Small gods

Oh it's this old feeling again-
yawning in the backseat of the car.
Nodding to the beat of a brother careening through
sticky blackness and roaring.

I wake up at 8:15 and vomit a few galaxy clusters.
Alpha Centauri was much more exquisite
going down then coming up.

Monarch of the Glen

Gliding through the portico of
some forgotten rolling hills in
some highlands nearly as misplaced.
I heft The Walker's Guide to Scotland
in my right hand and remember that you never returned
my copy of Beowulf.

I guess it doesn't matter overmuch
but still

I think I'll stick a steak knife
in your left eye
the next time I see you.

Tuesday

I saw a bird tense up on a wire
leap and thrust, feathers flurrying
and smack to the asphalt squelching
To be eaten by a thousand cars
Driven by men who can't afford them
and their wives with plastic faces

Al Mustaqbal

Kissing you was a handful of water
in this deep, dark desert of days

Edge of Darkness

Clap on, clap off
Clapton on crack rocks
Gunning the guitar with three hands
That's one more than Guy Fawkes
The gunpowder plan, the Catholic plot
Let's restore England to a golden epoch
That was not quite as hot as we originally thought
After the hornet's nest is ripped abreast
Our morals were put to the test, times are worst, times are best
A Dickens fest of religious zeal and political zest
When I heard that trumpet sound in Budapest
And Death charged in with all the rest
Famine, Plague, and riding last - Conquest
Riders on the storm of the abnormal
Bridging the line of the real and the insanely informal
Those dormant specters of man's internal blankness
With frankness, I say most of what makes a human
is a vacuum of rude phrases and empty spaces
Beyond the shadow shards of souls nonexistent
We're all just living to get fed
Through the slit of the libertine guillotine
No lead, no bread, no heads

Mosquito Man

I'm not dead, I'm not dead
cotton throat, face's red
Tears to pillows, only to know
Life is cheap, coins turn to stings

I'm not dead, I'm not dead
sore saliva, tossing beds
I've been here before, I'm back for more
Life is stifling, now breathing is trifling

Acid Wash

I dreamed about you for a year
and on day 366, I forgot your name

Looper

See soon how I show
What it means
To return to this eternal life

I'll be back
With blood and brains and bouquets
For the final applause

The Modern Book of The Dead

I am the beewulf now
Crusted beard and hard hands clutching gravel
feet racing at no real pace through sticks and snow and snakes
the warrior at once the wild child, the suckling babe
I see a red cloud and make the mist my home

I am the straight man now
Cut from angles, hewn from sheet rock
The lover of stars spangled and moving strobes
Cars that shoot at my side as I walk in line
I see a green cloud, opened my mouth

My parents embracing in a blue cloud
I enter - jealous, lustful
Found a canal, took gulps by the cupful
Reborn into this sensory blitz
Reborn, but already dead
All these lights are in my head

At last, The Dark Knight Rose

Bruce Wayne is compelling for his wealth, his well-bred disregard for anything that's not wearing 6-inch plus heels, and his minor gap of humanity - allowing his character to remain accessible despite having almost nothing in common with your typical comic book reader or movie goer.


Batman is compelling for his ever growing supply of unbelievable gadgets, his insane dedication to the unrealistic principle that you only bring your mind and your tech to a gun fight, and his total adaptation of the iconography of terror - shrinking close to the corner of a shadow only to return suddenly with explosive force.


Bane is compelling for his transition from a lucid, loyal foot-soldier to a disfigured 'army general,' his unprecedented ability to use heavy-handed fighting styles and smash Batman into submission, and his (Tom Hardy's) incredibly convincing application of authoritative body language - giving Bane an aura of unflinching, unquestionable leadership. 


Selina Kyle is compelling for her dynamic personality shift when exposed to Bruce/Batman over time, her curiously fluid and seemingly well-trained physicality, and her injection of the thematic abjection and notes of poverty/financial disparity that were present (and important) in Batman Begins - looping Nolan's finale in a wide arc over The Dark Knight (which would have been impossible to top using the same tool set) and instead linking emotionally and tonally with the original film, forming a bond of spiritual succession that warrants watching all three in one sitting. 


John Blake (Robin) is compelling for his level head in a city infected with a wildly unpredictable neurosis, his characteristic balance of Bruce Wayne's persona as the stilted orphan dumped into Gotham's sea of high-rises and deep alleys without an ounce of privilege to his name, and his utilization of this connection to finally piece together the largely unexplored idea that Gotham's most well-known son could also be its most notorious vigilante-turned-villain - setting up Blake as a world-class detective and an intuitive fit (emotionally and idealistically) to don the cape and cowl. 


Gordon, as always, is compelling (mostly because of Gary Oldman) for his humanity as Commissioner, his struggle as to whether or not he should reveal the shocking truth about Harvey Dent and risk harming the eye-of-the-storm peacetime that's descended over Gotham, and his adoption of the vigilante ethos (his speech to Blake that when the structures in power fail your sense of justice, you have to branch outside the influence of those structures and sometimes appear to be a rogue) - instilling in Blake the thought-seed that eventually sprouts into Robin's ascension.


