One Fly Indian

Sunday Stroll

2012-01-08T14:00:00.002-05:00

I was out on a walk earlier, and as I passed a small Spanish church, a casket was being pulled out of a hurst and subsequently carried into the sanctuary for a funeral. And as I uncomfortably paid witness, I remembered an anecdote I heard the other day. It reads like this:

A man, who in searching for the meaning of happiness, sought out an old Swami who was said to live on the side of a certain cliff. And after a bit of searching, he found the old Swami. And he approached the man of wisdom and asked him earnestly, 'Old Swami, how do I find happiness.' The swami replied without hesitation, 'Come back in six months.' And so the man left and like clockwork, six months later, he returned to the Swami. Again he asked, 'Old Swami, how do I find happiness.' Again, without pause, the Swami replied, 'Come back in another six months.' Another six months passed, and the man returned and asked the same. The Swami, this time after a long breath, replied, 'Grandfather dies. Father dies. Son dies.' With a boiling frustration the man asked, 'Crazy old man, you made me wait all this while for this. How is this answer in any way happiness?' The Swami looked at the man in the eyes and said, 'Only if it happens in this order.'

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

Humble-Brag: Christmas Edition

2011-12-29T01:43:00.001-05:00

A lot of years prior, I was really excited to get gifts. This year, it didn't cross my mind. This year, I was really excited to give. Not in a big corporal setting. Not in a big "Let me help the poor" type of grandiose gesture. I was excited to give people I care about a place to be for the holidays. I was excited to cook for my family; I was excited to bestow a setting and a place to grub, watch basketball, drink beer, and a place they could tell everyone they felt loved and adequately so during the holidays. I was, and am, blessed to have people to share my home with and people I can celebrate something very close and very special with.

I am blessed because I could give. More so though, I am blessed because I have been learned that giving will always supersede the value of getting.

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

PS: Sure it took me 27 years to understand this; that's why it's called a humble-brag so sue me.

Perhaps my best years are gone

2011-12-17T21:37:00.000-05:00

A couple years back, I sat in a classroom and watched on a television screen this performance of Krapp's Last Tape. Earlier tonight, I sat in a playhouse, not more than a twenty-minute walk from my apartment, and saw the same man, though aged, recover the same staggering performance.

Beckett spent the corpus of his public work trying to dissuade us against the value of sentiment and memory. But the reason that makes this performance so fragile, is that no matter the strength of our fight, memory will always chain us back to our own pasts. To forget ourselves would make us not human. And with that vulnerability, we have to be reminded of the tragedy seeded in our humanity.

As John Hurt made his return for his second curtain call, the woman who sat in front of me shook her head, and with a hint of Irish brogue said, "I'm absolutely done with Beckett." I laughed to myself, because a couple years ago before I took that class I thought the same thing. It is so very funny how we mark time.

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

Reflections in the Globe

2011-12-08T10:42:00.001-05:00

At my grandparents house where I grew up, there was a globe. It was one of those things that would sit there dormant, but on occasion could steal the attention from the entire room. It wasn't special. Probably a gift received at a Christmas party. You could find it anywhere: two feet tall (at best), bronze plated hardware, the globe itself was covered in brown-earth color finish. I'm sure many families had them, but each families could draw out their own history in a very peculiar way.

Yesterday, the one time I made it out of my room, fighting through the turbulence of a hungover state, I somehow found myself in a store that had the same type of globe. And for a few minutes, as the girl I was there with stood at the checkout asking about something important to her, I spun the globe that mirrored that one that used to live at 5410 17th Place Lubbock TX 79106.

My grandfather lived quite a life. Born in India, in the southern state of Kerala, he was determined to do much. You could say live a life of quality. And he did such things. He was a physician, a missionary, an Ambassador (with a picture with Margaret Thatcher to boot), and a father as well as my grandfather. My grandfather fixed hearts for a living. But as he did for the physical, he repaired souls for the spiritual. He lived in India, Africa, spent time across the European map, and finally settled in the southern part of the Texas panhandle. He was a surgeon by trade, and good man by heart. He died tragically young, but left along a legacy that will continue to be cultivated by generations upon generations.

And as I spun that globe yesterday, I thought about him and his life. I plotted along the miniaturized version of the world as we know it, and envisioned his life across both hemispheres. I projected the photo relics that my mother has told me about when she grew up in India and Africa. I saw the life of a man that did so much, but yet, where it ended in pathos.

Then I envisioned my life. I at first tried to parallel the two, but that was just demoralizing and just did not work. But then I asked of myself to be a tributary, or maybe like it is naturally, to be an offshoot, a product of, the natural situation as that of a proud grandson continuing the legacy of quality man. And I plotted my way along that globe. Sure it hasn't spanned multiple worlds. Sure it hasn't done so much as regarded acclaim from the greatest modern empire-yet, but for the short time that globe spun and I could see how my life has lived out, I didn't mind smiling with a bit of pride.

We left that store and as that girl and I tried to catch up from the turbulent ending and even beginning to our short past-lived-relationship, I realized the past is too difficult to sum up at once. Sometimes it takes the world to turn to really catch our attention. Sometimes the death of something, or even someone good, to really take our breath away. Sometimes we have to lose everything to begin to understand the value of what it means to even be alive. We are here, and there are others there. And as I breathe this breath, so too will someone somewhere breathe in the same sort of whimsy and exhale it with the same amount of hope as they too plot out their course of the dizzying future of a spinning globe.

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

Non-Kama-Sutra'd Sex and Dinner

2011-12-04T23:30:00.001-05:00

^{*Where this all went down}

It's weird how dinners can turn into blessings.

I was having dinner with two friends (of the pretty lady kind) earlier today, and from the outset, the conversation was focused directly on sex. The beginning, our conversational appetizer, started with pornography-what do women like? is it similar to how men and women differ on sex?--but then slowly turned into a wide conversational feast really, and maybe only so openly in a New York setting, all about sex.

The reason it is blessing because this conversation was as much personal as it was natural. We all could unpack our own histories, our own fun anecdotes, our own stories, our personal struggles and issues, without the fear of being picked apart. Better yet, it was a time where we could hand out ideas and share them, no qualms of being judged or ostracized, all the while better understanding ourselves in the comfort of the intimacy of quality friendship.

After dinner, on the train ride home, I did some mental unpacking over what we had talked about and then quickly once I got home I emailed my friend with some of the insights I had put together from the conversations over dinner. It's not that I'm so damn proud of my observations, but really, I'm happy that I learned something new about myself. I learned, to some degree, why I feel so damn insecure about certain things. And in so doing, I don't have to be vulnerable to it anymore, but rather, I can learn to be better. This is what my email said:

I think how in the way for you, and probably for a lot of women, that porn reinforces a depreciation of one's own body vs that of the pornstar, and it does so through habit and over time, so too for men, can porn reinforce a similar misunderstanding that we glanced over in our conversation earlier:

We talked about my worry that a possible amazing night of almost nuclear style sex trumps normal sex therefore invalidating my masculinity. My fear or worry that women can value one amazing experience over a long-term relationship and the sex involved, is reinforced by pornography. A common storyline, whether explicit or not, is that a woman reaches an exaggerated but still euphoric climax in a very truncated sexual experience, and one that because there is no denouement or even preface leads the bystanding audience to assume that for the woman, the peak or climactic sexual appreciation is in this type of sexual situation that is not in the confines of a loving long-term relationship. (Caveat: Men forget that women moreover appreciate safety over climax. I forget that for a woman, love, and all its ramparts, is the ultimate aphrodisiac) Therefore by highlighting this type of sexual dynamic, and by the continual subscription to this type of experience by a male audience, it is then easy to see where I like many men, have this fear reinforced and can feel invalid by not being as explosive.

Again men and women are very different in the effects but conversely we are very similar in that we are still equally affected (I may have screwed up the whole affect/effect thing, but you get the picture; I hope).

It was a safe dinner. And it was fun and absolutely natural conversation. And I'm blessed to share the world with such beautiful people I call family.

Without Relent,

Peace

Remoy

Zach Wahls is doing something for Freedom

2011-12-03T09:29:00.001-05:00

As people, we have all faced some sort of discrimination. The only two options that remain are do we reinforce it, or do we try to do something to change it.

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

On the so-so success of Whitney Cummings

2011-11-27T23:54:00.001-05:00

I read this op/ed piece today in The New Yorker that centers on Whitney Cummings and her two shows that have surfaced this year on network television. First, Whitney, which not only did she create, but also in which she stars in as well as writes for on NBC. And then secondly, Two Broke Girls, in which she co-created and writes for which airs on CBS.

The op/ed piece initially stirs with the acknowledgement that Whitney Cummings has done something unheard of in the female sphere of television: she's spearheaded two separate endeavors on primetime television, and done the such with two completely different narratives. Though there is the acknowledgment of what Cummings has achieved, the construction of the article quickly becomes a negative critique on her two endeavors and does so unflatteringly. Whitney itself is viewed in a very negative light, while Two Broke Girls though not perfect, if paired against Whitney, is somewhat better. Not only better, but--and apparently this serves the world better because it ascribes a pugnacious social difference--serves feminism and the climb out of this phallocentric world easier for women because it doesn't depend on phallocentric norms as does Whitney.

Now, in my own opinion, I myself do not like the show itself Whitney. However, my short-lived immersion into the comedic persona of Whitney Cummings has conjured both quite a crush, but more so, quite the amount of respect. She herself is an actor/comedian by profession. Her stand-up is strong and vibrant. It's abrasive in as much as it is self-aware. In her repertoire is the abrasiveness and garish strength of a Lampanelli, yet what makes her punch all the more powerful is that it comes from the physique of a modellesque woman who stunningly (and with a body that kills) towers in at 5'11". She is the ultimate spokesman for both strength, humor, and beauty and the possibility that there can be the synthesis of the three in a what may simply just be a "straight white woman."

