Saturday, October 15, 2005
Antisocial
There’s this Brief’s song where they sing about their antisocialness. I find it both beautiful because I relate to it and devastating because I don’t want to relate to it. It seems I am incapable of having a close intimate relationship with anyone except my girlfriend. I find so many times in life that I am the disposable one. I want nothing more than to find people I can relate to and pour my soul out with into organizing sound. Day in, day out my life slaps me in the face showing me that that is not to be a reality for me. I would love to make music with others but the only one who cares about that dream right now is me. It’s sad, it’s scary but I have to stop wasting my time and figure out a way to go at it alone.
There’s this Brief’s song where they sing about their antisocialness. I find it both beautiful because I relate to it and devastating because I don’t want to relate to it. It seems I am incapable of having a close intimate relationship with anyone except my girlfriend. I find so many times in life that I am the disposable one. I want nothing more than to find people I can relate to and pour my soul out with into organizing sound. Day in, day out my life slaps me in the face showing me that that is not to be a reality for me. I would love to make music with others but the only one who cares about that dream right now is me. It’s sad, it’s scary but I have to stop wasting my time and figure out a way to go at it alone.
Poetry Corner
Yin-Yang
16-track versus Excel
Music stand versus Computer screen
Boom Box versus Gossip
Paper versus Keyboard
Book versus File layout specs
Request for pizza versus Request for service
Guitar versus Calculator
9-5 haiku
A man left inside
becomes nothing but a shell
they call me crazy
Yin-Yang
16-track versus Excel
Music stand versus Computer screen
Boom Box versus Gossip
Paper versus Keyboard
Book versus File layout specs
Request for pizza versus Request for service
Guitar versus Calculator
9-5 haiku
A man left inside
becomes nothing but a shell
they call me crazy
Question &…
I’m at the crossroads...the fork…my mind keeps going in circles for what I should do. Do I get cubicle burn and wither like a dried out flower under the florescent lights and cacophony of calculator clicks? Or do I feast on the grandeur of this American dream and push myself into the tightrope walk of an artist’s life? Tonight I saw Sleater Kinney and it inspired me to pick up my guitar and compose. The standards I have made…no one really understands how I feel…therefore I’m failing in my life. Is there truly a fork in the road or is the path to my dreams closed and I just don’t know it yet???
I’m at the crossroads...the fork…my mind keeps going in circles for what I should do. Do I get cubicle burn and wither like a dried out flower under the florescent lights and cacophony of calculator clicks? Or do I feast on the grandeur of this American dream and push myself into the tightrope walk of an artist’s life? Tonight I saw Sleater Kinney and it inspired me to pick up my guitar and compose. The standards I have made…no one really understands how I feel…therefore I’m failing in my life. Is there truly a fork in the road or is the path to my dreams closed and I just don’t know it yet???
Thursday, October 13, 2005
This Man's Tylenol
Here I am at the end of the day staring at this bright computer screen and I’m left feeling blah. I feel blah over the things I wished I said, I feel blah over the tasks left uncompleted, I feel blah because of my insomniac nature, I feel blah over the tests I failed. So right now I’m taking a deep breath and am going to practice a little art of being kind to myself. I will use my writing like any headache equipped man would use a Tylenol. Today in journalism class we had the man in charge of the school newspaper come in as a guest speaker. Of course he wanted a little superficial feel for the class so he went around and asked people what they wanted to be when they grew up. Without giving the typical Hallmark response saying, “I want to be me” I’d like to explore this idea. As I close my eyes I see the bustling streets of Manhattan. The buildings are like concrete silhouettes against the gray sky. Goosebumps from a gust of wind slaps me to attention much like I imagine a Zen master might do to his pupil. People often refer to big cities as concrete jungles by I’d like to think of it as a concrete flower. I walk up the stars to my spacious apartment and plop down my over-ware unto the floor. I open up the curtains to embrace the outside light and just melt into the front of my Mac laptop composing the beginnings of my four page feature for Rolling Stone. I pull up my computer’s mp3 for a little mood enhancement and my band’s music comes through in stereo…I’m finally living as I should…safe, comfortable, spontaneous and off of my love… off of the security of my art. At the ripe young age of 30 I’m finally living the life I should have lived in high school and college. For now at least this 24 year old man can enjoy the light of a computer screen and the visceral effect of Tylenol.