Talia al Ghul is not compelling.


----------------------------------------


The Dark Knight Rises left me lost in my seat thinking, "I have to enjoy this movie. This is the last time I'll get to experience Bale as Batman with Nolan at the helm. The Dark Knight was amazing, so this must be too." Obsessed with that pattern of thought, I couldn't really absorb the movie as it happened, rather tracking back every 5 minutes to appreciate a certain scene or line of dialogue. 


I didn't - as I assume with most other fans - have this problem with The Dark Knight because it was such an unexpected god damn spectacle. Coming off Batman Begins (which contained much less of the massive scale pieces as TDK and TDKR) only gave us a taste of the hero Batman would develop into and did what was necessary for the first film in the series - it set up the insecurities/character foundation of Bruce Wayne and made sense of his eccentric decision to dress up as a bat and stalk the night.


So when masked robbers burst into a bank on that widescreen, slowly pick each other off, and then we catch a glimpse of Ledger's addicting Joker, Nolan has already enticed us with his prestige and guaranteed undivided attention for the rest of the atypically lengthy sequel. 


The Dark Knight pulled off this trick well because it didn't have a controversial zeitgeist preceding it. Batman Begins was a popular and refreshing film, but it didn't have the capacity to generate news stories like The Dark Knight. Probably the biggest "controversy" surrounding Batman Begins was that Katie Holmes was starting to get involved with Tom Cruise and Christian Bale was undergoing rapid weight transformations to adapt to his various movie roles - consequently, when you place these events alongside Heath Ledger's shocking death, they are rightly dwarfed in comparison.


Already, then, The Dark Knight Rises was at a disadvantage. Audiences pouring into theaters came with their favorite shots from The Dark Knight still buzzing in their brains, and watching The Dark Knight Rises felt like a test of concentration. 


This viewing didn't disappoint me because of the quality of the film, but rather because of those preconceived ideas that I couldn't shake my first time watching. 


I can already tell - after ~12 hours from when I saw TDKR - that it's a movie I want to revisit soon with a more prepared mindset. In fact, even though I claimed to be disappointed (more by myself than the movie), I couldn't stop jogging through the plot when I was supposed to be asleep that night, the soundtrack was still ringing in my ears with its interplay between thunderous and nostalgic compositions, and I was still getting chills if I thought about when Alfred - frustrated and troubled at failing to keep Bruce safe as he promised Thomas Wayne - gives Bruce an ultimatum that ends with the Batman persona preferred.  


Thematically and narratively, The Dark Knight Rises couldn't have been made in a way that better aligned the trilogy. It's almost as if any flaws in the film were necessary either by way of our hyped expectations or by the fact that Nolan would have been unable to please everyone with a strict ending (which he chose to use instead of an Inception-like open ending). My friend Adam compared the trilogy to the original Star Wars films - A New Hope the underdog that put a spell on audiences, The Empire Strikes Back the anticipated sequel that reached new heights with little competition from the first film, and Return of The Jedi the necessarily flawed, yet amazing ending to a trilogy that would attach itself to our pop culture consciousness and has remained there since. 


That both Christopher and Jonathan Nolan are immensely talented and innovative filmmakers has been apparent since Jonathan helped inspire Memento with his writing and since the pair teamed up on The Prestige, but I truly believe that in hindsight we will come to see their collaboration on the Batman trilogy as a watershed moment in our notions of what can be captured behind a hunk of recording equipment. 


To sum up my thoughts, films like Batman Begins, The Dark Knight, and The Dark Knight Rises have  introduced a new paradigm in the short-lived and often corny genre of "Comic Book" movies. We can already notice the tint of this perspective in the teaser for Man of Steel - with its almost Malickian cinematography and its stark contrast to 2006's Superman Returns. This is the difference we can now expect from movies based on comics: the difference between Eric Bana's Hulk and Edward Norton's Hulk, the difference between The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen and Watchmen, the difference between Tobey Maguire's goofy swagger and Andrew Garfield's almost method-acted play on the Webbed Warrior - these are the differences we have been offered: between playful and grim, between Razzies and Oscars, between pulp fiction and realistic adaptation.


For better or for worse, Comic Book Movies have been forced to evolve. They have been lambasted to hell, parodied, mocked, and avoided - mostly all for valid reasons. But this evolution was not slow to form or ambling in its uprising. A breed of superhero movies died out for their failings and the new generation of comic book lovers - seeing this happen in real time - have decided to heed the call of responsibility, suit up in Kevlar rather than spandex, and forgo cheesy lines and cheap tricks for real-world reflection and philosophical conflicts. 


DC and Marvel have taken varying approaches to this root shift, but both paths deepen the playing field for superheros on film. For DC this has meant work along the lines of the new Batman, with dark tones and sharp etchings of loss, fear, pain, and redemption; whereas Marvel has chosen the more theatrical (yet still complex) route of introducing likable characters, perfecting the art of role-casting (Garfield as Spiderman, RDJ as Iron Man, Mark Ruffalo as The Hulk, and Tom Hiddleston as Loki were all flashes of brilliance), and picking filmmakers (like Joss Whedon) whose style parallels this new found emphasis on balancing what's comical to what's human. 


