The words of others resonate without that uneasy weight of disatisfaction for they are performance. But one must build with vision before they may put themselves in the league of success or failure. Yes, your infastructure is not even distinguished enough to critique as bad because you have simply thrown the bricks in a heap for fear of designing a plan. No longer fear the blueprint and you will be on a path to find anything worthwhile.
The peace of company you have spent hours intermingling with. To be the topic of gossip within circles you feel comfortable in. Even the way we analogize our feelings is revealing things about our selves. The room is quiet with the air of reflection. Everyone is inside themself. We are free to ignore the external world that surrounds us and busy our own, insulur minds. Is this what happens? Is this a fair description? Not all details are contained. Life is rich with information and the art of narrative is to select like from a buffet; no two will fill their plate with the same serving of details.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Saturday, August 28, 2010
We didn't know what we'd found. It was all gold in soundwaves, it would make us rich; we threw it around and made sandcastles with it. Because that's the kind of freedom we all want.
It's weirder looking back, when you know. It's nothing like actually being. The back of your life is a story and that's all you have, and somehow what you do right now will turn into that. It isn't bad, it's the best we can do. But the what's done is nothing like the what is doing, they aren't the same person or construction of thoughts at all. It's a completely different approach. It's like living and reading a book.
The book is just pages, its words that you understand, and even then it's fluid. The words, the constructions, the interpretations, it's like a river that's always in more or less the same place but can't be pinned down to a single frame of existence, not ever, because it will never be somehow definitive as how that river exists. Books are like that, and your past is a book.
The present is nothing like a book. Sometimes people try to make you think of it like a book, but you can't ever. It probably can't even be appropriately analogized to anything. It's a story you're still reading, it's too soon.
It's what everything you did before built a context for. It's an out of control car careening madly down the road, it's the mouse anticipating the pounce of the cat. It's the big wait for something, before it all just turns into a book. A book that sits there, inscrutably solid. It catches you off guard like that, the book does, you wouldn't expect all that confusion from just a book. We thought books were simple. Books are impossible and so is the present, and we keep trying to feel in control of both.
It's weirder looking back, when you know. It's nothing like actually being. The back of your life is a story and that's all you have, and somehow what you do right now will turn into that. It isn't bad, it's the best we can do. But the what's done is nothing like the what is doing, they aren't the same person or construction of thoughts at all. It's a completely different approach. It's like living and reading a book.
The book is just pages, its words that you understand, and even then it's fluid. The words, the constructions, the interpretations, it's like a river that's always in more or less the same place but can't be pinned down to a single frame of existence, not ever, because it will never be somehow definitive as how that river exists. Books are like that, and your past is a book.
The present is nothing like a book. Sometimes people try to make you think of it like a book, but you can't ever. It probably can't even be appropriately analogized to anything. It's a story you're still reading, it's too soon.
It's what everything you did before built a context for. It's an out of control car careening madly down the road, it's the mouse anticipating the pounce of the cat. It's the big wait for something, before it all just turns into a book. A book that sits there, inscrutably solid. It catches you off guard like that, the book does, you wouldn't expect all that confusion from just a book. We thought books were simple. Books are impossible and so is the present, and we keep trying to feel in control of both.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
pt. 2
continued from below
After leaving our friends the buskers we set sail for 42nd Street, in fierce debate as to whether or not the associated classiness made for an obvious destination to men dressed like us. Robert postulated that we were well-dressed for a outing at 42nd, while suggested that our arrival there would not carry the same sense of silliness as if we were to turn up in some place where we were more blatantly overdressed for.
Along the way we met another friend of Conor's, this time outside of whatever restaurant is roughly across the street from 42nd. She and her friend, both of whose names I forget, were standing outside taking a break. This was when I met my first fan.
The girl who Conor knew looked vaguely familiar to me, as someone I had probably seen around campus before. I mentioned this to her, and she said she had seen me around before too, and in fact had seen the production of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead I had recently been a part of. She went on to tell me how much she enjoyed it, and had a wonderful pile of flattery to dish out to my acting ability. So much, in fact, that I was reduced to bashfulness and uncontrollable hugs. It was quite an evening highlight, and I felt pretty giddy for some time afterwards.
And thus we trekked across the street to 42nd Street, which sure enough proved a bit lackluster. We poked our noses in the door, looking pompous and arrogant, and were met with nothing that intrigued our aristocratic sensibilities. After deliberation we decided an excursion to Baba's was the only way to go.
