On the night of July 3rd, I had a strange electricity surging through my body that I was unable to shake. This was very unfortunate because it was a little after midnight in the middle of nowhere Montana and there would be no other solution than to go to sleep and wake up for the 4th of July in a few hours. Something had to be done. So I searched my journal for passages where I had similar feelings and longings to do everything at once and this is what came from that night. This is my first new writing for The Compass and I'm proud to display it here first.
-Anthony
-----------
Orange Rumble
Tonight, the moon seems further away from the earth than usual. A distant, unreachable dream. Perhaps it's an optical illusion. The stratus clouds and fog swirl around its dirt-colored surface. A select few have walked its craters, or so we are told. I believe it. Why not? But why can't I believe that I can ever do the same? I haven't talked to the right people. The moon will always hang as if it were just an image on television, broken down into blue, green, and red bars. Not a dream but an conjured hallucination that no one but myself fully understands. But tonight, something seems different. Off. It radiates that I should not care. This is unacceptable.
When I travel near New York City on the other side of the country, this lunar distance is also very noticeable. I've only been near NYC three times and only once in its interior. Inside, my internal compass spins and I can never truly find my bearings. Each street looks just like the next. People walk with an involuntary strut because they know where they are. I usually have a great sense of direction. They spend money on mutations of what the rest of the world is used to. Everything is better there although from a quick glance, it is negatively undetectable.
The second time through the city was by complete accident, driving from Delaware to Rhode Island. Before we had time to respond, we were cradled in traffic waiting to pay $8 to cross the George Washington Bridge. The third time was from the air, flying into LaGuardia. I didn't realize that planes were allowed to fly that close to the city still. Sitting in the fuselage by the window in a row by myself, the smeared, plastic panel revealed water, then the Statue of Liberty, then skyscrapers. The whole time my heart had stopped completely and I was swimming in a cold sweat not knowing that everything was alright. I was the only one panicking, wondering if I could pry open the panel that holds the oxygen masks with a pen.
The fourth: At night, we entered the city through the same way as the Delaware trip, impossible not to notice the close planes as we crossed the George Washington into the concrete, graffitied chasms of the Bronx. The starless sky replaced with orange street lights and support beams. My stomach replaced with syringes filled with coffee, my head filled with the want of tobacco smoke to marinate my brain inside my skull.
My nerves begin to peak at the edge of New Jersey as we entered the city. Maybe it was a post-9/11 mentality. But once we crossed the bridge, the anxiety was still present. There wasn't much traffic but then the realization sideswiped me and hijacked my thoughts for the rest of the drive into Long Island.
I have a large distrust of other people. With all the stimuli from a large area, (for example, this massive metropolitan area) the brain must not only take in everything it is exposed to, but must also process, analyze, and act upon this massive amount of data. I do not trust the individual human brain to stay 100% healthy from this constant computing, thus these internal defenses go up. Anyone of these people could snap at any point of time and it is my nature to stay prepared if it does. Then again, it could all be a result of thinking far too much. Every bump in a jet makes me think that the wings will shatter off, the plane's hull being peeled like a banana, and slamming nose down in a fireball on some family's farm in the Midwest. Rattles in unfamiliar taxis on the way to the airport equate to loose rattlesnakes that the crazy driver keeps as pets. It'll strike and I'll die before the plane can even reach the borders of the county. Every sore throat is tuberculosis. Every headache is an inoperable brain tumor. Trains slam into each other head on. Plagues at the mall. Hostage situations at banks. Tornados at the sight of rain and wind. Every car in the rearview mirror at night is a murderer. The brain is too overpowering for human hearts. Sometimes it needs to rest.
Another hijacker. The anxiety then came from excitement. The people in New York City give a damn about where their lives are going. The people in some parts of the city live in horrible conditions like those in unfortunate parts of Elmira, where I've been spending the last few years. However, the city crowd pays so much more for the same conditions because they have certain goals that they wish to achieve. That is the difference. I'm glad Mark Twain never saw Elmira hit it's tipping point and transform into such a suffocating environment. Being stuck in such a poisonous shipwreck of a town makes a person want to discover where happy people dwell. People who haven't quite given up. The small apartments of New York City are where this is. They reject the rust-stung water of their hometowns and move to where their neighbors still dream and can see clearly to infinity. No one lives here to strive for mediocrity. People move to New York City to be someone, to accomplish. My anxiety was the excitement of seeing this. I could feel it radiate through the ground. All the undiscovered potential of every single person in this city could supply it's electrical needs for years.
This city cannot be the only place where this feeling exists. Everyone everywhere is doing something, swimming in the streetlights not knowing for certain what is to come. People look into campfires and feel like everything is ok, was ok, will be ok. A tranquility in orange. Staring at tangerine streetlights of a small town with blank mind not knowing what to feel is no different. In the late hours of the night, some unknowingly gaze upon their sleeping neighbors behind walls and under sheets. The sleepers feel nothing but comfort. A few of us are awake and cannot find a way to snuggle in.