There is no longer room in the genre for half-measures. Simple, light, half-baked concepts can't match the new league of movies that have already earned acclaim. As Batman prepares to make the ultimate sacrifice for his city, Catwoman - desperate to save Bruce - says "You don't owe these people anymore. You've given them everything." Bruce knows this isn't true and brings his long-lasting process of catharsis and self-realization to a close, shutting the book on Bruce Wayne's injured psyche.


In much the same way, filmmakers approaching the genre need to put away the pain of past failures and move on. They haven't completely given us what we crave.


Not everything. Not yet.

Propinquity. Alternative Title: A word introduced to me by a close friend, and as I savor the increasingly rare experience of obtaining a new word, I thought to share it. Alternative Title 2: The material or mental nearness between human beings. Propinquity.

I was thinking the other day about how much of an impact our early teachers can have on the course of our lives. At their worst, those teachers show us what we want to absolutely avoid on our journeys (especially when it comes to the more down-trodden variety of teacher). At their best, however, these people nurture a specific skill or two that they envision in us - and while that is a massive responsibility on their part, it's a task that becomes completely necessary when students spend an impressionably large amount of their waking hours in a school.

Although I believe that responsibility is an extremely important function of teachers, they also incubate (ideally) one specific, comprehensive skill that transcends the usefulness of even the most well-written curriculum. That skill would be the ability to appreciate certain types of information, and more importantly, the ability to devote ourselves to the process of learning itself. Not learning as a means to an end, but learning as it is. I say this because loving to learn will inherently lead to the type of thought that engenders powerful ends; therefore, we need to hone in on the standalone tool-set rather than the structures we can raise with that tool-set.

Here in America, we tend to don economic blinders that are both short-sighted and severely narrowing in regards to our long-term outlook. We believe that in order to resuscitate whatever pipe-dream status we once held, we should emphasize certain career brackets. As a result, we flood the job market with workers who not only have an overly specific skill-set, but are also sub-par because they lack a more comprehensive vision for themselves. These workers, however strong their attunement to a national narrative, are missing a narrative constructed to account for their own growth in our society.

By all means, national narratives are crucial to the formation of a cultural event-course, but if those participating in such a narrative can't conceptualize their individual contributions, then they lose sight of the importance of those contributions and fail to adequately buttress the foundations of their community. In this way, highlighting the development of autonomous, critical thought patterns forms the core of an adaptable, globally competitive culture.

If I was to choose a single teacher to make an example of to aid my thesis, it would almost certainly have to be Mrs. Pulse, who taught Eighth Grade English.

I understand it's a cliche to mention English teachers (yada yada all-too-easy Dead Poets Society joke), but Mrs. Pulse, whether purposefully or not, fostered my liking of discourse. I didn't gain much in the way of literary exposure in that class, but to me (and futhermore, at that point in my education) adopting the mindset that allows you to later dive into literature and cultural theory was essential.

See, in reality, it wasn't the most intellectually engaging class (firstly, it was early in the morning - secondly, Eighth graders are typically, but not always, incapable of intellectual engagement in the form that we currently value). However, Mrs. Pulse understood what our capabilities were and spent more time sitting and conversing with us as a class rather than purely lecturing. In this way, she made sure that we comprehended the value of a level-headed conversation with a peer while simultaneously making us feel that we were much older than 13 or 14 (which is vital for an adolescent's confidence).

I specifically recall a writing assignment that consisted of writing a short story based on the self-help bestseller "Who Moved My Cheese?". I can't remember the details of the purported help offered by that book (mainly because it was rubbish), but I chose to take a dystopian spin on the core thought-line of two mice taking different approaches to maze navigation. The piece was probably unclear, frenzied, and written using a pen with faulty ink (there were black splotches all over the flimsy pages), but regardless of those setbacks, Mrs. Pulse appreciated what I was going for and pushed me to keep writing with a unique voice.

Voice - the subtle yet incredibly potent difference between shoddy and quirky, addicting writing - clearly meant a lot to her, and that preference was reflected in her choice of assignments. We had a few writing assignments throughout the year that paralleled the "Cheese" essay, and with each one (presented, albeit shakily, in front of the whole class) I felt more confident in my voice and my understanding of the potential words have to weave ideas seamlessly through both space and time - translating beautiful and horrible ideas from one mind to another. Of course, I also became more confident in my understanding of how easily it is to get middle-school aged kids to laugh at jokes about slutty math teachers (I'm talking about you, Mrs. Schneider).

To wrap that nostalgia trip up, now I notice how strikingly similar Mrs. Pulse's teaching format was to that of my Liberal Arts professors in college. We desperately need more teachers in young classrooms educating in this style - which prepares students far better for quick-witted, deep thought than merely repeating (as is currently the case) that higher education is rigorous and that we should almost fearfully approach our movement to that level.

In the end, there are few concrete action items we can currently shoulder to immediately implement a more out-dated, University-style teaching approach in lower level classrooms; but, if we can adjust our awareness of this issue, we might just go from singlemindedly valuing teachable moments to having a national school system others will want to learn from. 