Here I am at the end of the day staring at this bright computer screen and I’m left feeling blah. I feel blah over the things I wished I said, I feel blah over the tasks left uncompleted, I feel blah because of my insomniac nature, I feel blah over the tests I failed. So right now I’m taking a deep breath and am going to practice a little art of being kind to myself. I will use my writing like any headache equipped man would use a Tylenol. Today in journalism class we had the man in charge of the school newspaper come in as a guest speaker. Of course he wanted a little superficial feel for the class so he went around and asked people what they wanted to be when they grew up. Without giving the typical Hallmark response saying, “I want to be me” I’d like to explore this idea. As I close my eyes I see the bustling streets of Manhattan. The buildings are like concrete silhouettes against the gray sky. Goosebumps from a gust of wind slaps me to attention much like I imagine a Zen master might do to his pupil. People often refer to big cities as concrete jungles by I’d like to think of it as a concrete flower. I walk up the stars to my spacious apartment and plop down my over-ware unto the floor. I open up the curtains to embrace the outside light and just melt into the front of my Mac laptop composing the beginnings of my four page feature for Rolling Stone. I pull up my computer’s mp3 for a little mood enhancement and my band’s music comes through in stereo…I’m finally living as I should…safe, comfortable, spontaneous and off of my love… off of the security of my art. At the ripe young age of 30 I’m finally living the life I should have lived in high school and college. For now at least this 24 year old man can enjoy the light of a computer screen and the visceral effect of Tylenol.
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Fictional Leads 4, 5, and 6 for class:
4) A psychological study of parental warnings showed over one-fourth of males between the ages of 10-12 would pull the trigger of a gun they found.
5) Gov. Bill Owens signed a bill today that would allow parents to leave an unwanted infant at any manned hospital or fire station in Colorado.
6) This week, a 5-foot-5-inch 343-pound Denver man is suing four restaurants for not warning people before selling them harmful products. These products included fats, salt, cholesterol, and other adverse dietary content.
4) A psychological study of parental warnings showed over one-fourth of males between the ages of 10-12 would pull the trigger of a gun they found.
5) Gov. Bill Owens signed a bill today that would allow parents to leave an unwanted infant at any manned hospital or fire station in Colorado.
6) This week, a 5-foot-5-inch 343-pound Denver man is suing four restaurants for not warning people before selling them harmful products. These products included fats, salt, cholesterol, and other adverse dietary content.
Self Sabotage
What to say what to say?…I’m just feeling blah right now. I’m typing in my school’s computer lab. I have two tests tomorrow one in journalism and the other in psychology. I feel like the odd man out in this world. I believe I have advanced cognitive skills in my subjects of study yet it seems I always focus on the incorrect topics. I understand the grammatical aspects of Spanish more than I can see the forest for the trees in using the language. Basically this is a long and drawn out way of saying…I suck. Hope for progress is nothing more than a façade. I took a free music lesson at a mom/pop guitar shop last weekend. It was taught by a man named Skip. I had actually met him a few times before this occasion and he remembered my face but not my name. Skip is a short stature of an Italian man with dark hair salted by age and soft blue eyes by birth (and perhaps by the grace of music.) Skip gave me an affirming glance and said, “I know we’ve met, but what’s your name?” My pearly whites barked my monosyllabic diminutive of a name, “Nick.” He smiled and began the lesson and about one-quarter the way through he was calling me Rick. He then spontaneously realized his self-inflicted mistake and asked, “Rick right?” I politely corrected him receiving yet another nod of affirmation from Chip. By the end of the lesson Chip’s mental nametag for my guitar yielding body was once again Rick. It was if he wouldn’t allow himself to get it (my name and life in general) right. I could hear the verve of self impediment in Chip’s mistake ridden guitar playing. I think some people get it wrong out of internal self sabotage. Not because they are incompetent…I actually think if they learned to get the cart out of the way of the horse…It would be these people who start the next revolutions. Perhaps Rick and Chip are meant to live life diminutive of their potential, laden with this disease symptomatic of the fear of getting it right. There’s no use riding down hill in a cart propelled by our virtuistic nature…Why should we, when we can push the cart up hill both ways in a blizzard while wearing Chuck Converses? Self Sabotage…well aint it a bitch?