When the trip is over, when lightbulbs are replaced with logs, I look into a campfire with confusion and everything floods back in a hug of acceptance. Someone may play guitar while another pokes at embers with a stick. Everyone stares into the light. Our ancestors did the same. Their eyes wondering, examining flickers and thinking of what the next day will bring. Soldiers from the Civil War, Vietnam, World War I and II stared in the same way. Slaves escaping the Devil. Any moment, every thought can face the intrusion of a bullet. Absolutely no one knows what their tomorrow has in store. I stare into the fire just as they were. In the ancient flame, we share the silent knowledge of what it means to be human. Dreams and aspirations cannot become just embers. The fire must be tended to.
From this I have a large amount of energy built up and I have no idea how to get rid of it. There needs to be some sort of release. I need fireworks, greasy food, sweaty families, shitty cover bands. I need to hear explosions that you can feel in your chest that bounce and reverberate through the mountains. I want to smell gunpowder and scorched chemicals drifting towards the next town. I need that patriotic feeling of watching something combust. I want the rumble of our capability to rattle the coffins of the dead presidents. Celebrate our freedom. Always.
I must travel this country in which I call myself a citizen, for I do not know it well. Each of us have wandered to different states here and there but I need to experience it fully. This trip will aim us towards the people and places we do not know. But another part must be to see the nothing. To stop the car on the side of the road in the middle of infinite fields, shut everything down and stand on the hood, gazing out into the ocean of Middle-America and not hearing a sound but the wind and our nervous systems. Cell reception will not touch our bodies. Electricity a recently lost friend. The smell of campfire, gasoline, and hash browns in our hair. Coffee sludge on our tongues. A greasy tear of happiness and the jingle of keys. Our souls will explode and vibrate into the sky. The Presidency will take note. Yesterday they did their jobs. Tomorrow we do ours.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Monday, July 26, 2010
Om Nom Nom
As it turns out, I probably will not have time during the week to put stuff up. Ignore that schedule. Awesome. So here is that food article now.
-Anthony
-------
Om Nom Nom
When everyone was small, they put things in their mouths that they shouldn’t. Marbles. Grass. Ants. Markers. Other people’s fingers (in a very exploratory and non-cannibalistic way). Although people mature and learn that this is not very beneficial, the curiosity does not fade. A sense of adventure is necessary to live a meaningful life. For those who do not have the resources to go on outrageous excursions, the kitchen is an extraordinary place for thrill and human fulfillment.
Because of this urge for excitement, I tried lobster for the first time this past summer in New England. The reason why it took 21 years for me to taste fresh lobster is still unknown. Maybe because I don’t like my meals to stare at me.
What I discovered is that lobster is one the most overrated and ego-bloated animals in existence. Not to infringe on late writer David Foster Wallace’s territory, specifically “Consider the Lobster”. His longwinded journalistic investigation into the morality of the Maine Lobster Festival was an inspiration but this distaste extends from personal experience. This being said, lobsters are better off left pathetically moping around on the ocean floor or whatever it is they do down there.
Despite my lack of lobstorial experience, I did have some knowledge prior to dining. For instance, according to David, lobsters feel the blistering pain of boiling water once they are lowered into pots. However, they do not have the part of the brain that gives them emotions about said pain. They all lack the mental capacity for sheer horror that a human would have in the same situation. May he rest in peace. David, that is. Not our metaphorical lobster. The lobster can boil in hell forever for all I care.
Once they are cooked, they are sometimes served in their entirety and preyed upon with utensils specifically designed to dissect its pretentious shell. Lobster is far too much work for something that tastes like chewy butter with a tinge of salt water. It must be a status thing then. I suppose devouring a full creature that looks like some sort of dinosaur-bug does feel a bit more masculine than ordering shrimp scampi, but this turns a pleasant evening out into a prawn-measuring contest. Despite the fact that a person may have paid a lot for this creature, it still remains practically impossible to look cool in a bib.
Satisfaction and exhilaration from food must then come from a different source other than the wallet. Let’s examine how one can possibly get their culinary rocks off when money is not an issue.
Fugu- raw blowfish. People will pay more than lobster to put this Japanese delicacy in their mouths knowing very well that it may kill them. Only seventeen restaurants in the United States have chefs that are certified to prepare it, twelve of which are in New York City. There is an art to surgically slicing the fish so the surprise inside is removed (we’ll get to that in a second). The apprenticeship to learning this takes roughly three years and still people die every year from poisoning. It is not perfect.
A simulation: The next time you eat, imagine that whatever it is might contain a fun substance called tetrodotoxin. This could enter your body sneakily during dinner and slowly start paralyzing things. First, your mouth will feel quite numb. You’ll drool all over yourself. Then you may puke. Next you will not be able to move. As the poison strolls through your limp and terrified body, it would eventually find your lungs and leisurely make them not work. Suffocation. The whole thing takes an hour or two and most people remain completely conscious for the entire process. Puffer fish meat is brimming with tetrodotoxin. Imagine the excitement of chance at dinner now.
Some genetic scientists have bred a species of puffer fish that does not have tetrodotoxin in its flesh. How horribly boring. The whole point of eating fugu is that it can kill you. The rush from staring death in the face from across the dinner table is more than enough to entice people. No other meal can really provide this service. If you don’t drool and die on the way home then I suppose you have a great story for the grandkids.