New Haring

We could, you know, paint poignant pictures together
And, if you wanted, put pen-line portraits of ourselves
On the walls, did you think, that it was possible to see our figures
Cast as shadows, neverending and running, across chalk mural highways?

Bursting with chakra wavelengths, now you agree, and forever looping
We sink into each other with bits of bristling brushstrokes, all one hand's creation
We made love in between the lines, where little meaning resides
Never commenting that we could't quite make out our private parts
and secret zones - well, in retrospect, they weren't filled in
He left that to our scrutiny, and in a perfect world
We saw each other as we were in truth
Naked, half-dead, and hunched on ancient stoops

And penciling Primordial outlines
Archetypes of kinetic kinds of movement
New Haring split his head in two
Veins in vain in AIDS in aids to eyes

Mama Shaw (Back to Bethlehem)

Oh me, oh my, my young, rotten mind
that I devoted to a dying king
the man in his wine-stained robes
with abdominals starting blankly
and filling the dead sea with life's scaffolding
Those bold first beings, with the cosmic skill of Seeing

Oh gifts, oh curses, Earth's timeline - frustrated purpose
that rid its ambitions of that selfsame spark
bringing our wits to farflung reaches
to swipe at writhing abominations
and enter chambers constructed beyond our understanding
Those bold first beings, with the cosmic skill of Seeing


Oh ma'am, oh mother, was I removed with tongs to slither?
Did you force out cells and scream and yell
just to disown me in this hollow vat?
Cold, scared, in mold I bid - prepare
I stalk the ancient structures of
Those bold first beings, with the cosmic skill of Seeing

Big things have small beginnings.

Harelip

I was baptized by black thighs, mesmerized by white lies

In magazine slip outs, I theorized that the objects of my eyes

weren't worth the time I spent trying to metabolize and recognize

That holes and hair and dirt breath flooded my dreams 

Made me to fit to scheme methods of making madness seem clean

and made me to fit to sing dirges for my dying urges

Splurges to coddle her, like green leaves to a toddler

Disgusted me to the point of clinging to the bottles I earned

To the point of having a sexist breakfast with my two left plastics

And passing the last glass to a leftist cynic

1

How many times have you whined about trifles on your mind

and stuttered for someone kind when nobody was in sight

and how many minds have hankered to press rewind

to eliminate decisions executed with no foresight

I've got more poor sight in my right eye than

a blind kid in a hospital trying to pick a prison fight

and enough remorse set aside for ten Vets' lifetimes

Morose to the point that I can't help but be reminded

of instances long subsided, bringing sharp pains to my eyelids

When I want to drift unaided to that palladium of bed rest

but my interest in intentions keeps me kicking at my linens

and keeps me flicking at phantoms no more real than my obsessions

I always sound more depressed in these reflecting treaties

than my reality seems to be daily and nightly

Blame it on being flighty or a problem in hiding

That my rhyming time sink is slightly disappointing  

Jargon at a bargain

Here goes the most intense arm wrestling contest of my intellect
My brow sweats as I accept bets from moneyed interest
and place a set of weighted vests on my chest lest I go without progress
Then I regress and quit my quest before a chance to return blessed
I pressed quickly on the button that would release me and found
I was thinking much too seriously - nobody's envying, the room goes quiet
with the silence of awe at a flawed MVP, who knows that he's reached his peak
Who knows that his skills have leaked, and knows that his flows are meek
And knows that his earth inheritance has been stymied by the hyper-clergy

Trodden

I pick the path of poison
The treason, the reason for applying ointments
to the backs of roiling prison inmates boiling
in shack-cages posing like pistols smoking
and runaway desires clamber to sting, annoying
Where young black males meet Robert Bales
impaled on a battlefield for the most recent meal
of skittles, bigotry, and white-flight appeal
The path of derogatory, intense auditories
bomb blasted teenage bodies rotting under
acid-wash hoodies and concealing hormone floodings
In phone-call nudgings to their loved ones coming
before the final blast, where all that's passed becomes past
and the question on everyone's mind is not why
but how, after the fact, did a monster's punishment
get redacted and how justice got lapped away
like puddles of steaming urine on a sunny day
drinking the sunshine wine, gulping down brine and all
hoping that the next call is a check up, not a massacre
in the making, hoping that divides are breaking
instead of strengthening
hoping against all odds that connections are quickening
but knowing they're weakening

the path of poison
Where what you know is the opposite
of what you're hoping

Escape from Planet Vomit Crust

Or, how I sat woozy waiting in the bathroom, thinking about thinking
Or, how I bear-hugged him in front of his friends, misidentifying a snuggie
Or, how I theorized on word connections before sleeping, nursing an injured pride
Or, how I spilled out thirty dollars worth of mahi mahi, smelling faintly of rocket fuel and nachos
Or, how I spoke too loudly, breathed too sharply, and pounded too quickly
Or, how I came to understand that people won't be there for you when you need them most
Because the times you need them most are the times they can't make a difference

It's true. It's real. I thought I'd feel (for once).