What to say what to say?…I’m just feeling blah right now. I’m typing in my school’s computer lab. I have two tests tomorrow one in journalism and the other in psychology. I feel like the odd man out in this world. I believe I have advanced cognitive skills in my subjects of study yet it seems I always focus on the incorrect topics. I understand the grammatical aspects of Spanish more than I can see the forest for the trees in using the language. Basically this is a long and drawn out way of saying…I suck. Hope for progress is nothing more than a façade. I took a free music lesson at a mom/pop guitar shop last weekend. It was taught by a man named Skip. I had actually met him a few times before this occasion and he remembered my face but not my name. Skip is a short stature of an Italian man with dark hair salted by age and soft blue eyes by birth (and perhaps by the grace of music.) Skip gave me an affirming glance and said, “I know we’ve met, but what’s your name?” My pearly whites barked my monosyllabic diminutive of a name, “Nick.” He smiled and began the lesson and about one-quarter the way through he was calling me Rick. He then spontaneously realized his self-inflicted mistake and asked, “Rick right?” I politely corrected him receiving yet another nod of affirmation from Chip. By the end of the lesson Chip’s mental nametag for my guitar yielding body was once again Rick. It was if he wouldn’t allow himself to get it (my name and life in general) right. I could hear the verve of self impediment in Chip’s mistake ridden guitar playing. I think some people get it wrong out of internal self sabotage. Not because they are incompetent…I actually think if they learned to get the cart out of the way of the horse…It would be these people who start the next revolutions. Perhaps Rick and Chip are meant to live life diminutive of their potential, laden with this disease symptomatic of the fear of getting it right. There’s no use riding down hill in a cart propelled by our virtuistic nature…Why should we, when we can push the cart up hill both ways in a blizzard while wearing Chuck Converses? Self Sabotage…well aint it a bitch?
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
Pathetic
Pete Gray the 80 some-odd year-old robot that led us on our tour of the Rocky Mountain news came to the sports section of the news. He stood there speaking making sure to highlight how in our town’s sports section is much larger than most…hurray! Then he talked about the sports cartoonist that works for the news and Pete made the comment of…”could you image what it would be like to come to work and have to create great ideas five days a week?” I so wanted to elaborate on the silence as he left the rhetorical question for our mental consumption…I wanted to say, “Could you image going to work and having your great ideas subdued five days a week?” Is the grass always greener on the other side??? I think not when you work in the cube…brown grass on the other side, the side that allows one to express himself to be himself is better. God how could I be jealous of a Sports Columnist? That’s a rhetorical question and is the title of these thoughts…Pathetic
Pete Gray the 80 some-odd year-old robot that led us on our tour of the Rocky Mountain news came to the sports section of the news. He stood there speaking making sure to highlight how in our town’s sports section is much larger than most…hurray! Then he talked about the sports cartoonist that works for the news and Pete made the comment of…”could you image what it would be like to come to work and have to create great ideas five days a week?” I so wanted to elaborate on the silence as he left the rhetorical question for our mental consumption…I wanted to say, “Could you image going to work and having your great ideas subdued five days a week?” Is the grass always greener on the other side??? I think not when you work in the cube…brown grass on the other side, the side that allows one to express himself to be himself is better. God how could I be jealous of a Sports Columnist? That’s a rhetorical question and is the title of these thoughts…Pathetic
Writing Assignment #7
The Cannon-Bard Theory fits my emotional experience the best. I actually feel that the Evolutionary Theories of Emotion fits my emotional experience the best, but that was not listed on the calk board as an option to write about. But in all essence, I don’t see a stark difference between the two theories.
