months

you're there

and i'm here

separation

invites

the birds and bees

awareness again

then we'll

destroy ourselves.

a strange thing to live in this moment aware of the circle, knowing what comes next.

it's over
and i say
what is this
feeling
is this it
there is
nothing
and i want
to run
home to
my piano

Happy Spring!

http://67.19.222.106/love/audio/lovesmenot.mp3

lately I feel ... peaceful.

somewhat communicating with the "natural universe".  

I'm in Italy, in Florence, and I've just played my Brahms intermezzo at a small empty restaurant.  Il mio zio insisted, and the family allowed me to play (potrei suonare il tuo piano?).  The lights reflect far down into cobblestone streets on the way back, and I've seen David, and the Rape of the Sabine Women, and some works of Stradivarius today.  

I am aware of extremes, the extreme ways we like to think, and I avoid them now.  The extremes are non-meaning, after all, by the nature of themselves.  

"Which piece of art was your favorite?"

"If you had to say what was the best and worst thing about it, what would they be?"

"This is the best pizza I've ever had!"

We lose so much in these extremes.  Things just are, secondo me.

my point is my logic can't be overturned

so do you want to inspire people or show people why you're right

no one addresses my logic because it can't be overturned

your logic is so inclusive

WHAT

it's too damn inclusive

you'll have to define inclusive

how about 'people' in your premise

that still doesn't prove any flaw in my logic

your logic is based on absolutes

logic is absolute

it's absolute in the mathematical world but not here

no it's absolute both places

human experience can not be summed up in an absolute

i still don't see a flaw in the logic

your logic is non-meaning it's correctness is irrelevant

it is not non-meaning

listen

listen to what

you're missing all the subtleties 

WHAT

the subtleties

ok...

subtleties are the beauty in the world

and what about that disproves my logic

because your logic is inhuman and non-meaning

INHUMAN

it has no grounding in our experience there is no absolute

...

love for a theory is incomplete compared to love expressed.

most love it.  some love.

sitting at the airport -- Ny then Pisa.  

nothing on my mind except the flight and how to make this stupid WiFi load facebook...  how pathetic.

My Dad gave me a link to a photo of a baby.  This baby has tubes galore protruding from its mushy-baby-skull.  Each tube is connected to a brand, a trademark: facebook, myspace, nike, levi's, starbucks. 

it's weird that I'm that baby.

If people around you at college know where to expect you, then you're boring.

at times,

it's not so romantic anymore.

to bed before midnight for once.  things are turning: the earth, the season, and definitely my brain, immersed again in Academia.  

"To live life in the moment."  That little phrase has made me laugh lately.  Life is a moment repeated endlessly. 

a little baby follows me, 

snatches at my hem or shoes,

looks at me with its baby face,

but never babbles. 

riding on the way back from Italian with my Ipod on and in my ears...

thinking: what a great symbol that this was a gift from Mrs. Edwards.

what happens to all these things that I think to myself late at night?

to be romantic, I imagine a seed flicked away into the winds of a desert (assuming of course the desert cannot sustain said seed).

I am up late and I think these strange thoughts, and I feel like they should lead to places, yet they exist free of the symbolization resulting from coincidence.  

exist, a moment, dissolve.  pop.

I'm so new at this game... aspiring to think objectively.

I want to think in an authentic way.  When I conceive of an idea free of symbol, I recognize the feeling.

Talked to her today, finally.  A cellist and polite and with a gentle voice.  When I am 30 or 40, with a balding head and the hint of a gut, I will not talk to women this way, and I'll have more time alone with my thoughts.  I like the freedom, but the advantages are there and distract me.  When I am 30 or 40, I'll have a favorite chair for the sunset and hours while the light dissolves.  Maybe then I can think in an authentic way.

I like conversation best when one implores another to speak, and the cycle continues.

couples walk into wal-mart with blank faces, perhaps a hint of disgust.  it's like when you were in elementary school, pushing the opposite poles of magnets together; you can hold them close, and yet the tension is there.  what are they looking for on these shelves, on this thursday afternoon?  has this replaced a quiet conversation or the simple pleasure of company one and the other?  some are young, some are older into their 50s, and they all have guts (and presumably multiple prescriptions).  their clothes are disinterested like their expressions.  browsing I suppose.  as if "browsing" at wal-mart were some sort of justification.

just divorce already.

it's not adhd, learned sir, and i don't want your coke either.

i can't sit down for a long time.

meditation comes only in sleep.

the tv is an overwhelming,

incoherent march, like soldiers

without a war.

i can't focus for a long time.

i spend time thinking about time,

how it escapes me, or more rarely,

how i might escape it.

i'm a product of a productive place.

it's replaced everything.

i'll never write a fucking novel...

verklarte nacht

it takes six instruments to create an ocean of angst, melodies close to the surface, gleaming with the twinkle of sunlight, accompanied by harmonies of a deeper texture, dark and unknowable to affected ears, requiring full attention and yet spinning listeners into daydreams.  