Emily Nussbaum's--the journalist behind this New Yorker piece--problem with Whitney is not a new issue. Nussbaum's critique is that the show is not as progressive as would be initially hoped for from the potential observed out of Whitney Cumming's other endeavors. Like said earlier, her stand up is strong and vital, but the character she embodies in Whitney, is at best, mildly affirmative. She has about four minutes an episode where she progressively stands on her own, but even so, it seems like it's only as a product that in the end best serves the character of her boyfriend, which according to progressive feminists really does nothing to change the nature of a supposed storyline where a woman's happiness is only reactionary. It can be easily assumed by this article that the character of Whitney falls short of the potential found in the real Whitney. And since the show centers around this placating woman, and is named after its star, the show and Whitney Cummings herself theoretically adheres to the longstanding social norm of a woman's role in society is at best, secondary.

Gayle Rubin makes a bold theory in her essay "The Traffic of Women": "..if innate male aggression and dominance are at the root of female oppression, then the feminist program would logically require either the extermination of the offending sex, or else a eugenics project to modify its character. If sexism is a by-product of capitalism's relentless appetite for profit, then sexism would wither away in the advent of a successful socialist revolution." Rubin invests in these thoughts to serve as an aggressive lens of polarity to show that the world is better not served in such distinguishing polarities. Rubin goes on to defend this idea by quoting Marx in this same essay: "Marx once asked: 'What is a Negro slave?' A man of the black race. The one explanation is as good as the other. A Negro is a Negro. He only becomes a slave in certain relations."

It's the argument against polarizing opposites because in that line of rhetorical thinking, one only validates the other. To vilify one you potentially avail the the other to vilify you. Easy argument. So how does this serve the show of Whitney, or even that of the person Whitney Cummings?

I think it's best understood in the pre-Civil Rights dilemma of the Negro (like Rubin alluded us to) and associating that with the modern locus quality of that of a woman. One best case of this type of an answer in a new dialectic synthesis is found in Ralph Ellison's short story "Batlle Royal" which later became the beginnings to his larger work-The invisible Man. In the beginning of the story, the narrator comes into contact with his grandfather who on his deathbed tells his grandson about his own internal conflict where being subjugated to racism and the severe paralysis of what it meant to be black in a white world was only overcome with "yeses" and "grins." Better said, victory (whatever that means) only occurs with a slow operation of "yeses." His grandfather, though a paid slave at best, knowing that he himself was no less human than his master, was able to win the trust and recognition of his fellow human, still master, all the while according an apparent value that differs from that of an enraged slave. Basically, a self-aware slave or even a self-aware woman (who acts accordingly), can change through time, the values behind the objective terms that are initially created to restrict than they are to free than any aggressive retaliation could ever possibly do.

I think this is what is glanced over in the beginning of the New Yorker piece, but what is then quickly and unfortunately overlooked. What Whitney Cummings is doing is unheard of. She has navigated herself into the forefront of network television, and done it twice and done it simultaneously. Now Nussbaum has every right to take shots at the creation and execution of Whitney, but in so doing, Nussbaum fails to see that there could be this similar possibility of "yeses" and "grins." Cummings standup makes it apparent that she herself knows how the power relations of gender works in the current social makeup of the world. So for her to create a character that placates so easily to the nearby anathema that is the normal network romantic comedy setup doesn't only not seem out of place for Whitney Cummings, but rather it seems tactical. To make a show that is shot on a soundstage, that is filled with audience "oohs" and "aahs," that isn't Happy Endings or even 30 Rock, isn't just Whitney Cummings selling herself and her skill short, but it's serves as a very tactical insubordination of a system that is, whether they know it or not, letting a very strong and very beautiful and very talented woman do things that never before have been done by a straight, white woman (Whether it be gay, black, or even just being an outcast, Ellen, Rosie O'Donnell, Oprah, and even Roseanne had an almost victimized schtick to platform off of. Whitney Cummings is doing something without those vestiges). It is a very similar and slow operation of radical "yeses and grins." This tactical modus operandi will keep propelling Cummings into a place that will not simply invalidate or segregate her, but will rather allow her the ability, like it already has, to be in a place of both power and position that may be the first vibrant challenge to everything we've previously known.

Unless Whitney gets cancelled, and then this in turn is just plain fucked.

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

I am a Tiger and Tigers bite

2011-11-22T12:30:00.001-05:00

When you're a kid, you soak everything up. Everything, and I mean everything, appeals to your senses and like a sponge, you soak it all up. There's experiences where you form understandings. Then there are the times when you do actually choose to open your stubborn angst-filled ears, you listen, and the words like gentle rhythms strike a harmony with which they resonate as concrete truth. As a young person in this modern world, your youth is where you learn, stumble, get up, and fall over again and all the while learning through every step. And all the while, this is what is expected of you.

But then you hit your twenties. And for some reason, you assume you're done with learning. Now maybe it's due to our formal processes of learning- where at some point you end your schooling, you graduate, and with that diploma you assume you're entitled to a time off from learning. But then, you get slapped. Hard. Reality sinks in, and slowly, or maybe even very quickly, you realize that your twenties is a time of relearning. Or maybe a better way of putting it, is that your twenties is that time frame in which everything you've learned prior gets an integrity test. Call it the stage in the formal Scientific process, where the lessons you had learned in your teens (the hypothetical stage) gets thrown into reality and it's literal value is experimented upon. Sometimes, the proverbs you have ascribed to like, "Do unto others," or "Love conquers all," or even, "With a college degree," prove themselves true, but most times, they just render themselves as porous fantastic hypthosises.

___

When I was young, I was lucky in a sense. My family wasn't one who spent the word "love" on one another. Growing up in America, especially in the '90s, where the Baby-boomers and the Gen X/Y'ers were dealing with their tangled webs, love was and still is a very iconic word. And I attribute it, maybe ignorantly, to being from an immigrant family from a third-world country, but my family hadn't had the luxury, as of yet, to really settle their feet and have the otium, or time, to define what love would mean, and better yet, how to share it in words.

Now, don't get me wrong. Though the word LOVE was not said in my household, there were and still are egregious amounts of generosity, kindness, hopefulness, and faith exchanged within my family. There are so many things done for one another and each other that connect us in non-verbal signifiers, where without doubt the presence of love, or something similar, does exist.

But for me, and those like me, we are stuck in a really interesting place. For we both have experienced love, physically, from our families, but still yet, our interpersonal languages have not been scored that way. But in contrast, we are growing up in the Modern 'Western World' where that word is both in heavy supply while in equal demand. I, like many first generation born, have to find a way to understand the past, while breaking through to the possibilities of the future.

___

I guess I made a broad statement earlier about learning. The reason it was broad, is because I was attributing the supposed learning curve of the "terrible twenties," and attributing it to everyone. But in all actuality, I can only suppose such things, because my twenties have been such an acute learning experience. I myself have found everything I have learned in previous years coming under both scrutiny and question, all-the-while having to deal with my own epistemology and the values thereof. Basically, the last seven years have been one serious bitch. But, and maybe naively so, I'm grateful. Because along the way, I can selfishly say, I have come to understand that words have values, and in different lights, those words exhale a changing color.

But, and maybe as always, back to love. In other languages, such as Hebrew, we are taught that our rendition of love is lazy. In other forms, there are specifics that can change both the definitive and the phonetic structure of "love" - amore, agape, In Bulgarian there's like eighteen different variations of saying I love you … these are examples where love can be attributed to a specific set of signifiers. Yet, in English, we're just stuck with one common word: love.

We all know that there's this critical, call it Academic or Left, way of thinking, that looks down on American sensibilities. I know I am guilty of such thinking. And in that vein, it's easy to be critical of the English language, and in this case, the laziness we have in how we speak and afford love. We say, "Hot damn, I love that chicken cordon bleu," or "Jesus Jesse, I love Breaking Bad," or even more so, "I love the way that dress sits on you. It's the way it looked on Jennifer Anniston in that one episode of Friends, and I just love that show, and I just so love her, and oh my gosh, I just so love you." In those three statements while all in one single breath, the lynchpin has been love. Yet for such a phantasmic word, its limits know no ends.

Again, it would be easy to be so critical of such a limitless stretch. Yet, I would offer a different perspective. Now it's not that I wouldn't disagree and say, many a times, like in how the word "epic" or "impossible" or even "awesome", words and their pedigree have come under a severe bastardization, so to has love. But what I would proffer, is that there is something about the word love that if we forget to see, then we forget the beauty within both language, and more importantly, within each other.

I grew up with the Bible so I'm going to offer it via the perspective of a Beatitudinal range. In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus offers up eight situations that love can be attributed to: i.e. Love is Patient, Love is Kind, so on an so forth. Now many of us have heard this, and maybe not exactly with the same religious rigor, but we've come to learn that our understanding of love falls within these limits.

But what I would offer is that it's not within these succinct limits in which Christ was offering us something profound, but the fact that love itself is likened to a sponge. Earlier I spoke on how as teenagers, they themselves soak up the world around them. But now I would hopedly offer that love, in a very relational set, is likened to a sponge. "Love is saying I'm an Idiot and I will always be sorry and I now know what it means to truly forgive," "Love is knowing you will make mistakes, but so will I. Let us find the bridge between." "Love is not just gracious, it is not just kind, it is those things when all opposition is stacked up against you and me independently, and it is the space where we will choose to continue to accept the other," "Love is knowing we will both change, and yet we'll offer each other the latitude where change is natural and therefore okay." There is a vacuous personal weight behind this word. And when shared with another, not only are we offering ourselves, but hopefully, with the potency of weight behind it, we are sacrificing ourselves.