This is my thought-brain discography
The collection of images, fetishes, skittish pet narratives
that squiggle in comparison to the weak utterances I usually make
and baste, roast, twist, tumble in a cloud collection of dream recollections
Imbibe fish oil, take two more, add a side of herbs, mix
See what comes out, maybe Zain's finally fixed
Maybe I can finally itch the scratch, the ill-matched maximum
That I ascend to when my mouth gets dumb and dribbles with
intellectual pre-cum, the precursors to articulate flow and later vetoed
vote recalls, see, there's a 2000 Florida scandal in my mind every time
I feel inclined to opine or wax/whine on a topic. I go from a choco-chip sundae
of undue confidence to putting an anxiety-blast cherry on top of it
and then squander it on substances, my sense of self wanes to the corruption
When I was young, I was true, but even then I couldn't tell
What they never tell you : that introspection can be hell
A thoughtless life your purgatory, and a pure mind your paradise
You'll find your slice of peace in the pieces of your dreams that you deemed
Silly before, but lately they're all you need
Those soft bursts of flash-mob streams trickling with ease
down the TV screens of your shrieking eyelids and your
ever reddening, ever hollowing, ever unseen cheeks

It's insanity, no, not the workout DVD
or that pressing compulsion to be more skinny
Rather, it's the cycle, from Whitney to Michael
Things great people might do just to reclaim their title

Once you've been king, you're cursed, you're cross
you're crucified then tossed, impaled, burnt, then lost
You might as well be forever nobody
and dwell quietly in anonymity
Than don the gold sheen and ensure
you regret ever belching a word

Shut the door. Have a seat.

Total sorority move
Total fraternity move
You tend to move with the groove
I choose not to move
Sitting still I see mistakes
That people make and I replicate
In my reptile brain I savor the fault
Knowing that faulting means growing
And growing is the scaffolding for better qualities
So drink out of compulsion
Congregate, fulfill your functions
You beam where you stand
I smile back from my hole
We can both be happy in our proper places

Beardless boys

I'm an anglo saxon chameleon
the feeling I get from blending in
is mild dissatisfaction that I misplaced my heritage

Shall I say

I'd like to say I keep my experiences positive
but sometimes all that's on my mind is the consequence
of things I did last night and in the morning as a response to it
With two butts left, I'm in my death bed - restless
Piecing together events and all the quips I last said
When I was at my wit's end and pushing on fumes exhausted
I understand finally my purpose is to perpetrate sin
Propagate sin, and and by all means, keep to the encouraging
Of little minds turning to mush, drowning in gin
And whole moths dusting up your eyelids
Barely sober anymore, you're my most successful project
My blooming prospect, the culmination of my investment
So keep testing, keep pushing the boundaries I placed you in
Until the day you become the greatest thing I'll wish was dead

The Third Chimpanzee

Bottle of sperm on my desk with the rest of my soul's contents
fish oil supplements and a pack of cigarettes on my arm-rest
my interests have shrunk into fiending off distress
The depressed set of topics that I'm talking about consist
of the times that I went from abreast all the best and tumbled
so quick that I was blinded by my descent
and made indecent attempts to reason my actions to those
asking questions, passing judgments like fractions, dividing my
intent and devising new concepts to absolve my mis-steps
to insist on fairness, correctness, and access
to all the secretive bits of my head's rusted thought pits
You thought all was well when the sunshine was extent
and beating broad rays of orange scream on your eyelids
Only to find the night was just as passionate and reminiscent
of the moments you couldn't reason to prolong this
foolish mockery of glib jokes and blitheness
on life, love, and strife - prattle on till the sun hits
When the fields top in crisp slits of rural radiance
and smell redolent of fresh death, I cough a
hail mary to the night and collapse under the branch
where my will is etched

Bevel?

Are you useless
are you dead
are there words inside your head
that defy form
defy translation
and do you think above your station
or do you think in terms predestined

Are you yawning in the breech
and fingering gnarled, weathered teeth
If you found these letters
would you say
if you found these spaces
could you stay
and stretching - warm, irresolute
in cottons, linens, and silks or furs
should you choose
that the world burn?

Qualifier

It's simple enough to say you'll stop doing what you hate
but you yearn for your blood to burn
So keep on with the charade

1/8

It seems like highly-trained/highly-skilled actors are capable of tossing their eyes in such a way that the portrayed effect of a single sharp glance is similar to that of a recklessly tossed fist. On watching a movie practically stuffed with actors of that type last night, I came to think about the incredibly nuanced ability and particular workmanship that goes into each performance. That's the unspoken difference between a "bad" movie and a "good" movie: whether or not the actors approach their roles with the finesse of a masterly artisan. Oh also whether or not the movie's in 3-D.

However, there are other elements involved - a mass of producers, laborers, and enthusiasts.

Why I (should) watch sports/ Why I (don't) watch sports

I should watch sports because they're examples of epic human achievement writ large enough for anyone with access to a relatively stable internet connection/decent cable contract (with the exception of curling). I should watch sports because being able to discuss teams, games, and the inner-working of franchises knits you into a collective fabric inaccessible to those who don't watch sports. I should watch sports because they combine archetypal human struggle, brow-beating, and near-divine prowess with nachos. I should watch sports because they tend to embrace symmetry, monetize lighthearted conflict, and provide a framework in which less-constructive people can pour their passions and allegiances (really important in a time when the values of national patriotism are becoming more and more unacceptable).