But just like that, the thrill of blowfish is gone. Great. You survived. Now what? Do it again? No, it will just be boring and kind of sad. Its like playing Russian roulette, only two outcomes. No one wants to press his or her luck that much. Something needs to be done to satisfy this craving for adventure but really, nothing compares to fugu. Legally. There is always the black market where anyone can buy endangered species prepared the way the customer sees fit. Panda steaks. Bald Eagle sausage. Wash it down with environmentalists’ tears. Or maybe you prefer Chinese wine made from tiger corpses.
“Virtually all the tigers from the Guilin farm end up at a winery 100 miles to the north, their carcasses dumped in huge vats of rice wine and left to rot for up to nine years.” reporter Danny Penman explains. A small zoo in Guilin, China sold this wine along with tiger and bear meat. Their cover story was that they were a tiger rehab center and would eventually set the animals free. They were really just setting the tiger’s flavor free by complimenting the taste with ginger and soy sauce. Penman, a reporter for the British daily news periodical Daily Mail, visited this facility in 2007. He writes: “Tigers and other endangered species are being reared on an industrial scale throughout China, despite international treaties forbidding this. The Mail discovered three factory farms breeding tigers in China. The Guilin farm alone has 1,300 tigers, including the incredibly rare and elusive Siberian sub-species.” Delicious.
Don’t worry. Usually humans did not kill these captive tigers unless of course some government suit was in town and they needed fresh meat. They died naturally- in fights when they were accidentally put in the same tiny cage and fought to the death. Oops. Sometimes they have more of a chance. Zoo-goers can pay to see a killing show were they release a few tigers with one cow. Hilarity ensues. In this veritable thunderdome, several animals enter, one leaves... where it will probably be killed for wine within the same month anyway.
Another inside look from that snitch Penman: “The Chinese believe that the tiger's strength passes into the wine as its body decomposes. They also believe that it is a powerful medicine that wards off arthritis, strengthens bones and acts as a general tonic.” Plus a bottle of it goes for around 45 US dollars, which is cheaper than lobster at some high-end restaurants. Nutritious and affordable. Unfortunately, underground places like this are being shut down worldwide, leaving people sick of lobster and blowfish with little options left. What is there to turn to now? The answer is culturally upsetting yet quite plausible.
People often forget how edible they are. Cannibalism is a viable means for sustenance. Not surprisingly, it is quite difficult to find nutritional facts for human flesh on the internet, search engines mostly returned survival stories. There was an article about that one woman who put her husband’s severed finger in her chili at Wendy’s, which then prompted me to search for human meat recipes.
You didn’t think that we would eat it raw, did you? We aren’t barbarians. We are cultured people who eat fugu at premier sushi restaurants and drink only the finest tiger wines.
Upon searching, there were some but very few recipes for people that I came across but one personal website gave quite a detailed account. This person said that human meat is very similar to pork and that anyone interested should just use related recipes. Curious.
The next obvious example would be along the lines of the Donner Party, Hannibal Lector, or serial killer/human meat enthusiast Jeffery Dahmer, etc. I present to you something better. The story of Antron Singleton also known as rapper Big Lurch, as told by Reuters. The reason why you haven’t heard of him is because he’s serving life in prison because he killed his girlfriend in 2003 and ate one of her lungs, the same lung that could have been subtly strangled by tetrodotoxin if Big Lurch made it big and moved to New York City. Tests show that he was high on PCP when he did it. Here is where the plot thickens and becomes ironically humorous. Apparently, his record label wanted him to have a more “gangsta” (Reuters words, not mine) appearance and they gave him the drugs. This turns this whole cannibalistic fiasco into eating something to gain status, much like millions of people do with the lobster. And the cherry on top? His record label was Death Row Records.
What else can be said other than humans are curious creatures? However it is illegal to act upon some of these curiosities, but it is perfectly acceptable to wonder. It’s within who we are. Exploration is part of what it means to live. All people are human and should therefore act like it and experience what this life has to offer. It is a modest proposal and relatively easy to pursue. So go forth with an open mind and explore. Just be careful. Some things have poison in them.
-Anthony
-------
Om Nom Nom
When everyone was small, they put things in their mouths that they shouldn’t. Marbles. Grass. Ants. Markers. Other people’s fingers (in a very exploratory and non-cannibalistic way). Although people mature and learn that this is not very beneficial, the curiosity does not fade. A sense of adventure is necessary to live a meaningful life. For those who do not have the resources to go on outrageous excursions, the kitchen is an extraordinary place for thrill and human fulfillment.
Because of this urge for excitement, I tried lobster for the first time this past summer in New England. The reason why it took 21 years for me to taste fresh lobster is still unknown. Maybe because I don’t like my meals to stare at me.
What I discovered is that lobster is one the most overrated and ego-bloated animals in existence. Not to infringe on late writer David Foster Wallace’s territory, specifically “Consider the Lobster”. His longwinded journalistic investigation into the morality of the Maine Lobster Festival was an inspiration but this distaste extends from personal experience. This being said, lobsters are better off left pathetically moping around on the ocean floor or whatever it is they do down there.