I am only twenty-seven and have so much more to learn. I would like to hope that my terrible twenties are almost said and gone, and that I can and will look back on a time that though I stumbled terribly, it was both romantic and necessary. And throughout all the footholds that tripped me up, I was able to discover something impressive about love and what it means. Or, you know what, who knows. Maybe I'll just realize it's all a bunch of dead potted meat. Or even, love and everything supposedly good really is a dead seed spat out by an old maid as they stand on high looking out over the endless world all the while laughing in its decay. I guess I'll just have to report back on this once I get out of these damned twenties and get into the terrible thirties. Till then, can I get one more beef patty and coco bread in the New Jerusalem.

I am a Tiger and Tigers bite ;)

WIthout Relent,

Peace

Remoy

My story is blank

2011-11-17T15:12:00.001-05:00

I've typed more than I've deleted.
Yet, delete is winning.

My story is blank.

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

Cold Winds

2011-11-17T15:07:00.001-05:00

Cold winds.
Autumn Leaves.
A celebration.
Felt in the tiny whisper of the remaining.

Bundled up, ourselves proteted.
Words surprise in honeyed streams.
The silent rhythms between.
In wordlessness, we say everything.

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

It will be awhile

2011-11-17T15:02:00.001-05:00

I'm worried about everything these days. I lie to myself often and say, "Don't worry. It is all okay." But in all honesty, everything's become a worry.

I gotta regain my composure. Or sure enough, I'll just become.

The "Regular Remoy?"

Without Relent,

Peace

Remoy (the irregular)

It's not solely based on identity, it's based on fear of being identifiable. There is a difference and it's based on internal perspective. I swear/I worry.

New Look: Nap on the Bow

2011-10-21T12:23:00.001-05:00

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

Doctrine of Prosperity

2011-10-15T10:07:00.001-05:00

When I first moved to this city I had dreams. When I first moved to this city, I had an ideal job opportunity. I was ecstatic-the perfect synthesis where my dreams were to become my own beautiful substantive reality.

I did not get that job. I was demoralized. I was more so demoralized that the only job i could get was working in a grocery store. A man who moved to the modern Olympus to climb for his dreams, was now to be a boy stacking celery and meeting the whims of those in need of frozen goods.

The thing about only getting what you want is that you will never be so lucky to understand and appreciate the prismatic reflections of life you will have never known existed. I look back now and am undeniably thankful for not getting that job. I am forever humbled by the jobs I have had. I'm so eternally lucky to have not gotten what I thought I wanted. An infinite amount of doors exist; but only when you greet them, can they be opened. For because of such things, I've experienced a life that at the humble age of 27 has stumbled upon a life that is now invaluable for I hope for nothing but continually experience everything.

That, is the true doctrine of prosperity.

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

Pillar of Wonder

2011-10-11T10:19:00.004-05:00

^{-Zebra by Yong Ho Ji}

I say this solely for myself.

It's time that I find a way to be content with everything that is my life. If I do look back retrospectively, I have to acknowledge that my life is full of blessings. Everywhere. And even in the places and times when at that moment, not an ounce of good was felt, I can look back and now see the beginning germination of something good and humble. It has to be time to stop the constant questioning of value and just appreciate all the value that is seeping constantly into my life. It is time to stop with the entitlement. I am not owed anything. I am not deserved of anything. If I want something, if I want a particular career, a particular person, a particular thing to fulfill my wanderlust, then I must go and get it. Otherwise, I must stand still. Taking in all that is around me and finally realize, that it all, every part of all, is so good. I must stop longing hopelessly or frustratedly. I have liberty. I have love. I have possibility. It's time to transcend the wanton lust of everyday and look at the string of moments that make a very short life seem like an amazingly long time to celebrate living.

Sometimes, and meaning a lot of times, its best to shut your mouth and open your eyes.

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

Synonym

2011-10-06T12:04:00.002-05:00

Synonym for "Nigger Rich," Yuppie Poor.What's an example? Every hip-kid/suburban-urbanite/entitled-bitch/I-have-a-voice down at Occupy Wall Street.Without Relent,PeaceRemoy

A Sneak Peek

2011-10-03T09:59:00.000-05:00

7 October 2011
My Weekend with Sophie part II

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

The week ends with Sunday

2011-09-29T10:17:00.000-05:00

I'm at home a lot as of recent. I'm okay with that, I think. But while at home, after spending way too many hours on the internets, I think about the people in my life whom I really care about. I think about how I grew up. I think about all the people I still call friends and all the friends I call family. For awhile there, call it the last five years, I adhered to a non-stop lifestyle. But I've pumped the brakes. It's disorienting. To the extent that I sometimes say to myself, "who are you?"

A kind friend recently told me that your twenties are spent falling on your face.

Taking stock of all of this, especially in this year that at least for the few people I know in my small sphere I call my world has been a very difficult and confusing year, we all feel very blessed. Lost? Yes. But still blessed. I've lost a lot, and maybe even myself (whatever that means), but I've learned that every breath (even when the energy byproduct of that breath is spent on hours-long internet sessions) is still a blessing.

Graciously I accept every future breath that I will receive. And with a broader humility, I am thankful for every breath I've ever had.

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

Paris, Spoons, & the Red Cave: We are so blessed

2011-09-28T09:09:00.001-05:00

I'm so blessed to have spent the time with my family and the friends I love in my short life I have met so people I deeply care for

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

Booty comes with Obligation

2011-09-25T10:29:00.000-05:00

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

Yesterday is Love in Motion.

2011-09-25T09:47:00.000-05:00

SebastiAn- Love In Motion (Skrillex Remix) by thehypesthype

A host of plans come to mind. Ways to escape. Places to run. Ideas for possible changes.

And yet, yesterday limits me. Yesterdays are anchors. Limiting the progress of forward and onward locomotion. Yesterday, is a catalogue. As of right now, that catalogue highlights the misgivings of a boy's ability to think that the world that surrounds him is a world that he himself is bigger than. The images of yesterdays shows me how not to be the me of yesterday.

Without Relent,

Peace

Remoy

Scrambled hearts in an 80's Heaven

2011-09-22T12:40:00.001-05:00

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

Conservative Rhetoric, Ruh Roh

2011-09-21T23:09:00.001-05:00

When a *stranger resides with you in your land, you shall not do him wrong. The *stranger who resides with you shall be to you as the native among you, and you shall love him as yourself, for you were **aliens in the land of ***Egypt; I am the LORD your God.
Leviticus 19:33,34

*substitute with immigrant
**substitute with either pilgrims, settlers, immigrants, aliens, mestizas
***substitute with New World, North America, US of A

And that's some Old Testament, not new covenant Adonai, shit.

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

I don't sit in while you're running it down; I don't carry a gun... I drive.

2011-09-17T04:14:00.000-05:00

The hero created in the movie Drive is something that the imagination longs for but the mind knows has existed for ages. And in this hero iteration found in the character of the "Driver" is the semblance of that perfect synthesis of both past and future. A hero that lives on knowing that tragedy is the stalemate that keeps any sort of hubris at bay.

And the artists behind such storytelling, are truly iconoclastic artists.

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

Hurry, Hurry, Come For Curry

2011-09-11T19:59:00.000-05:00

WITHOUT RELENT,
PEACE
Remoy

The Bridge

2011-09-08T22:48:00.002-05:00

I hate coming back from a trip with a catalogue of photos. However, I feel there's this innate responsibility to show others the photos, to share with everyone documentation that legit shit did happen and that legit shit did happen while I was away. As if proof is needed: "It's true; look; the Leaning Tower of Pisa does really lean. See?"

The reason I hate it so much is no matter how many photos you have, no matter how many times that shutter clicks shut, it never fully captures the moment. Yes an image, but never a moment. I remember a few years ago, I came back from a trip with an extensive amount of photos and I was excited to show everyone the trouble I got into. I wanted everyone who hadn't gone to be able to share in the same experience. But that's impossible. I was naive to it then, but soon after encountering the many glass stares and the many plastic smiles, I realized this exchange was not even.

Photos are flat. Experience is not.

There's something I've come to learn as of recent. It's an analogy of sorts. Here it goes: "Trust is a bridge." No matter the relationship setting, trust between those relating, is a bridge. When I decide to finally let my walls fall, I'm allowing for a bridge to be built where I can share my experiences and my palpable life with another and know that for them it will be meaningful. It will not be flat. It will not be greeted with meaningless nods, it will be met with love and reverence because that experience is now no longer just mine but is inestimable and worth being shared over that bridge of trust.

Here's what I'm saying. I can take a photo and show it to you and you will not understand how meaningful it is or was to me. But if I love you and allow you to love me, then I can show you my life, all of it, and know that all of it seen from that bridge between us will mean just as much to you as it does to me.

It's not easy, but when it's right, it is worth building.

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

Fuck you know about this

2011-09-08T00:29:00.001-05:00

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

My Husband's Chair

2011-09-07T10:50:00.000-05:00

______________

My husband, he has his chair. And one day, when the sun was bright and the few clouds in the air left bruises on the earth's floor, my husband sat in his chair and told our son a story.

He said, "Son, do you know about God's love."

"Yes Papa, I do."

"Tell me son. Tell me what you know."

"God built the world. He built bears and dogs and strawberries. He built it for us. He loves us. He loves me."

"Yes son, he did. But is that all?"

"I think so, Papa."