I don't watch sports because of an innate prejudice I harbor (note "less-constructive" used in the paragraph above). I don't watch sports because to do so is almost always a family practice and my family veers more towards variously intellectual/idiotic debates around a spit of lamb. I don't watch sports because I've been raised with a stunted sense of heritage that identifies Football, Hockey, and Baseball as "American" and identifies "American" as quite less than perfect. I occasionally watch Basketball and Soccer because the expatriate Arabic communities in America have infiltrated these two sports and made it acceptable for other displaced identities to enjoy them (albeit not with the same fervor as hip-hop, baklava, and feigning afro-american status). I don't watch sports because for some odd reason I've come to associate it with anti-intellectual activities, which is strange given my eagerness to indulge in certain other anti-intellectual activities. I don't watch sports because I feel I would be entering too late and that the tide of information would be too much to absorb. I don't watch sports because it's another idiosyncratic (in America) character trait I can cling to and exploit (Hey! I'm different! Look at me, damn it!).

I should watch sports because they articulate the typically pathetic search for greatness into visual candy - the criss-crossing of bodies in a space peppered by signs of commercial culture. I don't watch sports because I have a hypocritical disdain for the commercial culture without which mainstream sports would be an impossibility. I should watch sports because I constantly complain of a lack of things-to-do and sports provide one with a plethora of things-to-do: watching games, shooting the shit, joining fantasy leagues, and (if you're in the U.K.) beating the ever-living bowel juice out of rival fans. I don't watch sports because, without exception, something will happen during the game that will confuse me and I despise both being confused and asking for clarification. I should watch sports, but I don't, and I don't watch sports, but c'mon, I really should. 

Post-Script: This pick-and-choose approach to appreciating sports can best be exemplified by my love for highlight videos, which capture all the enormity and rushing vivacity accompanying feats of strength and exclude the monotonous build-up, politicking, and stereotypical ignorance. Loving highlight reels and the concept of modern day warriors vying for champion status are the two focal reasons I dig the movie "Senna" on Netflix. Less than a documentary you typically encounter in the bargain bin that is Netflix's inventory, Senna is more of a mythic tale of shocking success and blistering disappointment made delectable by (what I assume was) careful, precise editing and an enigmatic amount of crisp footage displaying the titular Formula One racer, Brazilian philanthropist, and playboy.

All these aiding factors aside, the soundtrack is subtly suited to the tasks at hand, sometimes throbbing with a heartbreaking blend of Spanish Classical guitar and occasionally breaking into the fast-paced, engaging territory of energetic music overlapping footage of the lightweight car and its zealous driver careening past heaving mounds of dedicated fans and barely tunneling through terrifyingly tight corners. Senna makes darkness out of the mundane and drags forth an epic tale from a murky puddle of jumbled newspaper headlines, skewed opinions, and moneyed interest. I truly dig anything that, in under two hours, can fully interest me in a sport that just recently meant nothing more to me than something to be ignored (the more refined iteration of Nascar, if you will).

I've yet to check out any other thrilling sports documentaries on Netflix, partly because there aren't many and mostly because I earnestly don't think they'll live up to Senna. The production was too finely tuned, the story too compelling, and the package too tragic and relate-able to be easily trumped by the mass of Muhammad Ali chronicles. Disregarding the flaws of the Netflix library, I also haven't seen any other sports documentaries on the site because I hadn't really digested the effect Senna had on me until writing this.

In that vein, I'm pretty excited for the Netflix-exclusive series "Lilyhammer" - partially because the trailer made it look decently entertaining, partially because I love Nordic quirkiness, partially because I enjoy Mafiosos, and partially because I look forward to the effect this business model will have on other streaming sites/television programming. If Netflix becomes capable of churning out hits with the alacrity of HBO at a highly competitive cost and level of convenience, I fully believe they can make a comeback from their recent idiotic setbacks. That being said, the streaming model is still weak-kneed and struggling to carve out its place in a market that's evolving faster than single-celled organisms exposed to geysers of prehistoric, nutritive chemicals. Not only is it suffering from identity-issues, but the creature that gave birth to it (Satellite Television) actively seeks to drain it of life; however, considering the amount of time I spend watching Netflix rather than Dish (excluding Chopped) testifies to my opinion of who will emerge strengthened from that entanglement.