(how is it...)

the rise and fall of lines converging-diverging, the trails of sonorities making for a colorful track, authentic and transcending music into a pure form of expression, liberating to ears numbed by modern shit, the adagio begins with unexpected warmth, the radiance of a courageous-unjealous man.

(how is it even...)

the resolution rushes in like chemicals or oxygen to a deprived brain, words into music and music into atmosphere, the sounds dissolve like a 1950s coke into my ears, dripping with sugar-sweet satisfaction in the knowledge that one of our own species could contain such undeniable genius, such truth in art.

(how is it even conceivable that someone could write that?)

curled up, insulated in a comforter with the rest of the sheets tossed about, sweating everything out of my body until I wake up sick with thirst, I start the day.  I like to say that my immune system is so efficient that I never find out exactly what "sickness" I've contracted.  But damn, I am feeling this one.  

later in the night, I'm downhill toward the fields for football, avoiding Jona for once.  We play for a long time, and I become more sick.  An hour and a half later, I step into the Strom for basketball -- two more hours.

At last, after swallows of water at the fountain, fingers shaking along with my legs, torso in such pain that I need to stoop a little bit, I flip the lever so the water will pour out.  Cold at first, then warmish.  It has a hold on me, I feeling like a shell of a human being.  Shampoo, conditioner, the little steps of hygiene.  By now, the warmish water feels cold to my shivering, goosebumped skin.  I look down at my little phallus, surrounded as he is by hair, but experience no impulses.  The same impulses that drive middle-aged men onto "Predator" are absent from me in this moment.  Not entirely physical, this is somewhat of an intellectual transcendence, so I tell myself.  But yes, it truly is.  Sex?  ....and?

There is you, up on the screen in pseud0-hazy film with false friends and a false smile, captions betraying a juvenile sense of grammar and of thought, hands clasping the collar of a revealing blouse, eyes lined in dark crayon to reflect a wild-lustful heart.  Innocent and yet your innocence so long shattered by a weak man of a father and the erosion of wild first love, you catch the lens of a distasteful snapshot.  The pixels that make up your soft lips and cat smile reflect on my half-closed eyes, imagining passionate love with this woman again, years and memories removed from our last intimate moment.  Thoughts are only thoughts, fantasy fleeting into airy daydreams, however.  I remove myself, check out, into a world ago, states away and memories fresh and raw.  Here is the night we lay embraced beneath stars.  Here is the day we named for ourselves.  Here is the day you asked me to keep you.  I play Takk like a scarf of velvet tingling the beautiful neck of a woman, running endlessly like a slice of infinity through soft-tender memories.  I can still see the shape of your hip as you lay naked, smiling with tearful eyes -- I can live with you through memories, moments full of love in the past, bitter and frustrating in the tedious now.

cinematography is the most important part of a movie.

see what i see.  cameras on and then i'll avoid little distractions with the big drawbacks, the densensitizing elements.  

in ears is the 3rd piano concerto of rachmaninoff.  such genius is always an inspiration to me.  the beauty of it.  i can compose events into an elaborate collage of breathtaking images and moments.  

i can be a composer when i focus.  

portsmouth, virginia.  portsmouth, virginia.  I miss you, anne.

Yesterday ate nothing but 4 bowls of reese puffs.

today, wake up late again, more malnutrition.

behind in classes. 

behind on the piano.

lost library book.

not much admirable.

the worst sin is to speak plain, all out in the open, directly without discretion.  it's like unveiling something beautiful with no preface.  what's happened to good rhetoric?  the play on words, the deceits, the feathery feeling of it too.  as far as i can tell, people my age speak directly to each other, as in 'Hey how are you?'  'oh good, thanks for asking'  'cool, i'm good too'  etc.etc.

there's no intrigue in that.  there's nothing artful in that.  i've spoken like that for a long time.  just a few days ago, i realized how uncomfortable and unsatisfying and awkward it is.  

so i've worked on it.

a kid today asked, 'man, is it a little chilly outside?'

i thought for a moment, and came up with this:  'but i can take it.'  not even answering his question, inserting a little wit (as best as i can), lightening the situation.

women around my age are quite good at this sort of witty rhetoric, but only when they're coming onto you. 

i suppose i'm frustrated with all the 3 second, meaningless and painful passings i've had with people who are hardly my acquaintances.  

if you are an empty person, i highly suggest resorting to this sort of rhetoric; at least you'll be hiding the nothing.  if you are a substantial person, i even more highly suggest it; then you'll have something worthy of hiding, and you'll stand even more intriguing.

i believe a lot of this bland style of conversing is a product of my society.  my worth as a student as well as a human being when applying for college was spelled out in numbers and figures and computer pixels and ink.  it's all about conveying your worth and your style and your life within a damn resume.  i say fuck that.

whatever you've got going for you, hide it.  lock it up.  tease the hell out of people with it.  god does the same thing.