"Well let me tell you a bit more: God is perfect. He always will be. He always was. And you are very right, he built the world and everything thereof. But you and me and mama, we are not perfect. Are we?"

"No Papa."

"No, no. We are not. And since we are not, and since He is and since He loves us, we need something to cover our sins. Do you know son, what I mean when I say sins?"

"Yes papa. That's why we aren't perfect."

"Right! And since God is perfect he can't be near sin or close to sin. But son, and this is the beautiful part, because he loves us so much, his Son, like you are my son, came to the earth his Father built, He died. And His Son's blood is what covers us and makes us perfect again. Do you understand?"

"I think so Papa."

"I'm so happy you understand son."

"But I think I have one question, Papa."

"What is it son?"

"God can't be near us because of sin?"

"No son."

"But he loves us?"

"Yes son."

"Papa, didn't He make the rules? All of them?"

"Well son-"

"-but Papa, you love me, and so does Mama, always, and you aren't perfect and I sin a lot, but you still love me, and you still hold me. Won't you always?"

"Yes, but-"

You still sit with me here and tell me stories even though we both aren't perfect."

"Yes, son."

"I guess Papa, I just don't understand how God is perfect or why he made bad rules and why His love without sons dying means he can't sit with me here."

The day went on. The sun stayed high. My husband kept rocking. My son got up from the chair. I turned to see him standing in the doorway. The rhythm of the creak of the rocking chair assured us all that nothing would be alright.

______________

Without Relent,

Peace

Remoy

#Abrahamsgotbigboyswag

2011-09-07T10:19:00.001-05:00

"Then the men set out from there, and they looked toward Sodom; and Abraham went with them to set them on their way. The Lord said, 'Shall I hide from Abraham what I am about to do, seeing that Abraham shall become a great and mighty nation, and all the nations of the earth shall be blessed by him? NO, for I have chosen him, that he may charge his children and his household after him to keep the way of the Lord by doing righteousness and JUSTICE';… So the men turned from there, and went toward Sodom, while Abraham remained standing before the Lord. Then Abraham CAME NEAR AND SAID… Far be that from YOU"
-Genesis 18:16-20, 23a, 25b

This is fuckin' fantastic. Abraham stood next to God and questioned His judgement based on the possibility of righteousness in the most immoral Sin City of sin cities. And God wanted, quite possibly hoped, that Abraham would stand up in this nature; for justice and righteousness? for humans in the great expanse of humanity? Have we mishandled the definitions and values of the such.

Take that with your "uber-conservative birthright" or your "God's a big bully to my liberal-arts boobiness" breakfast and bite down real damn hard as the difference in your neighbor should be the definitive reason you stand up for your neighbor no matter what you think you know of God or the WORLD.

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

Tomorrow I'll Know

2011-09-06T21:48:00.000-05:00

If it rains tomorrow and I look back on yesterday will I forget the winter of all my yesteryears? If the sun fails to come up tomorrow will I ever remember the death I never did escape? And if the day never ends, and if the stars keep hiding behind the lighted veil of today, will it be safe to say that sleep is for another tomorrow?

Pictures are the nature of a failure to remember.

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

2011-09-05T19:42:00.000-05:00

I'm homesick but I don't know where or who home is anymore.

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

bees&TREES

2011-09-05T13:42:00.000-05:00

There at the bottom of a broken tree limb, bees swarm. Honey drips.

Thirty-five feet up, a split has happened. In this split, bees swarm. They don’t stop.

There is a separation. There are now two worlds. It smells like rain.

They keep moving. The world has changed. And still, nothing is different.

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

Wasted Years

2011-09-01T09:48:00.001-05:00

Ryan Adams - "Wasted Years" (Iron Maiden Cover) by TwentyFourBit.com
Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

Creaturewords for us all

2011-08-26T11:54:00.004-05:00

Like clockwork, ten minutes into my first day of class, I needed a distraction. I found it in my bag.

In the "Thank You" section of the Creaturewords album, the finale is what stands out:
"This album is dedicated to my grandfather, Gerald Martin, for teaching me to love music. I'm proud to have your blood running through my veins."

The type of gracious pride found in this sentiment above should be found in the application of such rich ideas as love, faith, and ideology. Otherwise, such things become tyrannical. And tyranny is without humility, and that is not suited for a world that is to be shared by us all.

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

Other Things

2011-08-25T08:02:00.003-05:00

I was five once. I never thought I'd be ten.
I was ten once. I never thought I could be twenty.
I was twenty once. I was sure I'd never get old.

Some things are inevitable. Other things are just a matter of.

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

A Take Away Show: Bide My Time

2011-08-21T18:24:00.014-05:00

Composition is Everything

Unseen, but to the right, a girl I adore, is marrying a man she loves. A man of honor and character joins them. Directly in front and yet unseen, a woman's hand creeps along a pew to find the hand of the man next to her. And there, love is held between two hearts.

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

The Worm is Boss

2011-08-17T12:49:00.004-05:00

Rodman is Boss

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

An Honest Question

2011-08-16T22:18:00.002-05:00

Does it take having a child to learn how to not be one? An honest question that I struggle with for many a reason.

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

Vain Prayer

2011-08-16T15:51:00.007-05:00

GO with me on this. I would say it's a safe deduction to say that when anyone goes on the campaign trail, say that Presidential one, there is a lot of vanity involved. Like "a lot" a lot. The whole process of building a personal platform, though absolutely necessary, is filled with bloated images behind red and blue curtains full of bureaucratic pomp and circumstance.

With this in mind, isn't it reasonable to say that "Using God's name in Vain" has become pretty standard in politics of the US of A. Every time a politician-right or left-utters the name God, Jesus, talks about prayer ("God" forbid they pray), or makes his or her way into a church, they themselves are being politically productive but conversely, spiritually counterproductive. Not only is the name, the construct, and the precepts behind these spiritual "truths" being used in vain, they are really being used for political vanity.

That's some third commandment shit.
Weird.

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

Two Seasons

2011-08-15T21:56:00.004-05:00

When days are long, trees beg to be climbed. And when the sun sets on autumn, windows and doors alike will be shut in order to keep in the warmth of a season past.

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

I want to live like a ghost

2011-08-14T11:45:00.004-05:00

Ghosts, spirits, specters, they all live like voyeurs. Unconfined to time or the fear of death. I want to live like this. Watching men and women dance clumsily while they laugh for in love and dance, laughter is best. Watching crickets keep the night a stir. Watching my friends with their hair thinning and their age showing in wrinkles, live lives that hide less behind youthful insecurity and show more through the golden frame of maturity. Watching whiskey come to taste and age without the fear of my own age being a measure of my own death. Watching children live as children. Watching myself, laugh, make-love, sleep, and see all the outside of me I could never see because I was too caught up with guarding the inside of me. Watching the moon pull the tide in and out. Watch as connections happen and know that connections between two maybe the boldest thing a human could ever discover. Watch the sun create day, and day create time, and watch as ten years pass in a moment and all the while life would not live in death's shadow. All me, undisclosed to the world, hiding right in front of the eyes of everyone, not living, not fighting, but yet, not dead.

I've come to learn that God's unconditional love is not so special. For if he is supernatural, then his ability to love in light of human sin is kindred to his superseding the natural. However, for a human to love another without condition, through pain and suffering and callousness, all the while being human and impermanent, then that love and that human and that experience is immeasurable in word and expression and is best suited as the only love that could ever be deemed as truly special.

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

In accordance with my previous post

2011-08-10T21:52:00.002-05:00

What I Need

2011-08-10T17:54:00.003-05:00

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

The 3 O's

2011-07-24T14:58:00.004-05:00

Or the 3 Olivias

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

A Summer Day's Read

2011-07-06T23:23:00.004-05:00

Without feeling ridiculous for a man I've had only one or two dramatic and still kind encounters with, I am so happy to have come upon Simon Van Booy the man and even much more so the writer.

No matter your skill or fancy for fiction or literature, find Everything Beautiful Began After. It is as anticonventional as it is simple. It is as spartan as it is prosaic. It is part of a collection of storytelling from an author who charms my imagination through his threadlike skill of fiction and does it with a consistent grace that I so do admire.

I think you will enjoy it.

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

The Only Difference

2011-07-06T11:06:00.002-05:00

The only difference between the Porn industry and the Church industry, is that Porn isn't afraid to admit it's a commercial machine.

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

The Way of Nature and the Way of Grace

2011-07-05T13:09:00.004-05:00

Every time I come home to my mother's house I notice one particular tree in the front yard. There are a couple trees growing now, and there were a couple more when the house was first built, but there's one that's been there since the beginning. I planted that tree twelve years ago, and I did it all by myself. I spent hours with a pickax and a shovel diggin' through the panhandle clay. I took the time to pour in the peat-moss and set the then sapling. I got it centered as best could, and then I packed back in all that Amarillo clay. That was twelve years ago when that tree was just a sapling, and now I look at it as it continues to grow tall and hearty and I take pride in the fact that as flat as is the Great Plains, I planted this tree and it grows as much as it thrives.

There can be two scary possibilities when trying to interpret Terrence Malick's The Tree of Life. A. It could be a David Lynch type movie where the story is so obtuse and open that interpretation is more up to the spectator than it is to the creator whereby any interpretation no matter how bogus is valid. 2. Or, Malick's thread of narrative is so precise that he as the creator and storyteller bares full responsibility of how the movie translates in the minds of the spectators. Cinematic: very. But story: questionable.

Let me clear my name here. I hate "films." I loathe "cinema." Not that it's not my forte, it's just that my reading of these niche experiments don't serve the same values as they once did and because of the lack of proper timing, these "films" in turn become cheap and unreliable.