This all probably makes it look like I'm being funded by Netflix. Although it would be awesome to be funded  and even more awesome to be funded by Netflix, that shit's not true. Netflix just happens to be something that absorbs a significant enough portion of my time to deserve semi-constant mention (as it does). Keep in mind this post started while I was talking about reasons I should/don't watch sports, so unless I'm a clandestine, poorly strategic writer bent on tricking you into reading my opinions about Netflix, ulterior motives were not at play. At this exact moment I've just finished posting a snide comment where I needn't, am going to brew an espresso, take a shower, and hang out with Sean at Whataburger, bringing this second rambling of the day to a close. Time will divulge whether a third or fourth sprouts into being, but in light of the volatile swing of my emotions/my ever dwindling motivation, I doubt I'll approach more writing with anything other than false enthusiasm. That is, unless, I can rout out a compelling subject, like the dense sack of intrigue that was the politicking during the Thirty Years' War or the merits of the new black label spicy ketchup at Whataburger. Let's be honest, if anything, it'll be a discussion of the latter. Who, besides John Kerry (with manifold, justifiable reasons), dislikes choice ketchup? 

Try to stop trying, die to stop dying, live to start living

I think that the only realistic way of achieving a semblance of independence - especially in a society at least visibly dominated by credit card culture - is by avoiding debt. Funnily enough I've come to this axiomatic realization at the relative beginning of what I can only expect to be a life-long hemorrhaging of money: higher learning. Better yet, I'm clueless when it comes to the proper handling of money and my best bet of avoiding further damage is either not spending it or amassing such a great deal of it that my only worry will be whether to purchase a fleet of yachts captained by Qaddafi's former bodyguard squad or fund an intensive search for answers regarding the questionable murders of Tupac and Biggie (more notably Tupac but also Biggie for solidarity). Seeing as though I have a genetic tendency to squander any type of currency unlucky enough to burn a hole in my pockets, any option other than complete and utter debt is unlikely.

That's not even a criticism of my dad, his dad, or all our proto-dads who clubbed animals in the Phoenician wilderness only to bend the knee to the stiff-lipped, agricultural constabulary; I literally have an aversion to money so potent that it manifests in a necessity to purchase both things I hardly need and things I'd do better not to collect. This insane, unfounded, and wholly unattractive quality can best be typified by the events of the past week or so.

Starting just shortly before Christmas, I began a personal vendetta against my wallet's contents and the shelves of various bookstores. This fugue of dwindling dollars and mounting reading lists was aided by several circumstances: HPB had a sale from December 26 to January 2 (an attractive selling point for my Mom), a recent influx of money caused by selling a pile of unused books to HPB/thieving bills here and there from unaware druggies, my ability to read slightly more quickly than normal, and the vacuum of time associated with Winter break. Neglected throughout this entire psycho-sexual fiasco was my Kindle, but he'll assuredly make a comeback soon.

That I've groomed, preened, and streamlined a heightened ability to improvise white lies has inadvertently made me what legions of PTOs, PTAs, and small-town minded people would call a "bad person." Sometime in the ~10 day long bill-burning I struck up a whimsy to return to HPB a third time, presumably to spoon together a cobble of classics and New Historicism-inspired tomes. I fulfilled the latter category by nabbing David McCullough's John Adams (you know, the one with Paul Giamatti on the cover) and fulfilled some aberrant, hitherto unmentioned category of young adult fiction penned in Spanish by simultaneously purchasing Harry Potter y el Misterio del Principe (which actually translates to Harry Potter and the Mystery of the Prince).

On reversing in the perilous parking lot, I accidentally knicked a car and fueled with an admixture of adrenaline, genuine fear, and strange lucidity, proceeded to hastily exit. While in the lane attempting to leave, the car in front of me was (of course) attempting a left turn during an excruciatingly slow red light. This was occasion to take several panicked looks at the bystanders in the parking lot, who, witnessing the 'collision,' were either debating the philosophical dilemma of informing the authorities or playing Tetris on their phones. In hindsight the ding was too minor to cause appreciable damage to the back of my car, and as such probably didn't damage the other car; however, drinking pints of pungent fear roundly plugged me back into a reality I've been merely flitting through in recent weeks. That's not to say I've gotten a taste for the proverbial monkey's blood and will start mowing down pedestrians, but rather that for a few guilt-ridden, anxiety-swollen hours I relished in the vigor of a situation entirely out of my hands. Except for the hit-and-run part - that was totally in my hands.

Now that I've successfully deviated from the original topic of this post, I feel comfortable talking about whatever I please. Like: I somehow compartmentalized all my 'first college semester' memories and am having a difficult time placing myself back in the position of a self-destructive, snobbish student. As January 17 steadily and forcefully imposes itself on my mind with greater power, my failure to visualize the second semester matters little. I'll inevitably wander listlessly again in a matter of days, and when I delve into the cardboard box of experiences that was the past few months, I'm glad for this shift. Although the concept of "home" is ideal, actually living here and facing the truth that I'm unnecessary in this context has helped attune my mind for the mythical jaunt back down to the paradoxical university setting. It's only through lacking something that I appreciate it: not just on a mortally flawed, cliche-ridden basis - I legitimately require that something be taken away from me or some opportunity lost on me before I understand how much I actually wanted said thing or opportunity. Oddly enough this self-knowledge has led to several attempts to preemptively acquire objects I assume will be my desire at some point in the not-so-distant future. Hence the book hoarding, game plundering, and nights spent plotting means of getting my way (not by any means necessary, just the least troublesome means).

