing, I found an old purple t-shirt with a few discrete nips in the fabric. This was a practical and comfortable shirt, which hadn’t been worn in a while but I felt like this was the perfect time to test its durability. I wanted to pack a more appropriate pair of shoes for the gray slacks and wear a more comfortable pair for the ride but I couldn’t have squeezed a single sheet of paper into the bag–I was told in Toledo the suitcase weighed fifty pounds over the baggage weight limit. I opted to wear the extra pair in addition to wearing a versatile black vest that I couldn’t bring myself to crease.
I met a very kind gentleman who was on his way to Manhattan to reunite with friends as we were waiting to board the train in Toledo. He exuded the casual energy of someone who had grown accustomed to the art of dressing for travel as he sported a black knit hat, thick rimmed glasses, dark wash skinny jeans and an over sized North Face zip-up, which covered a gray or perhaps beige a-shirt. He regarded himself as someone that wouldn’t wear pajamas on any moving vehicle, rather a traveler that dresses for comfort in lieu of form.
After he took a few shots of my ensemble inside the Toledo station, the battery died so I couldn’t take a photo of his look. Even though electrical sockets were accessible on the train, neither of us had the energy for a even a brief photo shoot but I had a delectable view of the outside from my window.