When we reached Baba's some kind of show was going on, and we realized we had no money for cover, having emptied our pockets of change for our friends the buskers. This almost proved a non-issue as we ascended the stairs and the bouncer, confused as he likely was at our ostentatious getup, asked if we were a band. The obvious answer for any band of rogues such as ourselves looking for mischief was to claim to indeed be a band and head in to look like we were going to perform. However, sadly, Robert was hit with a compulsion of truthfulness and blew our accidental cover, and thus blowing our finances on cover.
Baba's was an interesting time full of minor encounters, and two pitchers of Sweet-O. We chatted with an Asian man about pocketwatches. Robert and Conor loudly discussed Star Trek much to the bemusement of the patrons around the table next to us. At one point I wandered up front to see the band and a man turned towards me, looked me up and down, and said, "You look cool." At one point I stopped a man to tell him how good his facial hair was, and another guy stopped with him to extol the virtues of this man's impressive chops. We then fell into a long discussion with the second man, the content of which I have completely forgotten, though likely centering around how fun it is to dress up silly. We're still not entirely sure whether or not he was actually acquainted with Chops Man.
When ordering our second pitcher of Sweet-O, a curious event happened. A girl who Conor seemed to know that we'd been sort-of conversing with, after two of us had filled our glasses, picked up the pitcher and wandered outside with it. This didn't seem to trouble us until Robert came looking for his refill and we went out looking for her out in the mass of bodies packed on the deck and found no sign. Someone had very oddly wandered off with our alcohol! We wandered in and out a few times, rather confused. Eventually the deck cleared a bit and we found her at a table in the back. When we asked what the hell was going on, it turned out she had mistaken it for a pitcher of water and was rather shocked to learn what she was about to start drinking.
This was how we found ourselves relaxing on the deck at Baba's. Conor and Robert started talking to someone we referred to as Star Wars Shirt Guy, and I started chatting up Big Earrings Girl and Her Friend, who I would later know as Ashley. Fairly typical tipsy-bar-chatting-with-strangers ensued, which was a pretty good time. After a while we felt it was time to move on to a new locale, and we staggered off to the Globe.
Because the Globe is Conor's current place of employment, we were able to slip in for free, which was pretty great at this point. The Globe itself was fairly unexciting, being seemingly a generic dance club. We did, however, meet some of our pub crawl girls from across the street, and delighted reunions were had. There was also a balcony, which was of great excitement to me personally, and I quickly pulled my cohorts off the dance floor in order to explore. Up on the balcony we met more pub crawl girls, and Conor went to the bartender and asked for a surprise, which produced shots of something pink that tasted like tylenol. Shortly after we departed out the back door, and Conor stole us some cold french fries from the kitchen.
At this point we decided it was best to head to Conor's house to wind down the evening with some elicit substances. On our way, however, we walked past the spot where we met the buskers. Sadly, they had already disappeared from the world. However, by odd coincidence, a couple who had been standing nearby listening to them at the same time as us before was also walking by, and we were able to share our distress in their absence.
At this point there were a lot of people on he street, particularly lined up outside of China Garden, which was where I met up with Ashley and Earing Girl once again. The night was full of continuity! We chatted it up and I told them about the crazy fighting that had taken place the last time I was at China Garden in the middle of the night, while Robert and Conor also seemed to make and meet friends amongst the crowd. We met some more pub crawl girls who didn't seem to remember us, and I met a girl who was celebrating her birthday and gave her a hug. We then wandered up to the library so Conor could relive himself, and then headed off to his house.
Once there we begin to get sleepier, and the evening wound down with bad jokes some pretty good chats about life, death, and M*A*S*H. After our business there was done, Conor sent us off with some chips and pop tarts and Robert and I stumbled back to my house to fall asleep, in preparation for another day of adventures full of yard sales, korean food, and n64 games.
After leaving our friends the buskers we set sail for 42nd Street, in fierce debate as to whether or not the associated classiness made for an obvious destination to men dressed like us. Robert postulated that we were well-dressed for a outing at 42nd, while suggested that our arrival there would not carry the same sense of silliness as if we were to turn up in some place where we were more blatantly overdressed for.
Along the way we met another friend of Conor's, this time outside of whatever restaurant is roughly across the street from 42nd. She and her friend, both of whose names I forget, were standing outside taking a break. This was when I met my first fan.
The girl who Conor knew looked vaguely familiar to me, as someone I had probably seen around campus before. I mentioned this to her, and she said she had seen me around before too, and in fact had seen the production of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead I had recently been a part of. She went on to tell me how much she enjoyed it, and had a wonderful pile of flattery to dish out to my acting ability. So much, in fact, that I was reduced to bashfulness and uncontrollable hugs. It was quite an evening highlight, and I felt pretty giddy for some time afterwards.