Despite my lack of lobstorial experience, I did have some knowledge prior to dining. For instance, according to David, lobsters feel the blistering pain of boiling water once they are lowered into pots. However, they do not have the part of the brain that gives them emotions about said pain. They all lack the mental capacity for sheer horror that a human would have in the same situation. May he rest in peace. David, that is. Not our metaphorical lobster. The lobster can boil in hell forever for all I care.
Once they are cooked, they are sometimes served in their entirety and preyed upon with utensils specifically designed to dissect its pretentious shell. Lobster is far too much work for something that tastes like chewy butter with a tinge of salt water. It must be a status thing then. I suppose devouring a full creature that looks like some sort of dinosaur-bug does feel a bit more masculine than ordering shrimp scampi, but this turns a pleasant evening out into a prawn-measuring contest. Despite the fact that a person may have paid a lot for this creature, it still remains practically impossible to look cool in a bib.
Satisfaction and exhilaration from food must then come from a different source other than the wallet. Let’s examine how one can possibly get their culinary rocks off when money is not an issue.
Fugu- raw blowfish. People will pay more than lobster to put this Japanese delicacy in their mouths knowing very well that it may kill them. Only seventeen restaurants in the United States have chefs that are certified to prepare it, twelve of which are in New York City. There is an art to surgically slicing the fish so the surprise inside is removed (we’ll get to that in a second). The apprenticeship to learning this takes roughly three years and still people die every year from poisoning. It is not perfect.
A simulation: The next time you eat, imagine that whatever it is might contain a fun substance called tetrodotoxin. This could enter your body sneakily during dinner and slowly start paralyzing things. First, your mouth will feel quite numb. You’ll drool all over yourself. Then you may puke. Next you will not be able to move. As the poison strolls through your limp and terrified body, it would eventually find your lungs and leisurely make them not work. Suffocation. The whole thing takes an hour or two and most people remain completely conscious for the entire process. Puffer fish meat is brimming with tetrodotoxin. Imagine the excitement of chance at dinner now.
Some genetic scientists have bred a species of puffer fish that does not have tetrodotoxin in its flesh. How horribly boring. The whole point of eating fugu is that it can kill you. The rush from staring death in the face from across the dinner table is more than enough to entice people. No other meal can really provide this service. If you don’t drool and die on the way home then I suppose you have a great story for the grandkids.
But just like that, the thrill of blowfish is gone. Great. You survived. Now what? Do it again? No, it will just be boring and kind of sad. Its like playing Russian roulette, only two outcomes. No one wants to press his or her luck that much. Something needs to be done to satisfy this craving for adventure but really, nothing compares to fugu. Legally. There is always the black market where anyone can buy endangered species prepared the way the customer sees fit. Panda steaks. Bald Eagle sausage. Wash it down with environmentalists’ tears. Or maybe you prefer Chinese wine made from tiger corpses.
“Virtually all the tigers from the Guilin farm end up at a winery 100 miles to the north, their carcasses dumped in huge vats of rice wine and left to rot for up to nine years.” reporter Danny Penman explains. A small zoo in Guilin, China sold this wine along with tiger and bear meat. Their cover story was that they were a tiger rehab center and would eventually set the animals free. They were really just setting the tiger’s flavor free by complimenting the taste with ginger and soy sauce. Penman, a reporter for the British daily news periodical Daily Mail, visited this facility in 2007. He writes: “Tigers and other endangered species are being reared on an industrial scale throughout China, despite international treaties forbidding this. The Mail discovered three factory farms breeding tigers in China. The Guilin farm alone has 1,300 tigers, including the incredibly rare and elusive Siberian sub-species.” Delicious.
Don’t worry. Usually humans did not kill these captive tigers unless of course some government suit was in town and they needed fresh meat. They died naturally- in fights when they were accidentally put in the same tiny cage and fought to the death. Oops. Sometimes they have more of a chance. Zoo-goers can pay to see a killing show were they release a few tigers with one cow. Hilarity ensues. In this veritable thunderdome, several animals enter, one leaves... where it will probably be killed for wine within the same month anyway.
Another inside look from that snitch Penman: “The Chinese believe that the tiger's strength passes into the wine as its body decomposes. They also believe that it is a powerful medicine that wards off arthritis, strengthens bones and acts as a general tonic.” Plus a bottle of it goes for around 45 US dollars, which is cheaper than lobster at some high-end restaurants. Nutritious and affordable. Unfortunately, underground places like this are being shut down worldwide, leaving people sick of lobster and blowfish with little options left. What is there to turn to now? The answer is culturally upsetting yet quite plausible.
People often forget how edible they are. Cannibalism is a viable means for sustenance. Not surprisingly, it is quite difficult to find nutritional facts for human flesh on the internet, search engines mostly returned survival stories. There was an article about that one woman who put her husband’s severed finger in her chili at Wendy’s, which then prompted me to search for human meat recipes.
You didn’t think that we would eat it raw, did you? We aren’t barbarians. We are cultured people who eat fugu at premier sushi restaurants and drink only the finest tiger wines.
Upon searching, there were some but very few recipes for people that I came across but one personal website gave quite a detailed account. This person said that human meat is very similar to pork and that anyone interested should just use related recipes. Curious.