According to the Cannon-Bard Theory if we are in the setting of a fearful experience then a part of our brain will send signals simultaneously creating conscious experience of emotion and the visceral reaction.
I belief the Cannon-Bard and Evolutionary theories are similar because both state that there are signals that go off in your brain that then aid you to react in a way which is pertinent to the situation. The theories differ more in their wording. I believe the Cannon-Bard theory was derived more out of the necessity to point out the flaws of the James-Lang theory. The Cannon-Bard was written in more of structuralistic manner. It seems to point out the structural differences between its ideas in comparison to the James-Lang’s theory. The Evolutionary Theories of Emotion seem to be written from a functionalistic point of view. It states the function of why the brain reacts as it does. I strongly agree through evolutions humans have innate instincts which aid to their survival…the story below is one of my reasons why I believe this.
One summer evening about four years ago I was at this party in High Lands Ranch. There was a DJ spinning in a typical insta-ghetto house in the Ranch in the sense that it looked just like any other house in the neighborhood. For being such a large place it only had two bathrooms for the mass amount of people that were there. (I remember the ground floor bathroom had a naked sketch of the host’s, which was this 20 something year old guy, mother. The only reason the party was being thrown was because his parents were out of town. So it seemed like a pretty simple upper-class house but I just remember thinking it was bizarre that this guy could be so desensitized to everyone asking him who the naked lady was in the bathroom was. Maybe I’m the weird one?
So the night progressed as I superficially chatted with many uninteresting people and offset my lack of intellectual stimulation by obsessively drinking. Only problem was I had mixed my booze, dark with light, which meant I was in for a bad night. My stomach began to give me the tell-tale signs that cramps were about to be experienced. The discomfort could be coming unexpectedly and out whatever open shoot on my body it pleased. The naked sketch bath room, my preferred place of bodily fluid ejection, was occupied so I snuck upstairs to the alternative bathroom. All of a sudden in typical Ranch entourage style three high pitched voice girls started pounding on the door. I said, “I am sick don’t come in.” Of course, they don’t listen to my request and throw open the door. I was standing perched over the lone bathroom toilet. They said I could use the bathtub for my needs because they needed to “piss.” Of course 90% of the Ranch’s population consistent of beautiful people (sort of like that Marilyn Manson song) and I’m probably overly fascist when it comes to my embrace of such “do as I please” preppy scum. They were technically pretty girls but they all sort of blend together in such a context. Their open invitation to view their dirty snatch while they pissed in front of me, as I stood midsection bent over the bathtub, didn’t exactly entice me.
Needless to say, I left. I went downstairs and started my random perusing of boring conversation. I saw some of my actual friends about ten minutes later and started talking about the “bitches” that kicked my out of the bathroom. I was inebriated and it wasn’t probably the nicest or the smartest thing I could have said. Like I said earlier, all the Ranch girls blend together so I didn’t notice one of them standing nearby. I sat down on a bench near the house’s front door and I started a conversation with my friend Stephanie when all of a sudden the host of the party, who is about my size, walks out of the house accompanied by a guy who was about three inches taller and 30 lbs heavier than I. They start their threatening interrogation about my comments (mainly because the girls kept urging them on.) They asked, “Did you call my girl a bitch?”
My brain started into classic Nick D rationalization mode. A little soliloquy played in my head saying,
O.K. there’s no need to be a dork and show fear. I made some stupid disrespectful comments. I wouldn’t like a guy calling my girl that. The insipid girls are really the ones perpetrating this event. Guys are stupid and need to look cool so they are going to be stupid and start a fight. I’m drunk so this won’t probably hurt until tomorrow and the 2-1 odds aren’t that bad. Who knows, maybe little ole’ whussy me might get a couple of good licks in before I go down.