And thus we trekked across the street to 42nd Street, which sure enough proved a bit lackluster. We poked our noses in the door, looking pompous and arrogant, and were met with nothing that intrigued our aristocratic sensibilities. After deliberation we decided an excursion to Baba's was the only way to go.
When we reached Baba's some kind of show was going on, and we realized we had no money for cover, having emptied our pockets of change for our friends the buskers. This almost proved a non-issue as we ascended the stairs and the bouncer, confused as he likely was at our ostentatious getup, asked if we were a band. The obvious answer for any band of rogues such as ourselves looking for mischief was to claim to indeed be a band and head in to look like we were going to perform. However, sadly, Robert was hit with a compulsion of truthfulness and blew our accidental cover, and thus blowing our finances on cover.
Baba's was an interesting time full of minor encounters, and two pitchers of Sweet-O. We chatted with an Asian man about pocketwatches. Robert and Conor loudly discussed Star Trek much to the bemusement of the patrons around the table next to us. At one point I wandered up front to see the band and a man turned towards me, looked me up and down, and said, "You look cool." At one point I stopped a man to tell him how good his facial hair was, and another guy stopped with him to extol the virtues of this man's impressive chops. We then fell into a long discussion with the second man, the content of which I have completely forgotten, though likely centering around how fun it is to dress up silly. We're still not entirely sure whether or not he was actually acquainted with Chops Man.
When ordering our second pitcher of Sweet-O, a curious event happened. A girl who Conor seemed to know that we'd been sort-of conversing with, after two of us had filled our glasses, picked up the pitcher and wandered outside with it. This didn't seem to trouble us until Robert came looking for his refill and we went out looking for her out in the mass of bodies packed on the deck and found no sign. Someone had very oddly wandered off with our alcohol! We wandered in and out a few times, rather confused. Eventually the deck cleared a bit and we found her at a table in the back. When we asked what the hell was going on, it turned out she had mistaken it for a pitcher of water and was rather shocked to learn what she was about to start drinking.
This was how we found ourselves relaxing on the deck at Baba's. Conor and Robert started talking to someone we referred to as Star Wars Shirt Guy, and I started chatting up Big Earrings Girl and Her Friend, who I would later know as Ashley. Fairly typical tipsy-bar-chatting-with-strangers ensued, which was a pretty good time. After a while we felt it was time to move on to a new locale, and we staggered off to the Globe.
Because the Globe is Conor's current place of employment, we were able to slip in for free, which was pretty great at this point. The Globe itself was fairly unexciting, being seemingly a generic dance club. We did, however, meet some of our pub crawl girls from across the street, and delighted reunions were had. There was also a balcony, which was of great excitement to me personally, and I quickly pulled my cohorts off the dance floor in order to explore. Up on the balcony we met more pub crawl girls, and Conor went to the bartender and asked for a surprise, which produced shots of something pink that tasted like tylenol. Shortly after we departed out the back door, and Conor stole us some cold french fries from the kitchen.
At this point we decided it was best to head to Conor's house to wind down the evening with some elicit substances. On our way, however, we walked past the spot where we met the buskers. Sadly, they had already disappeared from the world. However, by odd coincidence, a couple who had been standing nearby listening to them at the same time as us before was also walking by, and we were able to share our distress in their absence.
At this point there were a lot of people on he street, particularly lined up outside of China Garden, which was where I met up with Ashley and Earing Girl once again. The night was full of continuity! We chatted it up and I told them about the crazy fighting that had taken place the last time I was at China Garden in the middle of the night, while Robert and Conor also seemed to make and meet friends amongst the crowd. We met some more pub crawl girls who didn't seem to remember us, and I met a girl who was celebrating her birthday and gave her a hug. We then wandered up to the library so Conor could relive himself, and then headed off to his house.
Once there we begin to get sleepier, and the evening wound down with bad jokes some pretty good chats about life, death, and M*A*S*H. After our business there was done, Conor sent us off with some chips and pop tarts and Robert and I stumbled back to my house to fall asleep, in preparation for another day of adventures full of yard sales, korean food, and n64 games.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
bartleby's busy day
Adventure story time!
So last night my roommate(s) and I hosted our third "Gentleman's Symposium" which is essentially a big excuse for us to invite a bunch of our friends over and all be dressed in fancy clothes and be the same silly people we always are only with pompous accents.
Obviously this rules.