The next obvious example would be along the lines of the Donner Party, Hannibal Lector, or serial killer/human meat enthusiast Jeffery Dahmer, etc. I present to you something better. The story of Antron Singleton also known as rapper Big Lurch, as told by Reuters. The reason why you haven’t heard of him is because he’s serving life in prison because he killed his girlfriend in 2003 and ate one of her lungs, the same lung that could have been subtly strangled by tetrodotoxin if Big Lurch made it big and moved to New York City. Tests show that he was high on PCP when he did it. Here is where the plot thickens and becomes ironically humorous. Apparently, his record label wanted him to have a more “gangsta” (Reuters words, not mine) appearance and they gave him the drugs. This turns this whole cannibalistic fiasco into eating something to gain status, much like millions of people do with the lobster. And the cherry on top? His record label was Death Row Records.
What else can be said other than humans are curious creatures? However it is illegal to act upon some of these curiosities, but it is perfectly acceptable to wonder. It’s within who we are. Exploration is part of what it means to live. All people are human and should therefore act like it and experience what this life has to offer. It is a modest proposal and relatively easy to pursue. So go forth with an open mind and explore. Just be careful. Some things have poison in them.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Interstate 71 South
Inspiration hits me hardest when I drive so I take every opportunity I can to go to different places. Traveling allows me to get a different perspective of America and my own life. It gives me a chance to bond with this amazing country and see new places. This is somewhat frustrating though because when I do feel the need to write something, I can't. Well, I mean, I could but it would end in a car crash. So usually I have to remember bits and pieces and write them down later that night. My writing style is prose-y and whatnot but I also write articles about subjects that interest me as well. Not traditional articles, though. The prose is more of my internal voice trying to figure things out for myself. The articles are humorous and written mainly for education and entertainment. For me, pertaining to one style of writing is boring. I am not one for tradition.
So this week, I will give you three examples of my writing. This first one is relatively old and some people have read it before. It's driving prose. Wednesday, I'll put up an article about food that I wrote a bit ago but very few people read because it was not released publicly. Finally, Friday, I'll put up a brand new post with something no one has read. It will be driving prose again.
"It was the cause of America that made me an author."
From Thomas Paine's American Crisis Papers: No. 13
-Anthony
--------
Interstate 71 South
On the way down here, I hit a squirrel on the road. It was young, about my age, there was not a lot of fur in its tail. I thought it would move in time. I trusted it to move, like all other animals I have encountered traveling. It looked at me, made eye contact and thought of darting. From a distance, I was not sure what it was. At first it looked like a twig with a few leaves attached being lightly fondled by the wind. The movement became irregular, inconsistent with the surrounding weather. Then it looked like some sort of reptile, an iguana laying on the highway of northern Kentucky. Then the eye contact and a miniscule and futile fit of panic. A small thump. Through the rearview there was no blood. Only a cartoon-like dot of the squirrel falling lifeless from a prostrate position.
This was the first life I had taken on the road. I had been present for other road deaths. The largest being a turtle that Rita, Rob's nanny, ran over on the way back to his house from summer camp. The crunching was vocal enough to feel every molecule of shell splinter in the back of your throat. Rita was unaware. Rob and I walked back to the section of the road where it happened and found a red mess of what used to be a turtle.
This squirrel may be the largest animal that I have murdered. I thought I may have hit a rabbit in the fall. Nothing appeared in my mirrors. Then again, it was night.
On the road, as long as I am in control, I decide what lives and dies. I play god at the wheel. I can change the world around me with the subtle movements of my wrists and ankle. If anything challenges my judgement, if they feel like I must submit to their will, much like the squirrel, their lives will end.
Then again, anyone else in any other car can choose to end my life as well with a simple crash. This is a scary thought because I have met a lot of fucking stupid people that the government should not issue a license to. To imagine them operating a full ton of high speed engineering, sometimes coming at me head on, is absolutely frightening. Every time I turn the ignition, I put my life in the hands of least intelligent person this species has to offer.
This does not bother me this time. This is possibly the most pleasant this ten hour drive has ever been. Usually the last hour or so is the most tedious. Now the windows are down and I turn the Kentucky hills into a smeared portal of ancient dark greens and virgin wet lavenders. At this time, there is no other place as beautiful. Did you hear me, Henry? You can fucking keep Walden.
I drive with a purpose under the oil spill sunset towards home, flying like never before. I recognize the life that I have taken, sacrificed for this trip and honor it. When the time comes, it will decompose to become part of this beautiful land, part of everything, part of the universal consciousness. It will be recycled to become an infinite amount of things. Just how I am. I am composed of carbon and ideas from George Washington, pterodactyls, the forty-plus shots of vodka that John Bonham turned into puke, the pulse that he recorded that will beat as long as there are hearts to feel.
The speakers propel my car as it glides down the valleys. Given to fly. And the road listens. It twists into a bridge where I can make passage in the treetops. The road lines keep the beat of Cameron's drums. Cameron's drums keep the beat to Bonham's vision. Bonham's vision keeps the beat to my soul. The feeling is unexplainable. I am on my way home.