However, I think there is something very interesting in The Tree of Life. A few years ago I posited a very personal hypothesis, in which says: In the great span of the universe and abroad, nothing matters; In the great span of the personal life of a person, everything matters. It's not a tough theory to read and comprehend, but when it comes to application, this duality vacuums every piece of knowledge and experience and honors as it simultaneously flushes it.

This is the experience of Malick's The Tree of Life. The family that exists in this story behind smartly moving handycam shots and beautiful choral music, wrestles solely with their experiences of being a family in the middle of the 20th century. They have their flaws, and they have their joys, and all-in-all as they exist through it all, they have their personal story. Yet, as they exist, so too is told the story of a greater mythology--though true or not doesn't need to matter, because the pretense is not the truth of which mythology but rather that there is and that there was and that there will always be a greater mythology. The family is not aware of this depiction of the two, where as they are the one and the mythology is the two. They are just aware of themselves. However, the larger mythological story, shown in a very short but large expanse, doesn't wash out the story of the handsome American family, but rather sets a different set of values found in the context of the much larger mythology.

There are no feelings of contentment. The movie doesn't finalize on any one thought. There is just a nebulous stop, for in reality, the story goes on. The universe still exists. Humanity still exists. And a little pear tree at 8620 Lamount drive still exists. Not only does it still exist, but like the rest, it continues to grow until it cannot grow any longer. And whenever that happens, we'll then have no time to decide.

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

Undoing the stonewall

2011-06-28T16:16:00.005-05:00

I remember, at one time, when my life was hard I called a friend. I called David Ritchie and asked how I could be better. A man from the cloth and a man, who though my age, excelled in wisdom and insight. So I pleaded with him, asking him to just help me. Meaning, please take some of this horrible burden called "life" away from me. And the advice he gave me was frustrating. Frustrating so, because I knew he was right, and his rightness was at the expense of me not being who I knew I should have been.

His advice was to me was to challenge my idea of what it meant to be a man. Me, challenge what I thought it was to be a man? Me who lives in Brooklyn and who at the time was vegetarian? Me who has studied Foucault and whose homegirl-genderless-peoples are Eve Sedgwick and Gayle Rubin? I'm the one who had to challenge what I thought it took to be a man.? He was right, and yes I did have to do such things.

What David could see that I couldn't was that I had subscribed to the idea that men, with their rock solid phallus always in hand and in mind, were bronzed in stoicism. "Men" were meant to be strong, and men were meant to be tough as heroes. Yet, David's thoughtful response, and kind insight undercut that convention by asking me to communicate more, listen even more, and be humble even moreso. That tough exterior of stubborn ridiculousness that I had been building was more my heroic downfall than it could ever possibly redeem me.

This is just one of the many experiences in my life that I am so blessed to have had when it comes to this convention of "man." There is this "gold standard" that is taught through society and channels of narrative which is called masculinity. And it's been translated in the modern world constantly to the themes of strength, power, and ego. Yet, there's so much more that is missing.

One way we differentiate persons is by their thumbprint, no? We say that each homo-sapien-sapien's thumbprint is carefully constructed and constructed uniquely. This isn't a validation of individuality, this is an acknowledgment of diversity. And within this diversity, how can it not be understood that there is diversity and difference within our society enough where there are failings within binary appropriations?

It's not enough to say that I'm glad that gay marriage is finally being brought to the forefront of equality, but more so, whether it's explicit or not, I'm thrilled that the benchmarks of gender are being challenged. I don't have a father in my life. However, I've had so many men, some my age, some older, who come from so many walks of life, who through experience, kindness, correction, and wisdom have been my father figures. Men, (Not just one father DAVID TYREE), many who have been able to teach me that it is not enough to want to be a man, but that it is necessary to be thoughtful, mindful, and patient with a humanity that is more diverse that either being one or the other. A humanity that is bettered through the value of being you and I. From there is where we'll learn and from there is where we will continue to grow.

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

Church, Ninjas, and my Basketball Dreams

2011-06-10T13:13:00.005-05:00

I was a shy kid growing up. And I guess, to some degree, I still am. But when I was younger I was all shy and coming out of my shell had no register in my little but smart brain. I internalized everything. And after I internalized once, I would again send that tape of information through the channels of my consciousness to get reprocessed and reanalyzed whereby there would be no product of output but a hell of a lot of input stored away in the recesses of a boy hidden away somewhere just shy of the Texas Panhandle.

On Sundays two decades past, my grandparents would take me to church. My grandmother wasn’t the kindest woman, but yet she knew me and she granted me a bit of benevolence in ways I can only now interpret. I hated groups of other kids. Like I mentioned earlier, I was shy, and shyness, at least at that age, doesn’t translate as just antisocial and reserved, but translates as a genuine fear, make it distrust, of my peers. If you were to compound my peers into a humongous group called Sunday School, where boys would be pickin’ on boys they hate and where boys would be pickin’ on girls they like, and girls would wear their Sunday best only quarterly-conscious that they were even at the age of seven trying to lure in a possible best mate, that in-and-of-itself would easily be terrifying to such a shy boy. Those social gymnastics in a group of mostly white middle-class middle-American boys and girls scared the shyness back into me. With that said, my grandmother knew this, and though she was a tough woman, especially tough on me, her maternal instincts knew it’d be best to let me sit with her and my grandfather at adult, grown-up, boring church.

Now, the reason it was benevolence, or at best a compromise on her part, is no matter how shy of a boy I was, I was still a prepubescent boy with the attention span of a pre-pubescent boy. And with that said, sitting in on what a “good day” would only consist of an hour-and-a-half long church service, was still an experience with that of a drooling sleeping fidgeting whining obnoxious imaginative boy. And I’d be there, just another American (brown) boy in a red pew, already learned of this mid-American mega-church’s liturgy, knowing when to sit when I was supposed to stand, and when to stand when I was supposed to sit, really just employing to the fullest of what it meant, and what it still means to be an obnoxious but normal boy.

As we three sat there, I smartly reasoned to kill that thirty to forty-minute window of boringness when the preacher would talk about stuff completely unrelated to the mind and attentions of a six-year old boy while all the while fulfilling the dreams of my grandmother of being a quiet, attentive, and respectful young man, by employing my aforementioned imagination. I’m sure I got lost many a times in many different theatres of the mind, but the one that I remember the most is that as we sat on the top floor of a two-floor sanctuary, and as we sat in the farthest pew nailed to the farthest back wall isolated from the rest of the brotherhood of the church, I, and specifically my mind’s eye, got the best bird’s eye view of the whole sanctuary. And as I would sit there, mind you only a child, yet a mischievous but shy one, I’d take stock of the schematics of the sanctuary’s construction. I’d see cross-beams as well as the speakers from the ceiling. I’d take inventory of supports and possible entrance and exit points. Could I swing from that rafter with a rope off that chain that holds a two-hundred pound gynormous speaker, and after takin’ all the church’s bank, swing through the stained glass window that served as the sanctuary’s penitent of Godly worship as my finale and exit where my chariot, with or without sexy sidekick, awaited me in the back parking lot? You bet I could. Whether my grandparents knew it or not, even though they limited my TV watching, especially X-Men and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, whatever I had seen had inspired me to believe that to some degree I was a vandal or a mutant or a hero posing as a boy who was soon to unleash on this church my wrath against boredom, and well, annoying Sunday’s best apparel.

Even though there was no loot in the church, and really the only bank that was worth stealing was in the mansions of the pastors and the homes of the conservative patrons, my imagination was vested through that thirty-minute span as being the superhero. I had such a strong imagination. I could be sitting in class, sitting on the toilet, sitting in a red church pew wearing a grey blazer with a blue micky-mouse embroidered tie, or I could be sitting on the concrete as my older cousins would play another physical game of pick-up basketball and my imagination would just go.

Soon after, my mom and I moved north a couple of hours and even though the scenery had changed, or maybe just shifted, my imagination stayed the same. Actually, since my sphere of outside influence changed, meaning there was less family for me to be forced to be around, my imagination grew exponentially. No longer was there communication from close but outside sources to stir me. It was just me and my mother who was working way too hard to have the time to ground me in any normal non-isolated framework, therefore my imagination continued to grow. As it grew, my imagination changed from ninjas and turtles, and got funneled into sports. I was still very shy, and even more so, I was terrified of others (my shell had gotten thicker), so every opportunity there was to play sports by myself, my imagination took over and projected the rest. When I look back now upon the specter that was that time in my life, I can’t imagine being a neighbor or any spectator looking on an open field or an apartment complex’s tennis court that held one meager basketball hoop, and see this chubby brown boy running and juking and shooting and not just once but continually as long as the day ran. And that’s what I would do. Whether it was the shitty plastic football I had, or the almost decent Wilson street court basketball I loved, I would always just play.

All kids who were and are into sports do it. They use their imagination to fill in the blanks. The narrative that is like all narratives filled with villains and audiences and components such as conflict and climax are transported into the villa of sport where the sole auteur is the child’s lone imagination. I like to think my imagination was Caravaggio and where the Calling of Saint Matthew interprets as the Divine’s churrascaria'd light upon the chosen Remoy Philip whose calling it was to hit the game winning free-throw line fall-away jumper just over the out-stretched reaches of Michael “Air” Jordan and win the game for the what? The New York Knicks? (I know this presents a conflict for Spike (Mars-Blackmon) Lee and every born and bred Texan. But it’s the best type of conflict.)

I’m a lot older now, and with that I don’t have the time or effort for imaginative gymnastics. Well at least not on the court. However, it’s still there when it comes to sports. You see, it’s been transmuted into the sports spectator modal rather than the athlete modal. When once I was a child and I’d imagine I was a hero, I now watch the men who play the game and create in them, at least in my mind, and to some degree my platforming words, the Hero.