Last time a few of us, towards the later end of the evening, got it in our heads somehow that we should wander off into the night and make our way to Baba's, a nearby bar we aren't even especially fond of. Nobody is quite sure who suggested the idea, but it ended up being a fun time because there was a DJ and we sauntered in without paying cover and he played Thriller and Don't Stop Believing consecutively and we got really excited about that and generally had a good time before we wandered back home and adopted our very own grocery cart in a fit of intoxicated charity and thrill-seeking on the way.
So all this in mind we decided that turning the Symposium into a "night on the town" was a fairly fun idea. In fact, before we even consciously sought to do this, the town sought us out as if to ensure we would not leave it unattended by our silly quasi-victorian antics.
Directly across the street from my house, our neighbors were holding their own party. From what we gathered it was some kind of girls' night pub crawl which had attracted a large crowd of ladies who were all wearing blue t-shirts that said "Pretty Little Sailors" on them, and possibly even had a picture of a boat. This detail I am not entirely confident about. Regardless, these ladies were increasingly confused about the number of overdressed people they saw wandering into the house across the street bearing wines and desserts. Finally after several visitors and competing theories as to the nature of our gathering, they grabbed one of my arriving visitants off the street and interrogated him about the matter. After explaining himself and being set free, he reported their curiosity to the rest of us. This, we felt, could not go with only so little closure. A small group of us appointed ourselves party ambassadors, and traveled over to introduce ourselves.
This was how our first new friends of the evening were made! We discussed the natures of our respective parties, our plans for the evening, exchanged names and handshakes, They first told us all their various theories as to what we were doing, all of which painted us as gentlemen with some kind of actual legitimate motive for being dressed up as such (a recurring theme of the evening), inquired about the authenticity of our accents (none of them were real), and in return we took some group photos and trekked back to our own gathering.
After the party in my own house started to dwindle down, a spirit of adventure begin to strike up in myself and two of my comrades, Robert and Conor. The wild Charlottetown nightlife called to us, and men dressed as silly as us were in no position to deny a response. Without any clear destination in mind, we set off vaguely for the general downtown area. We made perhaps half a block of progress before meeting some acquaintance of Conor's on a bicycle who stopped to chat with so that she could inquire as to the nature of our activities, and we could probe for recommendations on our near future.
While this was going on, a man in the second floor of a nearby building opened his window to shout at us. In all my experiences in being intoxicatedly noisy in the streets at night this is generally setting the stage for being chewed out. But this man was as friendly to us as an old acquaintance! His shouting was merely to express his delight at us and what we were doing, and like the bicycle girl was quite happy to give us some pointers as to where we might spend some of our evening.
I can tell you this: carrying on a conversation late at night on the street with a stranger who is hanging out his second floor window is a delightful experience I would recommend to anyone.
And so some X's were added to our treasure map for finding evening excitement. Vic Row, 42nd Street, and Baba's. But the night held much more than mere locations. This was a night of more spontaneous friendships than I can in confidence claim to remember. And the finest example of this, I am sure is a unanimous belief in our group, was the buskers.
After perusing through Victoria Row without making any specific stops, we turned down Queen street to take a peek inside 42nd. On this route we walked by three buskers with a bucket of blueberries they were offering to share with anybody who passed by. This was as endearing as anyone could hope to be to us, and we were quickly engaged in conversation and muching fresh blueberries picked only the day before somewhere in the province of Nova Scotia.
Our new friends and we had a long conversation in which in lieu of names only stories of travel were exchanged. We spoke mainly with one, a particularly charismatic fellow, while the other two continued to play music and sing for the street. This gentleman, we learned was hitchhiking about the country, grew up in Minnesota, and had once spent a couple of weeks living with a pirate in California.
At some point, and for reasons I do not recall (although I feel as so there was actually a fairly legitimate reason), I felt compelled to tell this gentleman a particularly amazing and terrible joke about Will Smith I had recently learned (and had told to every goddamn person I know). Our new friend enjoyed it so much that he borrowed the acoustic guitar from the lady next to him and played the theme song to The Fresh Prince of Bel Air for us, with which we and several other strangers on the street sang along to in a choir of surreal and amazing 1990s pop culture celebration.
We soon parted ways with these friends, in all probability to never see them again in our lifetimes, a matter which nearer the end of the evening we discussed in great detail and ultimately felt good about. In all honesty I think there is a certain flavour of friendship that can only be experienced in making a connection with a stranger that you will never see again, and this was a particularly good taste of that friendship (not unaided by the literal taste of fresh berries that came with it.)
to be continued later when i don't have to leave for work
So last night my roommate(s) and I hosted our third "Gentleman's Symposium" which is essentially a big excuse for us to invite a bunch of our friends over and all be dressed in fancy clothes and be the same silly people we always are only with pompous accents.
Obviously this rules.