(note:  feminine gesture of readjusting strap very elegant)

I admire Jonny Greenwood.

people scoot into the room laughing

paper smiles open hearts, companionship and friendship,

i'm on the bed, trying to listen trying not to listen,

participating without participating, distant and strange,

don the headphones for familiar music

to remind me that my great friends,

my great memories and my great dreams

lie miles left away at home, strolling around

through Isle of Wight forests, dark-shiny 

neighborhood streets, faces I would forget

after years of absence because I see into them,

through the flesh into other things,

the qualities hesitantly admired

over the course of years,

people of substance, 

like the way your lover's flesh feels

feathery and complete against you.

a way to say hey man scoot over pull over stoppa the car because you have lost your mind you think the road is a medieval playground and you're on the monkey bars this is a car got that this is a car and you need to pull over before it falls out.

A beautiful day from where I'm from.  The sky with shades of soft baby blue and castle-clouds that seem more definite than the plans of tomorrow - to return to Columbia after a month in Chesapeake.  I drive mesmerized -- the most beautiful day and I just want to watch the clouds float by as I rotate with the Earth -- into the night.  

To her house for goodbye.  No I can't sit and stay for awhile.  No I'm not all that hungry; I just ate.  No thanks, I should get going:  To stay would be so overwhelming, so I limit myself to an embrace.  I look at her baby blue eyes like the clouds and how they well up with tears, and it's too much.  She needs me but I have to leave, have to do the whole college bit and leave.  

Love.

I retreat into myself, a maze of little impulses, the spark of mysterious life, separate from exterior expectations.  Here I can gaze through windows at memories, remembering.  

And at Columbia, I'll lock myself away.  I'll close my eyes and feel lungs pushing out against their cage.  Then I am alone with the keys, black and white.  Then I can tell the truth.

A forum:  A slate:  The Earth bounded cover to cover, filled up with ink and words and pictures and infallibility, another way to chart out the wanderings of a self-discrediting mind, combinations of syllables projected into a vacuum like grains of sand tossed into the impulses of the ocean, a place to fail with no consequences, no readers, nothing to lose.  America isn't always kind to her artists.  Strong, aggressive, iron businessmen sort of chuckle at the idea of a starving artist then rattle some change in their pockets.  But they don't understand that the artist fails thousands of times.  Repeatedly, endlessly, like evolution on a much less interesting and grand of scales, but the failures are personal, perhaps more profound than a fish to a frog (the diagrams of dusty texts).  

Blogs.  The very unappetizing sound of the word fits the pursuit -- to fail, by and by, more or less, in and of itself, most importantly, first off.  If some lonely eyes come to pass over these words, may they know they read through a vacuum, the emptiness of some black hole galaxies away, consuming without anyone's knowing, sucking.  Three or four posts tops, not much more.  A forum to fail, secretly.  Blue and purple and gold swirl, then POOF, bye bye.

Rachael Maddow:  "I don't WANT to know the 'right' way to do things."  Amen, sis....brother.  Aware she is but removed also.  She admitted to not owning a television.  An artist.  Creating art of herself, without filter upon filter piled up like prescription in an old man's glasses, he worn down by the twists and turns and deceptions of a patterned world.  

Art of herself.  Art of myself.  Disconnected yet interested.  Syllables pouring fourth with no deceit, no aim, no ambition other than to exist somewhere other than the doubtful corridors in a preconditioned brain, a simon of a brain, a jigsaw of a brain, a password of a brain, a rubix cube of a brain.  

I've been brainwashed...

I'm beaten down by the rules of an unjust-insane society.  I don't believe in them yet I live by them, because people created them.  Late (or early depending on your perspective), I watch prison shows of violent men, disturbed and desperate and violent.  Little could they have known that the way to live outside of the law is through words, thoughts, conceptions, not of others but entirely of their own.  And yet, only the greatest ever escape -- to the blind delight and dumb admiration of those they leave behind.