We did this as kids. For me it was Starks and (Allen) Houston and of course, Jordan. But as the Knicks continued to fail me, and then the hellacious Isaiah Thomas debacle of management, and after Jordan retired, my priorities shifted to girls, “cool,” and finding a way out of my shell. And as those priorities became the new and only priorities of my life, my imagination, especially when it came to sports, quietly went dormant. And for years, I stopped caring, and I lost interest in the Hero.

But it’s back now. Especially this year, after the team I picked six years ago got over this past summer the winning lottery ticket of “I’m takin’ my talents to South Beach,” my spectator imagination is renewed and in full force. As I sit in sports bars, I see gods and angels on the courts doing things I wish I could do. Yet through the filter of my humble rationale, I know no matter how much I dream I couldn’t and can’t do it the same. I love the metaphor David Foster Wallace uses when describing Hero athletes: “Great athletes are profundity in motion. They enable abstractions like power and grace and control to become not only incarnate but televisable. To be a top athlete, performing, is to be that exquisite hybrid of animal and angel that we average unbeautiful watchers have such a hard time seeing in ourselves.” It’s not that I have a hard time seeing it in myself, but to jump like Dwyane Wade jumps or to dunk like Lebron dunks, I just can’t do. So for them, I imagine them the Hero, and as the story progresses I just pray they won’t let me down.

Don’t get me wrong though, the feeling of holding a basketball and trying to palm it doesn’t go without the now natural inclination to want to be that athletic Adonis. I spent the last few months, after a two-year hiatus, working in the classroom with kids. And almost every Saturday morning that I was there, I was keen on the fact that there was basketball in the room. It’s as if I couldn’t contain myself, because at the end of each class when the girls would be cleaning up and all the other teachers in the room were celebrating each kid’s unique talents, I would find my way to that basketball. Now so what if the rules in the classroom were no ball-playing, and God forbid, no bouncing, dribbling, or any ball-moving gymnastics were to be allowed. I was, at least for a second the god, the hero, the anti-hero, and that basketball was there for my sport. So I’d grab the ball and start playing with it, exercising it in some degree or fashion, and almost instantaneously any and all of the boys there gravitated towards me, or at least towards the ball. And for the few moments we could get away with it, there we’d be, all us boys (one old, the rest young) playing make-shift “you can’t steal it from me,” or “check this out” or “Mr. Remoy, over here, over here.” It never lasted for more than a few minutes because soon to follow I’d have to grab the attention of my age because like clockwork there’d be a glare or two from the other volunteers and teachers bringing me back to the rules and the reality that I’m not really that type of hero and these boys were students ready to write.

One thing I’ve come to learn from those last few months with those kids was that I couldn’t teach them to write. I know we were the teachers and volunteers and we were there to create an hour-and-a-half long biosphere of authentic authorship. We were there to answer questions and refine each child’s mechanics. I was there to help mold them. But what I’ve come to see is that the molding process, when it comes to children, it isn’t a pressing process but rather a process of opening. Those kids could already write, I just had to foster the one thing I now hope they will never lose.

I remember my mother and my grandmother’s will upon myself was to some degree codify me and my internalizations. Their domestic jobs were there to really build parameters and walls in my psyche that would facilitate an orderly matured life. That was their job and that was their role. However, there has to be an outside source, whether it be a teacher or another influence, that in the same way those walls of order were built, challenges the same walls by trying to expose them to that child’s imagination. Their job is to foster that child’s imagination. I’ve come to realize that was my job with those few students over the last couple of months and that’s the most necessary faculty for a writer. And children, at their prime have the healthiest of imaginations, and now as an almost adult, I can’t help but want to more than ever, dote on imagination.

I like to think, not too much has really changed. I’d be lying if I said, it isn’t one of the first things I look for or think about when I walk into any church. The playful thoughts abound, and maybe or maybe not nostalgically, as I look to the rafters and see all the ways and possibilities I could make out ninja-style with the non-existent loot. And I don’t think a day will go by when I see or hold a basketball and dream that I’m that participant on the hardwood court jumping and flying, angelically, in an imaginative play of sport and dreams not only being the winner but the hero that the world has yet to dream of. But at least now the number on my jersey will read “3” and above it will read the name “Wade.”

A Kind Gesture

2011-06-07T16:50:00.003-05:00

To My dear
sweet Remoy,

You have decided
to make beauty
memory
for everyone;
... And for that
I applaud you
dear one.
-Simon Van Booy

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

O Rose

2011-06-02T17:29:00.009-05:00

*figure 1

There is a fake fabric rose on my desk at work (figure 1). It's now been there for a few days. I haven't thrown it away, and I haven't found away to make a lady's day with it. Yet. And I'm not really sure how it got there, but it's still there and I don't think I'll let it go just yet.

When I was younger and just about to finish high school I remember reading about a writer who I admired at the time who said he memorized poetry to get girls. Now I wasn't anywhere close to getting girls at that time, so I considered my options, and I decided to adopt this as my playbook. This aforementioned admired author had said he memorized Shakespeare. For me that seemed terribly traditional and telegraphed. I decided to go for verse and writers that were a bit more obscure making me and my knowledge of the both more valuable in turn making me more perfect.

And maybe for one of the first time in my newly inherited young adulthood, I followed through. I sat and stood, and I paced, all in the middle of my mother's living room. I went to Barnes and Noble and bought a few books. I looked for books and collections and writers that would truly honor the person I was or at least the person I hoped to project. And I brought them home, like I mentioned earlier, and I went in on memorizing. I never knew that I would actually spend my free non-scholastic time dedicated to memorizing verse, but I did, and I did it successfully.

Yes, I come clean and say I have regurgitated poetry on unassuming young ladies, and I won't say it was what sealed the deal, but as apart of my closing, let's just say I was hard to resist. I never thought it would work, and I never thought I would have fallen in love like I have, and furthermore, that a beautiful girl or two would have fallen in love with me, but again, it all worked.

Over the last few days I've been feeling emotionally out of whack. My initial diagnosis objectively saw that my schedule had gone through a sudden and drastic shift. Therefore I was laboriously (or lack there of) trying to reassocicate myself to this rescheduled world. However, as time continued, this emotional funk lingered. I then jumped back into reading and writing. I started a reread of a pocket-sized anthology edited by Simon Van Booy titled Why Our Decisions Don't Matter (Also see figure 1). There's some really strong rhetoric stretching across the gamut of minds and thinkers from antiquity through the present. There's undercurrents of anti-religious sentiment, and there are small vignettes that see God as pure epistemology and the force thereof. A few of the pieces I had even read, as apart of there larger initial work, and it was nice to see those in a different more demanding context. It is just a really nice collection.

I didn't know what I expected to find. Maybe validation, maybe pure hopelessness, or maybe the constant ringing of hopefulness that is only found in complexity. But as I turned through and to the last few pages I was brought back to my mother's living room as a young boy, before some of my future and now past decisions could ever been thought as possible, memorizing poetry solely to just impress a girl or two. What I saw is what I still have memorized and what I still hold dear to my heart.

The Sick Rose
by William Blake

O Rose thou art sick,
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night
In the howling storm:

Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

Symphonia

2011-05-28T09:21:00.005-05:00

Nooma - Rhythm from Imago Dei on Vimeo.

I have been blessed to keep with me from childhood a healthy imagination.
My efforts in this life,
are not to lose it.

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

The Reappearance of Strawberries

2011-04-12T07:29:00.008-05:00

I thought I had grown past it. But again, I was wrong. You do it a lot when you're younger. And with age you hope that maturity has cooled your spirit enough to not fall into this particular conflict.

But it is a refreshing annoyance in which you find something without looking for it, and with finding it going through the unfolding of feelings in which you greedily want to bury it deep where it can only be unpacked by yourself for yourself. And yet conversely, entertaining the feelings to want to share it with the world because no matter how bad or how frustrating or even how deserted the world feels, the world needs to cherish this thing. For me, discovering Simon Van Booy is what has pleasantly forced me to again relive this conflict.

Not since the first time I leafed through the short stories of Raymond Carver or Sebald have I felt so captivated by short fiction and its ability to be ephemerally connective and not just through time but also through all spheres of society. The characters in The Secret Lives of People in Love come from all walks of life and are found, or planted all throughout the globe. But the connecting fiber that mends together the souls of these characters are in the voice of their spirits. Whether they be hopeful or be entrenched in hopelessness, each story is weighted by this voice of the spirit that solidifies us as human. It could be said, and said so critically, that the voices of each of the stories are too much the same. But that observation maybe more true to form, as again, it’s not a particular spirit to an individual that makes these stories so pertinent, but rather the universality of feeling and feeling found in the human spirit. And brilliantly, and yes I mean in a quiet and unassuming brilliance each story starts in the present but yet the reader finds themselves effortlessly being transported back and forth through these characters’ histories getting the full enumeration of this spirit. It’s a balancing act of time and effort for Simon but for the reader it comes off as transparent and flawless.

It’s been a joy to read these stories. Moreover, it’s been captivating to reread these stories and let this collection live in my back pocket as I myself find new eyes that re-see the world full of the possibility to hope; haunting, breathtaking, timeless are the stories found in The Secret Lives of People in Love.