But the road has always been my home. It connects to everything I know and love. It connects everything to everyone everywhere. The roads are more than veins. It is a dimension. It is a home all its own. The pavement has always been there regardless of the situation, panic or pleasure. It understands what I am doing when no one else does, when my ideas seem irrational to others. It facilitates.
It has not rained but this evening, it appears wet. I smile. The golden honey sun hits my hand on the steering wheel, revealing small scars and scratches that have come from nothing important. What came from these? These marks were for nothing that will last. Insignificant scars from insignificant work. For now. It is not what is on your hands that count. Scars. Ink. Blood. It's what comes out of your hands that will change people's minds and then the world.
Wayne Coyne told us this weekend: Thinking should lead to doing.
In time, I will make new scars on my hands and even bigger scars in the world. Hopefully.
I pass a sign that stands as a reminder for drivers to stay safe. A bus crash. For me, dying on the road would be best. A head on collision that would shoot me like a rocket towards the sun out of the windshield, skidding on to the asphalt below. It would claim my skin and I'll grimace like never before as gravel becomes part of me. In a mangled pile of broken bones and a destroyed and halted future, my purple skull exposed to the blue sky, jet steams and radio waves, I'll smile a bloody, toothless, leaking smile knowing that everything was worth it. I'll slowly shut my eyes knowing that somewhere down the road, I am touching everyone I love, dying in their arms letting them know how thankful I am for all that they have done. Saying the wrong words because that love cannot be summarized.
Until then, I will listen to the radio and slide to my house and my bed. Titus Andronicus will yell.
From "The Battle of Hampton Roads"
And so now when I drink, I'm going to drink to excess
And when I smoke, I will smoke gaping holes in my chest
And when I scream, I will scream until I'm gasping for breath
So this week, I will give you three examples of my writing. This first one is relatively old and some people have read it before. It's driving prose. Wednesday, I'll put up an article about food that I wrote a bit ago but very few people read because it was not released publicly. Finally, Friday, I'll put up a brand new post with something no one has read. It will be driving prose again.
"It was the cause of America that made me an author."
From Thomas Paine's American Crisis Papers: No. 13
-Anthony
--------
Interstate 71 South
On the way down here, I hit a squirrel on the road. It was young, about my age, there was not a lot of fur in its tail. I thought it would move in time. I trusted it to move, like all other animals I have encountered traveling. It looked at me, made eye contact and thought of darting. From a distance, I was not sure what it was. At first it looked like a twig with a few leaves attached being lightly fondled by the wind. The movement became irregular, inconsistent with the surrounding weather. Then it looked like some sort of reptile, an iguana laying on the highway of northern Kentucky. Then the eye contact and a miniscule and futile fit of panic. A small thump. Through the rearview there was no blood. Only a cartoon-like dot of the squirrel falling lifeless from a prostrate position.
This was the first life I had taken on the road. I had been present for other road deaths. The largest being a turtle that Rita, Rob's nanny, ran over on the way back to his house from summer camp. The crunching was vocal enough to feel every molecule of shell splinter in the back of your throat. Rita was unaware. Rob and I walked back to the section of the road where it happened and found a red mess of what used to be a turtle.
This squirrel may be the largest animal that I have murdered. I thought I may have hit a rabbit in the fall. Nothing appeared in my mirrors. Then again, it was night.
On the road, as long as I am in control, I decide what lives and dies. I play god at the wheel. I can change the world around me with the subtle movements of my wrists and ankle. If anything challenges my judgement, if they feel like I must submit to their will, much like the squirrel, their lives will end.
Then again, anyone else in any other car can choose to end my life as well with a simple crash. This is a scary thought because I have met a lot of fucking stupid people that the government should not issue a license to. To imagine them operating a full ton of high speed engineering, sometimes coming at me head on, is absolutely frightening. Every time I turn the ignition, I put my life in the hands of least intelligent person this species has to offer.
This does not bother me this time. This is possibly the most pleasant this ten hour drive has ever been. Usually the last hour or so is the most tedious. Now the windows are down and I turn the Kentucky hills into a smeared portal of ancient dark greens and virgin wet lavenders. At this time, there is no other place as beautiful. Did you hear me, Henry? You can fucking keep Walden.
I drive with a purpose under the oil spill sunset towards home, flying like never before. I recognize the life that I have taken, sacrificed for this trip and honor it. When the time comes, it will decompose to become part of this beautiful land, part of everything, part of the universal consciousness. It will be recycled to become an infinite amount of things. Just how I am. I am composed of carbon and ideas from George Washington, pterodactyls, the forty-plus shots of vodka that John Bonham turned into puke, the pulse that he recorded that will beat as long as there are hearts to feel.
The speakers propel my car as it glides down the valleys. Given to fly. And the road listens. It twists into a bridge where I can make passage in the treetops. The road lines keep the beat of Cameron's drums. Cameron's drums keep the beat to Bonham's vision. Bonham's vision keeps the beat to my soul. The feeling is unexplainable. I am on my way home.
But the road has always been my home. It connects to everything I know and love. It connects everything to everyone everywhere. The roads are more than veins. It is a dimension. It is a home all its own. The pavement has always been there regardless of the situation, panic or pleasure. It understands what I am doing when no one else does, when my ideas seem irrational to others. It facilitates.
