A found an old post that I never published. There are nearly a dozen of them, actually. This one even had a photo already selected, and a title. I remember where I took this photo. It was north of San Francisco, in Sonoma. I was dating an Asian girl then, and we had driven out of the city to get away for the weekend. At a small winery we'd had a tasting. They had a bunch of chickens and a rooster. Or maybe this was taken at the small ranch where we were staying. They also had chickens and a rooster. The post below doesn't seem to be related at all to the weekend where the photo was taken. But, here's the post anyway:
There are a lot of words that mean two things. Take truffles for example. It can mean chocolate or mushrooms. I prefer it when it means both. Bat is another one. It can mean a club-like piece of wood used for hitting, or a winged creature of the night. Don't even get me started on cock. Not only is it a noun but it's also a verb. This kind of double meaning becomes more problematic once we start talking about verbs. Duck and roll. Does that refer to a nice poultry sandwich? It is lunch time.
I started reading Grapes of Wrath; just a few chapters while eating. I never read it in school. It's probably better this way, because I can enjoy the book now. It's unpleasant to read under duress, for a grade. In school what I enjoyed most about assigned reading was the discussion, listening to other people espouse their nonsense opinions in front of a large classroom. I'd love challenging them, gently, to see how firmly they held their beliefs, to see whether they were full of shit or not. I especially enjoyed challenging the teacher, even when I knew I was wrong. Because the teacher had to respond to even the silliest interpretations of a text, I saw it as a type of training in creative expression. A worthless courage and cheap exhilaration would thrill me when taking a stance against the class. I'd hope to slowly convert the room, one by one, to my point of view. In my younger days I was a compelling speaker, convincing, at times charming; a young Charlie Manson. Once I convinced a friend to lick a strange beetle that had crawled out from a fresh pile of shit, another to eat half a dozen moths, someone else to climb out of a sunroof naked, and another to commit grand larceny. Those were the days.
Now I can't even convince myself to write something interesting.
It shouldn’t be hard, writing. All it is is taking the voice in your head, relaying it on paper, and hoping you've communicated some kind of truth. But it is unbelievably hard. When all is said and done, we’re just sacks of meat walking around being slow-cooked by stress and fear, waiting to be eaten up by time. We’re all so easily ruined; a slip in the shower, a fall from a ladder, a blown stop sign, a random act of violence, a sudden stroke, an embolism, an absent-minded anesthesiologist, an allergic reaction, a terrorist attack, a crashed plane, a wild animal, a cat scratch, a change in the weather, a loose rock, uneven footing. Those are just to name a few. Most of us will be spared these, hopefully, but we’ll still suffer all sorts of psychic distress and trauma, accumulating cracks and fissures along the circumference of our fragile psyches. Our minds wind up spoiled long before our bodies do.
Have I ever told you that I find Oreos completely irresistible? I passed by the supermarket on the way home, to pick up some yogurt, and I only narrowly avoided purchasing a package of America's favorite cookies. Instead I bought a pack of Newman’s O’s. The name is misleading - they are cookies, I swear. A healthier alternative to Nabisco’s gloriously chocolatey, classic cream cookies. I’d thought that the bland taste of the Newman O’s would curb my appetite, but I ate an appalling, morally reprehensible number of them. I was like an obese, pudgy faced Cool Hand Luke gluttonously gobbling cookies, glistening in a sweaty sheen of shame and self-indulgence. Shoveling the cookies into my mouth, moaning, showing the whites of my eyes, I lost all control. Desire took me under its arm and ran for the 30 yard line. The only thing that saved me was satisfaction itself: the death of desire. My happiness was short lived, though, and it ended promptly, once I caught a glimpse of my swollen stomach. I'd impregnated myself. I was going to have a little food baby.
I started reading Grapes of Wrath; just a few chapters while eating. I never read it in school. It's probably better this way, because I can enjoy the book now. It's unpleasant to read under duress, for a grade. In school what I enjoyed most about assigned reading was the discussion, listening to other people espouse their nonsense opinions in front of a large classroom. I'd love challenging them, gently, to see how firmly they held their beliefs, to see whether they were full of shit or not. I especially enjoyed challenging the teacher, even when I knew I was wrong. Because the teacher had to respond to even the silliest interpretations of a text, I saw it as a type of training in creative expression. A worthless courage and cheap exhilaration would thrill me when taking a stance against the class. I'd hope to slowly convert the room, one by one, to my point of view. In my younger days I was a compelling speaker, convincing, at times charming; a young Charlie Manson. Once I convinced a friend to lick a strange beetle that had crawled out from a fresh pile of shit, another to eat half a dozen moths, someone else to climb out of a sunroof naked, and another to commit grand larceny. Those were the days.
Now I can't even convince myself to write something interesting.
It shouldn’t be hard, writing. All it is is taking the voice in your head, relaying it on paper, and hoping you've communicated some kind of truth. But it is unbelievably hard. When all is said and done, we’re just sacks of meat walking around being slow-cooked by stress and fear, waiting to be eaten up by time. We’re all so easily ruined; a slip in the shower, a fall from a ladder, a blown stop sign, a random act of violence, a sudden stroke, an embolism, an absent-minded anesthesiologist, an allergic reaction, a terrorist attack, a crashed plane, a wild animal, a cat scratch, a change in the weather, a loose rock, uneven footing. Those are just to name a few. Most of us will be spared these, hopefully, but we’ll still suffer all sorts of psychic distress and trauma, accumulating cracks and fissures along the circumference of our fragile psyches. Our minds wind up spoiled long before our bodies do.
Have I ever told you that I find Oreos completely irresistible? I passed by the supermarket on the way home, to pick up some yogurt, and I only narrowly avoided purchasing a package of America's favorite cookies. Instead I bought a pack of Newman’s O’s. The name is misleading - they are cookies, I swear. A healthier alternative to Nabisco’s gloriously chocolatey, classic cream cookies. I’d thought that the bland taste of the Newman O’s would curb my appetite, but I ate an appalling, morally reprehensible number of them. I was like an obese, pudgy faced Cool Hand Luke gluttonously gobbling cookies, glistening in a sweaty sheen of shame and self-indulgence. Shoveling the cookies into my mouth, moaning, showing the whites of my eyes, I lost all control. Desire took me under its arm and ran for the 30 yard line. The only thing that saved me was satisfaction itself: the death of desire. My happiness was short lived, though, and it ended promptly, once I caught a glimpse of my swollen stomach. I'd impregnated myself. I was going to have a little food baby.
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