The host’s question resonated again, “So you called my girl a bitch?” Then he began this menacing rapid fire grunt thing, “Huh, Huh, Huh…” I had had enough so I said, “yeah I called your girl a bitch.” I figured I’d better live up to my stupid comments. He looked shocked but he had a tint of pleasure in his eye as he asked it again and I affirmed my comments again. Then I stepped up and said, “So?” This is when the swarm (12 to be exact) of shrunken testicle neanderthalic males started to pour out of the house like it was the adjourning of a creatine convention. This was the fear moment. My brain stopped thinking and went into instinct mode as these ten guys started shouting unintelligible things at me while pounding their fists and pacing. My brain simultaneously sized up the situation and created a visceral reaction. My evolutionary adaptation for “flight” took over and I instinctually ran. If the Summer Olympics could have been held on those first 100-meters I dashed away from that house, I swear I would have won a gold medal that night.
The Cannon-Bard Theory fits my emotional experience the best. I actually feel that the Evolutionary Theories of Emotion fits my emotional experience the best, but that was not listed on the calk board as an option to write about. But in all essence, I don’t see a stark difference between the two theories.
According to the Cannon-Bard Theory if we are in the setting of a fearful experience then a part of our brain will send signals simultaneously creating conscious experience of emotion and the visceral reaction.
I belief the Cannon-Bard and Evolutionary theories are similar because both state that there are signals that go off in your brain that then aid you to react in a way which is pertinent to the situation. The theories differ more in their wording. I believe the Cannon-Bard theory was derived more out of the necessity to point out the flaws of the James-Lang theory. The Cannon-Bard was written in more of structuralistic manner. It seems to point out the structural differences between its ideas in comparison to the James-Lang’s theory. The Evolutionary Theories of Emotion seem to be written from a functionalistic point of view. It states the function of why the brain reacts as it does. I strongly agree through evolutions humans have innate instincts which aid to their survival…the story below is one of my reasons why I believe this.
One summer evening about four years ago I was at this party in High Lands Ranch. There was a DJ spinning in a typical insta-ghetto house in the Ranch in the sense that it looked just like any other house in the neighborhood. For being such a large place it only had two bathrooms for the mass amount of people that were there. (I remember the ground floor bathroom had a naked sketch of the host’s, which was this 20 something year old guy, mother. The only reason the party was being thrown was because his parents were out of town. So it seemed like a pretty simple upper-class house but I just remember thinking it was bizarre that this guy could be so desensitized to everyone asking him who the naked lady was in the bathroom was. Maybe I’m the weird one?
So the night progressed as I superficially chatted with many uninteresting people and offset my lack of intellectual stimulation by obsessively drinking. Only problem was I had mixed my booze, dark with light, which meant I was in for a bad night. My stomach began to give me the tell-tale signs that cramps were about to be experienced. The discomfort could be coming unexpectedly and out whatever open shoot on my body it pleased. The naked sketch bath room, my preferred place of bodily fluid ejection, was occupied so I snuck upstairs to the alternative bathroom. All of a sudden in typical Ranch entourage style three high pitched voice girls started pounding on the door. I said, “I am sick don’t come in.” Of course, they don’t listen to my request and throw open the door. I was standing perched over the lone bathroom toilet. They said I could use the bathtub for my needs because they needed to “piss.” Of course 90% of the Ranch’s population consistent of beautiful people (sort of like that Marilyn Manson song) and I’m probably overly fascist when it comes to my embrace of such “do as I please” preppy scum. They were technically pretty girls but they all sort of blend together in such a context. Their open invitation to view their dirty snatch while they pissed in front of me, as I stood midsection bent over the bathtub, didn’t exactly entice me.