It has not rained but this evening, it appears wet. I smile. The golden honey sun hits my hand on the steering wheel, revealing small scars and scratches that have come from nothing important. What came from these? These marks were for nothing that will last. Insignificant scars from insignificant work. For now. It is not what is on your hands that count. Scars. Ink. Blood. It's what comes out of your hands that will change people's minds and then the world.
Wayne Coyne told us this weekend: Thinking should lead to doing.
In time, I will make new scars on my hands and even bigger scars in the world. Hopefully.
I pass a sign that stands as a reminder for drivers to stay safe. A bus crash. For me, dying on the road would be best. A head on collision that would shoot me like a rocket towards the sun out of the windshield, skidding on to the asphalt below. It would claim my skin and I'll grimace like never before as gravel becomes part of me. In a mangled pile of broken bones and a destroyed and halted future, my purple skull exposed to the blue sky, jet steams and radio waves, I'll smile a bloody, toothless, leaking smile knowing that everything was worth it. I'll slowly shut my eyes knowing that somewhere down the road, I am touching everyone I love, dying in their arms letting them know how thankful I am for all that they have done. Saying the wrong words because that love cannot be summarized.
Until then, I will listen to the radio and slide to my house and my bed. Titus Andronicus will yell.
From "The Battle of Hampton Roads"
And so now when I drink, I'm going to drink to excess
And when I smoke, I will smoke gaping holes in my chest
And when I scream, I will scream until I'm gasping for breath
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Searching, Still
In the summer of 2009, I began a songwriting project called "Request-A-Song." For one dollar, people could submit lyrics and ideas for songs and I would create a piece of music for them. Contributors could also request certain instruments or sounds for these works. My friend Dave submitted two lyrics, "He's a god among us men" and "O blonded one" as well as a request for a lack of drums. From there, I created the following demo for "Searching, Still."
There's a man I've thought of
late at night, when I am drifting off to sleep
or when I'm walking down any of the autumnal suburb streets.
I've seen him many times, but never face-to-face.
I've only seen him from the corner of my small pupiled bloodshot eye.
When I turn, he's been replaced
by someone whose tongue is rougher to the ear.
O blonded one,
oh, brunette creature slouching west,
I don't know you,
don't think I ever fully will.
While in the library I discovered others sought him too:
the poet from Concord, the tramp from County Wicklow,
the supermarket visiter wandering at night.
Were they ever found or were they just glipses from the side?
He's a god among us men.
I plan on searching for him, still.
When I sat down to write a song around the fragments that Dave provided, I contemplated Emerson's idea of the Poet. In his essay "The Poet," Emerson called for someone to give voice to the American tapestry, to describe those things that are specific to the United States. This bulletin for a revolutionary figure was answered by Walt Whitman in his 1855 collection Leaves of Grass. When I read "Song Of Myself," I saw the same twisting lines of American grit captured by Bruce Springsteen in "Blinded By The Light" and the mystifying imagery of Bob Dylan's "A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall."
I believe that there exists a lineage of great American poets -- writers and musicians, artists and filmmakers -- who can see this country and capture it, distill the world they see into words and sounds and images for others to use as springboards. These readers and viewers dive into the pool of the American consciousness and discover depths previously undiscovered while the ripples affect the other swimmers, all of them in a body of constant change.
But what about the tramp in my song? This allusion to the plays of J. M. Synge, an Irishman whose work helped do for the Irish sense of its creative world what Emerson did for the American one: demand a refocusing on what forms our identity. Still, he's not American. I hope that this helps include some diversity in my song. Instead of focusing on what makes America great, I highlight the search for greater understanding of ourselves that is common in so many literary greats.
But notice the lack of women in my song. I think this, more than anything else, hurts it and its message. If I am trying to promote the notion of the American identity, I must include all that is American -- its women, its races and religions, its sexual orientations and gender identities. I have much to learn and explore with these concepts and I must grow more illuminated in my understanding of this country and this world, and I hope to share my discoveries with you all.
-Paul
There's a man I've thought of
late at night, when I am drifting off to sleep
or when I'm walking down any of the autumnal suburb streets.
I've seen him many times, but never face-to-face.
I've only seen him from the corner of my small pupiled bloodshot eye.
When I turn, he's been replaced
by someone whose tongue is rougher to the ear.
O blonded one,
oh, brunette creature slouching west,
I don't know you,
don't think I ever fully will.
While in the library I discovered others sought him too:
the poet from Concord, the tramp from County Wicklow,
the supermarket visiter wandering at night.
Were they ever found or were they just glipses from the side?
He's a god among us men.
I plan on searching for him, still.
When I sat down to write a song around the fragments that Dave provided, I contemplated Emerson's idea of the Poet. In his essay "The Poet," Emerson called for someone to give voice to the American tapestry, to describe those things that are specific to the United States. This bulletin for a revolutionary figure was answered by Walt Whitman in his 1855 collection Leaves of Grass. When I read "Song Of Myself," I saw the same twisting lines of American grit captured by Bruce Springsteen in "Blinded By The Light" and the mystifying imagery of Bob Dylan's "A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall."