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

11 Miles; One Prayer

2011-03-14T11:50:00.003-05:00

I have this thing where I like to walk. I don't have really too many professional or career aspirations or goals. However, I do have a few personal aspirations, and one of them is to walk a lot. So I got done with my business up in Harlem on Saturday and since the sun one was out and shining warm, I decided to walk. And I walked down through the Park, and at times the hills got me winded which at a solid ripe age of twenty-seven is not but actually embarrassing. And after my quasi-nature stroll, I made my way down through the urban jungle that is midtown. That was quick and memory filled. I paused in Union Square and watched some dogs, then did a movie and then dinner. And after that, I thought to myself, I should keep going, and so I did. I walked home. Now through a rough estimate thanks to the help of HopStop, I calculate the distance of my walk at a solid 11.44 miles. Now on this 11 mile walk there was one thing that was missing; an earful of Bieber.

I wonder now if any sort of fault ripple happened near me, would I lose my life? Would the most amazing city I've ever known be so easily crippled and destroyed with thousands of lives, within seconds, minutes, hours, destroyed? Would there be people spreading ideas and rhetoric through multiple different channels saying that I deserved it or this city deserved it because we were comfortable in our hedonism? Would there be people saying that God or Nature or the two colluded in the judgement of place and people? 11 miles in one day, and thousands upon thousands of lives in a few days.

I don't say the word pray often anymore. But I pray for Japan and all the people living there.

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

Papa Papushka

2011-03-04T06:39:00.002-05:00

At the tender and newly ripe age of twenty-seven I for the first time had a feeling I had never entertained before. Now let me build the scene for you as quickly as I can. It was at a gallery space which in all actuality is a grouping of galleries—each one in their own individual space representing one or a few artist that they believe is worth a damn. And in this space, this collective art space, I felt this new feeling in the in between. To be particularly less ambiguous, I felt what I never thought I would feel in a hallway. Where all that was there was was cement floors, white walls, and fluorescent lights. And as I stood there, aware of what was to happen, I let it happen. Let me be candid here. Like I alluded to in the last sentence, this physicality of what happened wasn’t necessarily new. The characters, in their individuality particular to name and physical make up were distinct, but in archetype were just the same as I’d always seen them: father and son.

Quickly I’d like to give a caveat to what made me a bit more envious of the moment. The boy, and I say boy because it’s how I felt instantaneously as the moment was occurring, said to me and the group around me (paraphrased of course) “I don’t want to SMOKE because my dad is around here somewhere.” And as we left the gallery we were in, and we were making our way to the front door where I knew I’d stand and enjoy the normal conversation around the normal company, these peoples, these boys and girls would smoke and engage in conversations of the most trivial of natures, there suddenly was the boy’s father.

“Oh look it’s my dad.” And again this is not new. I have seen men share emotions with their fathers. I have seen boys my age and above exchange in some many a sort of filial bonds with their dads. And yet, the moment when the boy then without thinking hugged his father, then kissed the top of the crown of his father’s head, and again moments later again kissed his father, I felt I had missed out on twenty-seven years of that kind of intimacy.

And maybe (not that everything needs to be reduced to this level) it has to do with culture. This particular father and son and family were Russian. Russian enough to where the boy could call his father Papushka and where the kids I was around would make mention of Odessa and I would know without a shadow of a doubt that Friday not Football was not in the breadth of this conversation. Maybe it’s just the emotional normalcy and physical display of this emotional normalcy not so necessarily known to me by an immigrant that lead me to feel a longing for something I didn’t know I longed for. I don’t want to be too general or reductionary, but I’ve seen most of my Anglo or “White” friends share this kind of love for their fathers and not feel half the loss that I felt in this instant.

I think that says something, and specifically to this culturally diverse dialogue. I think my eyes were specifically opened because I saw something shared between two peoples who would be considered the minority, who could have easily been ostracized like me and my family for being different and yet still sharing in an honest love, both intimate and physical, that I didn’t and only thought I knew as being something “American” or of the hegemony. Yet, I was seeing this type of relationship, something I universally decree as good or with quality in the family setting of a minority. And that opened my eyes up to the possibility that I could have had that had I had a father. And for the first time in twenty-seven years I wondered, “What would it be like to kiss my father and know that he loves me and is proud of me.”

The Divine in Midtown

2011-01-14T06:25:00.007-05:00

And all must love the human form,
In heathen, turk, or jew;...

I had to find a way to amplify my game, a way to take it to the next level, a way to actually get girls. So I took one out of the old hippy progressive "how to get a girl handbook" and started memorizing poetry. Unfortunately like most of our generation and our side of the Prime Meridian, I was and am a bit lazy. So what started as a serious endeavor to become a poet reciting laureate, became "Well, I memorized two poems, surely I'll only need two to get her to do things with me."

And the excerpt from above is from one of the, now three poems, I have memorized. I was proud of my accomplishment. I remember sitting at home, yes my mother's home, in the living room, looking at the pretty pictures and from them taking in the lyrical qualities of the verse. It was like I was back in third grade, where my ego was totally based on my educational acumen (yes, I was that literal nerd), and I just memorized shit to be a badass. I was committed to actually having this thing down to memory with no purpose other than being hopeful and wishful. And I did it. I don't remember how long it took me, but I had the thing down. Now all I had to do was, well, talk to girls.

Last night I went to a reading/lecture/glorifying-a-dead-guy thing at the Mid-Manhattan library. I was excited about this event for most of the week, and even when I got home from work yesterday I was still pretty excited. But then I decided, "I'll take a nap and be amazingly refreshed and superbly attentive for this reading" and like most nice ideas it sounded really nice. But then I actually napped and then woke up. And when I say woke up, woke up groggily an pissed-off-edly. I was committed to sleep in that fifty minute span and I had wanted, had my alarm and my pre-made-choice not gone off, to stay in that warm bed in my warm apartment outside of the cold of the outside city.

But I fought of the groggyness and made it out. And I got to the library in Midtown, which I must say I enjoyed being there for I hadn't been there in what seems like a lifetime, and as I found the conference room on the sixth floor I was giddily surprised with the crowd I saw. I don't know why I expected what I expected, but considering the subject matter of the person being discussed and considering the environment it was taking place in, mainly New York, I expected there, and annoyingly so expected there to be small crowd of young liberal hip kids like myself. However, when I walked in the room, I was excited to see that there was not a damn seat available to anyone. Not only were there no seats available, but even as the staff scrounged to find any chair possible (office chairs, lounge chairs, patio furniture?) still there were not enough seats. So I sat on the floor of this somewhat large conference room and to where behind me sat crowd of a few hundred, mostly old mixed race and mixed heritage and definitely mixed epistemelogical people.

And the subject matter at hand was Bonhoeffer. A new biography has recently come out which was composed by Eric Metaxas, and on hand was Metaxas to unscrupulously offer up a quick verbal bio of Bonhoeffer and what he himself had encountered, or actually, how he was affected by his work on studying and recreating the narrative of Bonhoeffer's short but heroic life. Now I am a Bonhoeffer rookie, easy. I don't know much more than the normal religious progressive. I've read a bit, watched a documentary, even struggled a bit through Discipleship, but nothing too extensive. So this was going to be a healthy reimmersion.

But again I think I came away more enjoying the experience rather than the objective information: sitting there with a few hundred people, where a majority may have lived in this world during the reign of the furer, where some of these men and women behind me felt the growing tensions of the world of the early twentieth century, where some may have lost friends and family during this horrendous time. I was there with them, as we listened and discussed who Bonhoeffer was and what he meant. And it was interesting, because Metaxas is a very interesting biographer because even though he studied at Yale, he is by no means, and this comes from his self-judgement, an academic. And throughout his discussion, as he cracked sometimes witty and sometimes absolutely terrible jokes, you could see that this man who dedicated serious time and effort to recreating this somewhat unknown historical figures life, was only one or two steps higher than normal society folk like myself in the social hierarchy.

However, what Metaxas did that I found honorable, was when the conversation turned, as it so often did, to the truth behind Protestantism and the praxis of Christianity, he easily and deftly deferred that this conversation was about Bonhoeffer and about how that man approached life through his lens of belief. And even at times when I got annoyed at how Metaxas filtered in his own undercurrent of "truth" and "rightness" into the conversation, he would cap it off with how it really was credible in the line of sight when Bonhoeffer was the focal point.

I think Metaxas's goal was not to bring to light every possible aspect of Dietrich Bonhoeffer, but rather stir some interest in six hundred so odd pages and a conversation that motivates people to really see that there lived in our current history real Christian heroes. It was so fantastic to be apart of this discussion where at the end there were people who questioned the validity of God and the divine, challenged Bonhoeffer's own scandalous attempt at assassinating Hitler even if it was heretical, and really learning together parts of the world's history in a setting that allowed for a very plural setting that may be the ultimate representation of what the church could possibly be and there and maybe just there, where God is dwelling too.

...Where Mercy, Love, & Pity dwell
There God is dwelling too.

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

I taught myself how to grow

2010-12-24T12:44:00.002-05:00

And I, I taught myself how to grow
Without any love and there was poison in the rain
I taught myself how to grow
'Til I was crooked on the outside, inside's caved
I taught myself how to grow old

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

A Night with the Salman

2010-12-08T07:42:00.010-05:00

In the summer of 2003 I spent a day touring the Emory (which with a bit of rearranging could be Remoy; and I wasn't even the first one to notice it) University campus. It was my first stint really exploring an elite academic campus. It was nice, quiet, beautiful. A nice anecdote from the trip I'll always remember is that in the campus quad a week long camp was going on for kids ages 8-14. Now growing up where I grew up I was used to sports camps or general summer camps; day camps, week long camps, summer long camps. If it was summer I was usually in basketball camp refining my never improving skills. That's what I knew. But at Emory on that humid summer day in June there was forty some odd kids paired off studying, refining, and practicing their skills at the art and game of one of the worlds most respected and outrightly elitist games possible: these kids were at chess camp. Chess, the game of the bourgeois, the art of the elitist. Both which I so necessarily long to be.