Needless to say, I left. I went downstairs and started my random perusing of boring conversation. I saw some of my actual friends about ten minutes later and started talking about the “bitches” that kicked my out of the bathroom. I was inebriated and it wasn’t probably the nicest or the smartest thing I could have said. Like I said earlier, all the Ranch girls blend together so I didn’t notice one of them standing nearby. I sat down on a bench near the house’s front door and I started a conversation with my friend Stephanie when all of a sudden the host of the party, who is about my size, walks out of the house accompanied by a guy who was about three inches taller and 30 lbs heavier than I. They start their threatening interrogation about my comments (mainly because the girls kept urging them on.) They asked, “Did you call my girl a bitch?”
My brain started into classic Nick D rationalization mode. A little soliloquy played in my head saying,
O.K. there’s no need to be a dork and show fear. I made some stupid disrespectful comments. I wouldn’t like a guy calling my girl that. The insipid girls are really the ones perpetrating this event. Guys are stupid and need to look cool so they are going to be stupid and start a fight. I’m drunk so this won’t probably hurt until tomorrow and the 2-1 odds aren’t that bad. Who knows, maybe little ole’ whussy me might get a couple of good licks in before I go down.
The host’s question resonated again, “So you called my girl a bitch?” Then he began this menacing rapid fire grunt thing, “Huh, Huh, Huh…” I had had enough so I said, “yeah I called your girl a bitch.” I figured I’d better live up to my stupid comments. He looked shocked but he had a tint of pleasure in his eye as he asked it again and I affirmed my comments again. Then I stepped up and said, “So?” This is when the swarm (12 to be exact) of shrunken testicle neanderthalic males started to pour out of the house like it was the adjourning of a creatine convention. This was the fear moment. My brain stopped thinking and went into instinct mode as these ten guys started shouting unintelligible things at me while pounding their fists and pacing. My brain simultaneously sized up the situation and created a visceral reaction. My evolutionary adaptation for “flight” took over and I instinctually ran. If the Summer Olympics could have been held on those first 100-meters I dashed away from that house, I swear I would have won a gold medal that night.
Sunday, October 09, 2005
La vida de un Caballo
Me llamo Caballo. Vivo en Denver. Tengo veinte y cuatro años. Soy contable. Trabajo para un Airline. Trabajo cuarenta horas para semana. Tengo tres clases. Mis clases son periodismo, psicología, y español. Me gusta mi clase de periodismo porque me gusta escribir. Deseo trabajar para Rocky Mountain News. Mi profesora de psicología es loca. Ella bromea mucho. Estudio mucho para la clase de español. Me gusta mucho tocar la guitarra. Escucho música todos los días. Música de rock es mi favorito pero escucho música de jazz también. Mi familia y yo somos de Denver. Mi familia es grande. Mi padre se llama Gordon. Él tiene cuarenta y tres años. Tengo un padrastro también. Él se llama Randy tiene cuarenta y tres años. El nombre de mi madre es Christine . Ella tiene cuarenta y un años. Tengo tres hermanos. Mi hermana Panther tiene veinte y tres años. Mi hermana Roxann tiene veinte años. Mi hermano Kyle tiene diez y ocho años. Adiós necesito tocar la música.
Me llamo Caballo. Vivo en Denver. Tengo veinte y cuatro años. Soy contable. Trabajo para un Airline. Trabajo cuarenta horas para semana. Tengo tres clases. Mis clases son periodismo, psicología, y español. Me gusta mi clase de periodismo porque me gusta escribir. Deseo trabajar para Rocky Mountain News. Mi profesora de psicología es loca. Ella bromea mucho. Estudio mucho para la clase de español. Me gusta mucho tocar la guitarra. Escucho música todos los días. Música de rock es mi favorito pero escucho música de jazz también. Mi familia y yo somos de Denver. Mi familia es grande. Mi padre se llama Gordon. Él tiene cuarenta y tres años. Tengo un padrastro también. Él se llama Randy tiene cuarenta y tres años. El nombre de mi madre es Christine . Ella tiene cuarenta y un años. Tengo tres hermanos. Mi hermana Panther tiene veinte y tres años. Mi hermana Roxann tiene veinte años. Mi hermano Kyle tiene diez y ocho años. Adiós necesito tocar la música.
