The evening's ritual was a walk down the quiet, dimly lit road in the dusk. Behind me was another lost battle, another lost chance at a redemption I think I knew I would never receive. Ahead was nothing more than the warmth of familiarity, but I would take whatever I could get. Every walk, all I wanted was for it to be the last, because that would mean that the battle was over -- defeat had to be preferable to this. So one day I fled, and that was that. But now I walk down a different equally dimly lit road in the dusk, and all I can think is how gloriously real that shuffle in the quiet was, with only the streetlight, my thoughts, and me. Every footstep thus seems an echo of a past that, by any measure, was not worth living -- and yet, which I cannot seem to escape from. Is the only way to make my peace to relive everything, and prove that I have learned how to survive? Or is it to dig deeper and deeper, till nothing, man or memory, can find me?

Anytime discussion turns to what it is we do, there seem to be a few ground rules. First, it is certainly important, and not pointless -- anyone who feels otherwise has made some baffling life choices. Second, it is by far more important than any other triviality that the masses distract themselves with -- this is, after all, the pursuit of knowledge in its purest form! Third, this is not work, really -- because it is what we love spending your time on, and it is suspicious that anyone want to disconnect from that.

There is much to commend about these views, and I can't claim they aren't true for other people. For me, as always, I find reason to question these pillars, and ask if the tower is as strong as it appears. The unquestioning party line seems unaware or uncaring of the faults that surely exist. For one, the culture encourages a dismally one-dimensional view of the self -- perhaps being judged on (the perception of) your brain is preferable to being judged on your body, but it is demeaning nonetheless. How pathetic to see the wonder of man reduced to a pocketful of equations and ideas. The pity of the matter is that one starts to believe in this hollow ghost, and imagine that this is what all others must see -- which, in my case, is perpetually a shadow of failure.

Of course, one-dimensional views are popular everywhere; it's the way we're wired, no doubt. But it seems to play a stronger role amongst us, because of the belief that this is anyway the only thing that matters. When there is an understanding that what you do is, at the end of the day, just a bit of theatre, there is the opportunity to see others for who they are behind the curtain. I think that's what missing -- a sense of who people are as people, rather than as machines that produce theorems.

My Illegal Self

Sometimes my existence utterly boggles my mind -- and that takes some doing, given the thoughts that ordinarily pass through it -- and I find it hard to imagine that a more unlikely individual has ever walked this planet. I almost pity the unknowing others who look into these eyes, seeing whatever image it is I project. No one's image is their whole story, but how many have kept up so massive a charade so consistently? How many have managed to have more or less conformed to the norms of society, while amassing an unbelievably detailed array of thought and emotion borne from isolation, longing, and denial? An array which, when its hand is revealed, would leave me standing alone as the earth and everyone in it scurries in fear.

Can't Make A Sound

For three minutes, the world seems like it has stopped spinning. As my mind adjusts to the silence that follows, it is with some disappointment, and doubt -- because what else is left to feel? I have resolved everything, and having discovered my final words, I see no better close to the chapter. All remorse has been shed, because I must be blessed to be able to feel so strongly and, I think it must be true, purely. Perhaps there is a world as bright as the poets tell, but I don't lament that I will not see it. Even if I've been walking in the dark these many years, it was always to this place, where I may bask under a sky of glorious gray. I'd like to stay here, I tell the world, as I feel the wheels stir slowly into motion.

Pitseleh

"No one deserves it": it was around this point last night that I felt my throat start to clamp up, and it started getting tighter still with each following word. Because that's really all you can say, isn't it -- this amount of emotion could not be owed to anyone, no matter the path they may have chosen, or the things they might have done. Ergo, we find ourselves an unfortunate casualty of chance.

You'd think all this wise reflection and introspection would offer some solace, and steer one's thoughts away from that which has no answer. But there is still a resigned admission of guilt that, even knowing all that one does, there is something inside -- a piece that went missing, and which each day seems less likely to be found -- that refuses to let go. What else to do, then, but to embrace the night in the hopes that it will help one forget?

"I've got a joke I've been dying to tell you": the sun rises again, and in the daylight, it seems like there just might be hope.