Clarity - for me - is a rarity. I tend to pounce on the opportunity to express myself when it is presented in a gilded bow and neatly marked in candy red paint. Not to dabble in pop psychology, but my lack of stable communication and inconsistency in matters of writing is probably funded by a sizable wealth of nightmares including but not limited to: failing to please the few readers of this blog, losing whatever whiff of wit I previously had or currently have, disappointing myself, and further shriveling my once cosmic ego.

This ego was built on the foundations of scant, laughable successes. Having inflated to a dangerous size, and still making the occasional appearance when the proper cocktail of brain chemicals permits, this ego simply imploded. It can still be found in trace amounts - strewn among the wreckage of memories, trivia, gobs of syntax, and splintered personality traits that encompass the landfill-of-self I identify as 'Zain'. Essentially my hesitance to commit to any action has led to a cycle of extremes: either crushing disappointment at what I perceive to be abject failures or stale dissatisfaction at successes I deem unfitting for myself (there's that pesky, reanimated ego at play). In light of this duality of being, certain pathways open up and I have no qualms about pursuing them, as I already feel damned and tormented by what monks would call Demons and what Blues-guitarists would call Regret (coincidentally, both monks and Blues-guitarists harbor an appreciation and over-indulgence of alcohol); thus, what occurred outside of HPB, what occurs every waking cycle, and what will continue to occur (albeit in varying states of new-found vigor and temporarily muted tones) are results of a bristling, quaking, briny, and unsurprisingly Semitic self-doubt.

So I've made a cyclical return to the inception of a process I chose and continue to choose. At first (as a chubby, quasi-middle child) I yearned to be doomed, conflicted, or interesting by any measure of the phrase. Now my emotions are so muddled I can't extract a singular entity or goal from the unconscious muck I've brewed. And as a side-effect of this pathetic mental 'affliction', I'm almost incapable of speaking on any subject other than myself. Notice the amount of first person pronouns in this post. Clearly whoever plumbed the depths of his mind and ladled the discovered contents here is so self-obsessed, self-indulgent, and self-deluded, that an identity crisis was inevitable.

Ha! He even refers to his petty, school-boy, tormented, Hamlet, Danish, masturbatory inner-tussle as a "crisis." This is what the mystic Thomas Merton would refer to as "a position sometimes so impossible as to be absurd." A position that necessitates self-obsession but equally obsesses over a means to elevate the self to a position that would permit self-love as opposed to self-infatuation. Self, self, self. The only way I can properly view myself as a person rather than an idol to worship in place of god is to immolate my being and saturate my cells with external personage - the essence of others. I need to embrace the collective: the dents, the incongruousness, each acute failure, each blanching success, and I need to wholeheartedly accept every degree of being. If I can't unconditionally accept others, what chance do I have of shattering this obelisk heaved on my chest?

What faces me is more than a test of faith. Confronting me more than any ancillary life-choice is the difference between transcendence and acquiescence. With the 'knowledge' I've gained through sheer, uppity searching, I foot the precipice. I can leap, abandoning the constructs and monoliths which weaned my feeble mote of existence, or I can turn from the abrasively cold, curiously inviting maw of Nothingness. It's the human condition. It's the repetitive choice between immersion into a familiar, comfortable, sleepy prison and a descent into what could either be an infinitude of stillness, a saving grace, or both. It's the disturbing nostalgia you get when faced with a path you know could easily be your last. It's the plastic chair you spend forty years breaking in, only to collapse breathless surrounded by sun-kissed vineyards and a farcical legacy.

It's what I have coming and knowing nothing I welcome everything.

Das Rheingold

To him silence is an elemental terror
By unburdening the load of distraction
It bears upon him a wholly alien weight
Pounds of ectoplasmic abstraction
Heady, candle-lit, notional greatness
The likes of which was championed by
Cramped intellectuals and chap-knuckled monks
Who, in exhuming the mental tombs
Of their predecessors, resuscitated a pulse
Forgotten in the morose hinterland - the medieval hubris
Your monastic man huddled close to a wick
expunging midnight oil, expounding unoriginal orthodoxy
For the purpose of blinding himself to the blunt
brass that accompanies grand sojourns into text
and perilous pathways into the minds of experiential men
Those enlightened beings - quite another species
Brought crashing down with due brashness
Hobbling, gold-leafed structures; From 800, the Axials
Spanned nationhood and biblical boundaries
To quicken, kindle, foster, and entreat
The word of God - the son of Man
an exhaustive breath from lungs
not completely pure yet nothing less
than perennially human

False staff

Master made a mistress out of a mad maid
a babbling brook of quixotic phrasings
Who prepared for him a fatal feast
pickled herring and wine of Rhine
His final wish - to play an ignoble showing
to the recusant, gilded idol
An over-starched, underfed wastrel
fingering teeth coated in rot
twitching a face caked in Stygian spice
and barking orders to vacant suits of plate wear
She makes her consorts feverish, delirious
With the heat of untold images
With curses - on the cooling bed
of death's referendum; Penny pamphlets
to all accompanying squires and, for the sake
of solidarity, to the shriveling gap of illiterates
For all inconsiderate knights unchivalrous
Dole the lion's share - intensely favored bits