Last time a few of us, towards the later end of the evening, got it in our heads somehow that we should wander off into the night and make our way to Baba's, a nearby bar we aren't even especially fond of. Nobody is quite sure who suggested the idea, but it ended up being a fun time because there was a DJ and we sauntered in without paying cover and he played Thriller and Don't Stop Believing consecutively and we got really excited about that and generally had a good time before we wandered back home and adopted our very own grocery cart in a fit of intoxicated charity and thrill-seeking on the way.
So all this in mind we decided that turning the Symposium into a "night on the town" was a fairly fun idea. In fact, before we even consciously sought to do this, the town sought us out as if to ensure we would not leave it unattended by our silly quasi-victorian antics.
Directly across the street from my house, our neighbors were holding their own party. From what we gathered it was some kind of girls' night pub crawl which had attracted a large crowd of ladies who were all wearing blue t-shirts that said "Pretty Little Sailors" on them, and possibly even had a picture of a boat. This detail I am not entirely confident about. Regardless, these ladies were increasingly confused about the number of overdressed people they saw wandering into the house across the street bearing wines and desserts. Finally after several visitors and competing theories as to the nature of our gathering, they grabbed one of my arriving visitants off the street and interrogated him about the matter. After explaining himself and being set free, he reported their curiosity to the rest of us. This, we felt, could not go with only so little closure. A small group of us appointed ourselves party ambassadors, and traveled over to introduce ourselves.
This was how our first new friends of the evening were made! We discussed the natures of our respective parties, our plans for the evening, exchanged names and handshakes, They first told us all their various theories as to what we were doing, all of which painted us as gentlemen with some kind of actual legitimate motive for being dressed up as such (a recurring theme of the evening), inquired about the authenticity of our accents (none of them were real), and in return we took some group photos and trekked back to our own gathering.
After the party in my own house started to dwindle down, a spirit of adventure begin to strike up in myself and two of my comrades, Robert and Conor. The wild Charlottetown nightlife called to us, and men dressed as silly as us were in no position to deny a response. Without any clear destination in mind, we set off vaguely for the general downtown area. We made perhaps half a block of progress before meeting some acquaintance of Conor's on a bicycle who stopped to chat with so that she could inquire as to the nature of our activities, and we could probe for recommendations on our near future.
While this was going on, a man in the second floor of a nearby building opened his window to shout at us. In all my experiences in being intoxicatedly noisy in the streets at night this is generally setting the stage for being chewed out. But this man was as friendly to us as an old acquaintance! His shouting was merely to express his delight at us and what we were doing, and like the bicycle girl was quite happy to give us some pointers as to where we might spend some of our evening.
I can tell you this: carrying on a conversation late at night on the street with a stranger who is hanging out his second floor window is a delightful experience I would recommend to anyone.
And so some X's were added to our treasure map for finding evening excitement. Vic Row, 42nd Street, and Baba's. But the night held much more than mere locations. This was a night of more spontaneous friendships than I can in confidence claim to remember. And the finest example of this, I am sure is a unanimous belief in our group, was the buskers.
After perusing through Victoria Row without making any specific stops, we turned down Queen street to take a peek inside 42nd. On this route we walked by three buskers with a bucket of blueberries they were offering to share with anybody who passed by. This was as endearing as anyone could hope to be to us, and we were quickly engaged in conversation and muching fresh blueberries picked only the day before somewhere in the province of Nova Scotia.
Our new friends and we had a long conversation in which in lieu of names only stories of travel were exchanged. We spoke mainly with one, a particularly charismatic fellow, while the other two continued to play music and sing for the street. This gentleman, we learned was hitchhiking about the country, grew up in Minnesota, and had once spent a couple of weeks living with a pirate in California.
At some point, and for reasons I do not recall (although I feel as so there was actually a fairly legitimate reason), I felt compelled to tell this gentleman a particularly amazing and terrible joke about Will Smith I had recently learned (and had told to every goddamn person I know). Our new friend enjoyed it so much that he borrowed the acoustic guitar from the lady next to him and played the theme song to The Fresh Prince of Bel Air for us, with which we and several other strangers on the street sang along to in a choir of surreal and amazing 1990s pop culture celebration.
We soon parted ways with these friends, in all probability to never see them again in our lifetimes, a matter which nearer the end of the evening we discussed in great detail and ultimately felt good about. In all honesty I think there is a certain flavour of friendship that can only be experienced in making a connection with a stranger that you will never see again, and this was a particularly good taste of that friendship (not unaided by the literal taste of fresh berries that came with it.)
to be continued later when i don't have to leave for work
Friday, June 18, 2010
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