I believe that there exists a lineage of great American poets -- writers and musicians, artists and filmmakers -- who can see this country and capture it, distill the world they see into words and sounds and images for others to use as springboards. These readers and viewers dive into the pool of the American consciousness and discover depths previously undiscovered while the ripples affect the other swimmers, all of them in a body of constant change.
But what about the tramp in my song? This allusion to the plays of J. M. Synge, an Irishman whose work helped do for the Irish sense of its creative world what Emerson did for the American one: demand a refocusing on what forms our identity. Still, he's not American. I hope that this helps include some diversity in my song. Instead of focusing on what makes America great, I highlight the search for greater understanding of ourselves that is common in so many literary greats.
But notice the lack of women in my song. I think this, more than anything else, hurts it and its message. If I am trying to promote the notion of the American identity, I must include all that is American -- its women, its races and religions, its sexual orientations and gender identities. I have much to learn and explore with these concepts and I must grow more illuminated in my understanding of this country and this world, and I hope to share my discoveries with you all.
-Paul
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Short Week
Ideally, I'd love to start this off with a grand show but I've been out of town the past two weeks and I'm leaving today for the weekend, so my first week is really lackluster. But with expectations so low, I can only go up, right? I did have a few things I wanted to put up that I've done recently but my scanner is not cooperating. Whether you believe me or not, I will have something for my next week considering I have another 3 weeks to produce work and then get it online for show.
I will put up a few things at the end of the post so people who aren't familiar with my work can get a taste. For those of you who have seen it, it'll be nothing new.
My goal with this blog is to have a public space to show work, discuss ideas with the other three and anyone who comments and just have a place to put thoughts down. I've wrestled with the idea of having a blog for a long time and the only thing that has stopped me is my own insecurity. If I knew there was an audience, I'd do it in a minute but I'm always afraid as coming off as self-centered or self-righteous while discussing things. Here the focus is not always on me and I've also found these three often raise my confidence and force me to do things I may not do on my own. So during my next week, I'll be posting work, ideas I'm kicking around, and most likely one or two posts of just observations. I always have opinions on things that never see the light of day because there's no place for them. Now there is.
Since graduating college a little over a month ago, the idea of identity has been heavy in my mind. For four years, you build yourself into someone, especially at the school the four of us attend and at the end of the four years, you're out. I became very used to the idea of who I was in college and enjoyed it very much. Now I need to rebuild that. I'll always have my friends and when I visit school it'll most likely be similar to when I was there, but I need to reinvent myself. It's incredibly daunting, exciting, frightening, and confusing at the same time. So hopefully I can work out some of these things through my work. Any thoughts on this, even if it's to call me a whiny, immature jerk, comment away.
I will put up a few things at the end of the post so people who aren't familiar with my work can get a taste. For those of you who have seen it, it'll be nothing new.
My goal with this blog is to have a public space to show work, discuss ideas with the other three and anyone who comments and just have a place to put thoughts down. I've wrestled with the idea of having a blog for a long time and the only thing that has stopped me is my own insecurity. If I knew there was an audience, I'd do it in a minute but I'm always afraid as coming off as self-centered or self-righteous while discussing things. Here the focus is not always on me and I've also found these three often raise my confidence and force me to do things I may not do on my own. So during my next week, I'll be posting work, ideas I'm kicking around, and most likely one or two posts of just observations. I always have opinions on things that never see the light of day because there's no place for them. Now there is.
Since graduating college a little over a month ago, the idea of identity has been heavy in my mind. For four years, you build yourself into someone, especially at the school the four of us attend and at the end of the four years, you're out. I became very used to the idea of who I was in college and enjoyed it very much. Now I need to rebuild that. I'll always have my friends and when I visit school it'll most likely be similar to when I was there, but I need to reinvent myself. It's incredibly daunting, exciting, frightening, and confusing at the same time. So hopefully I can work out some of these things through my work. Any thoughts on this, even if it's to call me a whiny, immature jerk, comment away.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
We The Compass
Welcome to The Compass! Founded by four friends in different parts of the United States with the idea to help bring about a more perfect union of art, experience, creativity, learning, and overall better living, each four members will bring our individual creative direction to this online gallery of our work.
Tim - Visual Art
Paul - Music
Anthony - Non-fiction
Luke - Fiction
Rotating every week, each member will post something new. Whether it be sketches, lyrics, short stories, or articles, our goal is to educate, guide, and inspire others to use their minds and abilities to their full extent.
We created The Compass in order to serve you so please send your input as much as possible and even submit your own work for possible publication.
Thank you and see you out there somewhere in the world,
Paul, Tim, Luke, and Anthony
Tim - Visual Art
Paul - Music
Anthony - Non-fiction
Luke - Fiction
Rotating every week, each member will post something new. Whether it be sketches, lyrics, short stories, or articles, our goal is to educate, guide, and inspire others to use their minds and abilities to their full extent.
We created The Compass in order to serve you so please send your input as much as possible and even submit your own work for possible publication.
Thank you and see you out there somewhere in the world,
Paul, Tim, Luke, and Anthony
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