"If you hate the taste of wine
Why do you drink it till you're blind?
And if you swear that there's no truth and who cares
How come you say it like you're right?
Why are you scared to dream of God
When it's salvation that you want?
You see stars that clear have been dead for years
But the idea just lives on...
In our wheels that roll around
As we move over the ground
And all day it seems we've been in between
A past and future town
We are nowhere and it's now"
-Bright Eyes "We Are Nowhere And It's Now"

Conor Oberst is a personal hero of mine. He is a singer-songwriter for numerous bands which include Bright Eyes, Conor Oberst and the Mystic River Band, and most recently (and most awesomely) Monsters of Folk. His voice isn't particuarly good, at all, instead even his most uplifting songs, of love, redemption, and personal and wordly accpetance, convey some sort underlying saddness. Some sort of pain. But maybe you need to suffer to evolve (but I'm sure I will be discussing that in the future; 'no happy woman ever writes'- Ruth Hall by Fanny Fern). Anyway, I digress. With that out of the way let us get back to our discussion. Rather, my discussion; because no one reads my blog.

This song poses a very funny idea: an atheist or possibly anarachist trying to make others believe of their system or their 'order'. It's funny because it's hypocritical, I appologized if it seems like I didn't think you understood the pun because it is rather pretentious of me to do so. Still, I digress.

Is this not true? I know alot of people who fall under some sort of atheistic religion and many of them are rather outspoken in their beliefs. But it seems that goes against what they are preaching. In the Bible someone of religious importance once said that the man who prays to himself, quiet and alone, is morally stronger than one who screams his prays for others to be heard. It's as if they want justifacation of their faiths. And now that I think of it, this applies to all religions. Anyway, back to the song.

This girl he speaks of, she is stuck. She's looking for a reason, a chance to explain, something to make life worth the work, a meaning. But she falls short. It seems as if she's settling for a nothingness but knows that she's settled. This causes her to repress her feelings, to drink, to dream of salvation. We are nowhere and it's now.

Wow. What an image you know? I think its such a pungeant idea. It's moving. It truly is.

The funny part is that many people won't listen to him because his voice really isn't good, at all. Oh, what they are missing. Or should I say, 'who cares if their missing it'.

One More Creamer

"Her face seemed ancient now. Jaded by the sands of time, standing alone in the desert like Sphinx, she represented what was and now will never be."
"You know, you are quite literate when you try," said the doctor, closing his news paper.
"I have never dared to try my friend, not since then. Not since her."
They both sat down again and beckoned the waitress for a refill.
"This woman you speak of, you knew her well?"
"Well enough to know I'll never really know a woman."
They both laughed while the young waitress poured their coffees.
"One more cream please miss? Thanks."
"Well, I've never heard of anyone being described as monument before. You had to of known her well enough."
"I suppose."
"And what of this new girl I've seen you with? Another monument?
"Perhaps. There has to be more sweat and blood, but yes, she has the framework for something like the Colosseum I guess."
"The Colosseum eh? Well when is the Fall of Rome?"
"Honestly, you probably know better than I do."

"People Watching"

A common belief about women is that they have a lot of shoes. Shoes they may wear once and then never again. But don't we all wear shoes? Don't we all at least find ourselves thinking of wearing different shoes. Following a different path. Living a different a life. Being someone else, if only for a moment.

I have find myself doing this constantly. Just thinking of being someone else. Living their routine or lack thereof. Tying the dirty laces of their shoes. I imagine their minds, their thoughts. I wonder what the wonder about. What intrigues them, motivates them, haunts them. What skeletons do have on hangers in their closets. What crosses do they carry. And most importantly, what gives them hope. What they want their life to aspire to.

I carry on these imaginations randomly. A simple scar or tattoo or hat is enough to build a life, enough to fabricate a stranger's past. I write their fictional stories. And I think about the characters. I become the narrator of translation of a mix of dream, fascination, curiosity, and amusement. Some people become exemplars while others lie in the numerous shades of gray.

And I think of their motives. Their plan. Their mission. I wonder what life means to them because it helps me find my own answer, or at least come closer to one.

I think some may call this 'people watching'. But I don't know if it's quite the same as that. The point is not to judge or mock but to recognize certain values people have and wonder what compels them to do believe them. Why will someone smile at a stranger? Why will someone sit in the park all day just to watch the birds? What do they see? What beauty have they found? What pain have they felt? What causes that smile? What allows that contentment?

Of course, these are fabricated tales. The process is just working backwards to the beginning to find some unlearned life lesson that you, the author, have created. Then you think, "Hey I wonder who's writing my story, my alternative life, my lesson."

Gatsby's Green Light. What does it mean?

So many times I just want to write. I just want to sit down at a computer and type. Type anything really. Type something. But it seems that any sort of substantial inspiration about anything comes at times when you can't write it down. You can't let your ideas flow. And what is left? Only the small and cluttered remnants of a pulse of inspiration that has come and gone with no intentions of ever returning. You're left with a puzzle, a damn confusing puzzle.
Soon you forget why you found that house so interesting. You can no longer ration the beauty you once saw in a squirrel rummaging through garbage or that certain awe you felt about seeing a green color in a window at night. You felt something new in the shade of the light. Something different. So where does this appreciation, this universal connection, you have felt go?
Has the concept of wonder left us? In our day to day lives we become jaded to the simple joys of the world. And maybe those moments of purity, of admiration, of beauty are just small rays of innocence and naivety that shine through our walls of mundane acceptance.
I've noticed that the people who do notice the beauty of the everyday are scene as 'eccentric' possibly a little crazy or this new fashionable term 'hipster', which I think is a mix between being a hippie, educated, vegetarian, and probably poor. But what's that about? So many of my collegiate friends look upon this subculture mockingly. But who can really judge? Who decided the way to live an American life. Some become happy about a paycheck or a bigger house or a boat with a terrible name. And some find their happiness in being happy about living, at being content. Some want to live in a world away from the chaos and desires of wants. They desire nothing really. Just some piece of mind. Because we all know, we can never have the whole pie.