Before the great sleep, my mind tells me it is awake and that it is ready to conquer anything I should throw at it. What you see are the feeble attempts at capturing that, mostly unsuccessful. Try as I might to capture the mood, they are often escaped. I can only hope they intend to visit someone else's dreams.

Back when I was learning how to become both a collector and a snob, I had invented several now-ridiculous rules regarding how and when it was ok to consume an album. Recalling them brings waves of embarrassment, but I would be remiss to not offer one example -- that the album is, minimally, a work of art, and one that demands utmost attention. Being lyrically minded, this in particular meant hanging on every syllable, parsing every intonation, decoding every reference, and of course, collecting the best turns of phrase for a purpose I knew existed, even if I didn't know what it was at the time.

It may not surprise that this meant a great many albums were purchased on the advice of my guides and teachers, but were listened to once, and shelved after I had concluded that they required a mood or point of view that I did not possess at the time of listening. Not wishing to disrespect the artist, I of course did not want to project my own deficiencies onto their work -- thus, they were saved up for a time when I did have the means to fully understand them.

That time is now, apparently. Whenever I encounter one of these albums from nearly a decade ago, collecting dust but always a reminder of a certain failure in my appreciation skills, I now see it as a challenge that must be bested -- my credentials depend on it. Having taken up a few of these challenges now, I am very pleasantly surprised to report that the value and merit of these works is largely unaffected by the hang-ups I've imposed on it. How blessed I am that great, and even good art, doesn't have an expiry date.

A corollary is that another class of albums -- those I saw something powerful in, but consumed only a few times in fear of the power overwhelming me -- are also ripe for rediscovery. I'm now starting to think that some of them may even be as good as I remember wanting them to be. On the one hand, this is all great news. On the other hand, I worry what this says about the hundreds of carefully considered records I've conquered over the past few years. Might the day come when I decide that I never really listened to them in the first place? But I shouldn't be surprised were this to unfold. I've always believed that my tastes were well-formed and my own, even when they were wildly changing; as Lou would say, belief is never sure.

Time Out Of Mind

Having spent three days in a different environment, constantly surrounded by pleasant company and occupied by all manner of activities, I am struck by one thing on my return to normal patterns -- the blissful absence of the internal monologue, of this incessant ritual I play out for reasons that are sometimes unclear. I've occupied many pages with measured consideration of how important these discussions are to me. But, to be perfectly honest, I can't say that I missed them at all.

I'm guilty of many things, so detailing every one of them is of limited value (though this act has given the present blog many resuscitations). But the dour mood I find myself in today comes from an offense that explains some of my other behaviour, and so is worth noting: an obsession with the imagined "normality" of the salt of the earth, and a yearning to leave behind my perennial morass of idiosyncracy to join my brothers and sisters on the open plain of possibility.

No sin is without reason, and in my case, it is the years surrounded by some of the most elliptic, oblong, eccentric individuals that walk this planet. The dissatisfaction I felt in that environment made the promise of normality seem wondrous, and a cure to some of my other ailments. But, I'm saddened to report, the promise sets up only to disappoint. The reason isn't, I think, that the "normals" don't exist; it's that I have been for too long steeped in an odd diet of isolation and introspection, and so, despite my best attempts to feign otherwise, I find myself squarely in the camp of the "other".

Conforming to the majority is the absolute opposite of what most people of import practiced. But they had at their disposal better tools than I to rise above their situation, and over time change what is thought to be ordinary, usually for the better. And, perhaps, more importantly, what they refused to comprise on was, axiomatically, something they saw as valuable and worth fighting for. In my case, these points of difference are rarely the result of a reasoned, principled philosophical stance -- more typically, they are an instinctive reaction that allow me to defer the uncomfortable process of change.

And yet, for someone who claims to have shut his heart's door, I seem to take these blows pretty hard. So I think I shall continue to seek out other clubs, even if so far they've only made me seal myself off even further. Because I do not believe this particular party of one can sustain.

Memories

David McComb is at his best, and with each lyric it's as though I'm easing myself into the warm ocean. I'm no longer in this room, this world, this universe. Everything I have experienced I feel again in one instant. The sun's under eclipse, but there is nothing I need see anymore. Lying in this ocean of ceaseless calm, I have no more need. If he speaks one more word, I may never come back. My life hangs on the next syllable, and the universe trembles in anticipation.