Salman Rushdie has recently dedicated his personal manuscripts and archives to Emory. It's interesting because not only are there in this collection written manuscripts, potential book covers, and journals but you'll also find in this collection four Apple computers. Well there's Rushdie at the forefront, bridging the practical and old with the technological and future all through his medium of storytelling. The man who wrote the Satanic Verses and divorced Padma Lakshmi, a former Brit, a total Desi, taking his ability to construct the most poetic and vibrant descriptions in his prose, and giving his history all to Emory. Oh, how lucky Emory. How lucky.

Well, seven years later after that initial touring of the Atlanta Georgia campus, I'm sitting in West Chelsea, a bit late, with say four hundred other supposed literatis. Most of us looking the part in our layered ensembles of the the most casual class with hair styled unconventionally conventional and of course wearing the most proper and classy eyewear. We were there to hear, learn, and hopefully absorb through audible osmosis of course the supposed talent of Mr. Salman Rushdie.

I've hung out in West Chelsea before. The event on 21st between 10th and 11th is nothing new and is always the same. The same people looking the part. The same people who keep, or at least with total effort, the bourgeois auspices of Manhattan alive. It's become token of the neighborhood and more so the same for the Island and even the City. And events like these, where a former acclaimed auteur who in the past deserved of such acclaim puts on a reading of his new quasi-young adult fiction (which by what was read sounds boringly blas'e), become just another event of social capital where the event and the subtle boring humor of Rushdie's comments on writing and fiction will be resuscitated over tomorrow night's dinner conversation or in passing over the next round at the local upscale pub. I looked around during the night fighting the feeling of warm comfort pushing me to sleep as I barely escaped the bite of the winter night and saw all sorts of the same type of modern urbanites. Some staring brightly encapsulated by Mr. Rushdie's mere educated celebrity presence or others like me falling asleep while trying not to be distracted by their phone or the latent attraction to their amorous neighbor.

These events like most, solely become social capital. I couldn't help but laugh at the fact that there were so many people, including me, crammed into this white-walled modern minimal gallery listening to this middle-aged potentially has-been author who indirectly validates Western Imperialism all for the ability at some point in our lives to say we had been there. I was honestly at this event hoping to see Padma, to steal a look from Padma, to swoon over Padma, to woo Padma, to say a word or two to the most beautiful woman (who happens to be all Brown) and convince her of my potential as a lover and a mate. But unfortunately for me, and maybe a few hundred other males in that space Padma wasn't there and we were just stuck with the forever balding Mr. Rushdie and his fictional sentiments on being a child living in a dream-like video game universe fighting Riddlers while walking bears named "Dog" and dogs named "Bear."

I like to think at times like these, when I quietly laugh loudly to myself, that I will soon deserve this. That soon enough, I'll be the one up there, behind a podium, with my literary big dick swinging for all to see and hear. I'll be the one who will get all the adoration and unnecessary temporal acclaim. And I like Mr. Rushdie will run with it. I like Mr. Rushdie will capitalize on it. I hope to be the one where one day in West Chelsea or maybe in the future it will be in East DUMBO and there will be a few hundred normal needy hoping schmucks ready and waiting for the possibility of what could and would come out of my mouth and through my lips as if divinely inspired but divinely inspired by the god that is me. I hope for that, and that's what I dreamt of as I slept as Salman Rushdie spoke and Padma Lakshmi slipped past me once again.

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

2010-11-24T17:17:00.005-05:00

-Not the exact view but whatever

On two occasions today, I started something where very casually. I asked a few people to entertain the thought of doing something communally. The benefit for all would at best be a slight dopamine fix, but other than those temporal benefits, the enterprise would be somewhat and humanely unnecessary. But to my surprise, people came through. And not only did people come through, but they enjoyed and the ability to do it together, maybe meaning a bit more in such a metropolitan void, was so good.

I had this class at Hunter, in fact, it may have been my first class in my whole attempt at re-enrollment. It was a non-fiction workshop and I remember writing some solid diddies and really being impressed with my own abilities as an actual writer; not established, but with the working parts. But honeslty, what I remember most and what I'll hold on to most was the view. Being on the twelfth floor in Manhattan, facing southwest, the panorama of a full window that spanned the room was so genuinely good. I remember at moments in the class, when I was done with people and humanity, done with the technocracy of modernity, that I'd honestly lose myself in that view.

I've had a few classes in that room now, and the effect is still the same. Maybe because I'm still new here, and maybe cause I'll always be new here, in this city, in this megaplex, in this anomoly of a place, but the view is still breathtaking. And even today, after the trash was picked up, after everyone was still riding the sugar mixed with cheap wine high, and everyone said their goodbyes and wished each other well, when I was the last one there, maybe a bit lingering off the last sips of a good anebriation, I looked out that window, well into the early dark night, and saw the electricity of modernity and the structural integrity in all its difference of possibility, and thought to myself like I think to myself many a time, I'm so very lucky.

I hate people, I hate how this world works so systemically, I hate everyone, but damn, it is like how I honestly feel about everyone living here with me and sharing here with me and that in the end is really and honestly so very good.

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

Me and Kevin Smith

2010-11-19T06:13:00.005-05:00

"I think it's better to have ideas. You can change an idea. Changing a belief is trickier. Life should be malleable and progressive; working from idea to idea permits that. Beliefs anchor you to certain points and limit growth; new ideas can't generate. Life becomes stagnant. "
-Kevin Smith

Ever since I’ve been able to consider my life retrospectively on the whole, I’ve considered myself very lucky. Even when things are in the suck, or like now, when I’m being a big sour bitch, I’m perfectly aware that my life is so good and I myself am very lucky. Some say blessed, and I would agree; that if there is someone in control of giving me the blessings, an individual of sorts whose responsibility it is to watch the blessings meter has irresponsibly let my balance compound out of control, and for that I’m no matter what, completely grateful.
But there are things that frustrate me. And this is good, it serves as motivation or an underguirding fire that serves to be the antagonist to propel me forward. And one frustration that I’ve been learning from recently is in dealing with what it means to believe. I’ve shared this with many people, and it’s so hard to verbalize my hypotheses or really formulate a visual reality of what this supposed reality looks like; a reality without belief.
And I don’t want to get into that too much, but I do want to deal with an aspect of it. And it is ironic, because with what I like to do and would hope to pursue in hopes of careerdom looks at least on a surface level antithetical to this hypothesis of mine. And this deals with something as simple as the word story. Well how is this antithetical, or what exactly is my hypothesis? I think story, and not solely, but story has become a collusive integer in how belief has soured humanity and society as much as it has hoped to serve us positively. And of course, I love stories. I love simple stories and stories with mucho amounts of complexity. I love stories that are meta and I love stories that are full of hubris. Ask me what my favorite films are and I’ll tell you I don’t watch films, I watch movies that tell stories. I want to write ‘em. I am good at telling them through words. It’s something I pride myself in.
But story, or as I shift the term to narrative, narrative is problematic because with it we have married the complex supposed value of Truth. It’s a total social manifestation but it finds itself in all types of endeavors. For Western culture, it has to be acknowledged that this praxis of Truth finding via story has evolved, ironically, from the practice of reading religious texts and interpreting and projecting Truths from the texts. Obviously that can be still be seen in the modern modes of religious Western practice, but so it is mirrored and executed in liberal thought who as a locus make it there identity to be annoyingly a polar opposition rather than a honest human understanding. Even in liberal circles, there’s the story or the narrative of “what it means to be liberal” or even “Evolution,” that succinctly mirrors “what it means to be conservative” or even “Creation” that follows the praxis of story and narrative. And with that comes the gleaning of Truth(s) from all these narratives no matter the social/political/historical locus.
This is where we still deal as a society, which isn’t terribly bad on a surface level, but as we hope to progress as a progressive civilization, we do have to deal with systematic thinking and it’s ability to dehumanize humanity into vocal automatons repeating the same Truths as truth. It’s this systematic indoctrination via narrative that has us all longing for the same. These systems rooted in Truth because of their supposed practical application as seen in the narrative, almost as if they’re holy, has cookie-cutterred humanity into codified molds of what it means to be a human. We subscribe to love, grace, progress, evil, good, and every dealing of Truth because finding an interpretive value of the such qualities can be found in narrative where the application of the such proved, at least via the shown elements of the story, as positive. And we’ve listen to a hegemonic voice that has commissioned us dedicatedly to listen to narrative; to read and hear narrative and go search for Truth. And notice here I mean big T truth and not little t truth. Because there definitely is a difference where the size of the T contributes the size of the hysteria over the value of supposed T/truth.
Here’s a way I’ve proved again as lucky. For some time, I spent time studying Samuel Beckett. Now if you told before my initial study, “Remoy you’re a lucky dude because guess what, you’ll spend a dedicated time studying that cool-guy Modernist Samuel Beckett,” I’d respond with, “Go Fuck yourself.” But again, this is where the felicity of life has found its way to surprise me and really fascinate me with luck. You see I can’t stand Art. I see it and value it as I do Truth: Truth married to story is a dead appendage of society that is valued and lauded for it’s necessity even in its death. And to make it even worse, I fuckin’ hate Modernist shit and what the qualities of “Modern” mean for Art. But because a pretty girl convinced me to, and because I honestly dig a good challenge, I took the time to take the study. And in the end, I found a genuine respect for Beckett because I found things he said in his writing by his anti-story writing was similar to my own hypothesis. Even so much so that it validated my voice in my hypothesis even when I was not sure that voice or that hypothesis was able to be valid. I gleaned from my study so much so that it took up twelve pages and a few hours of my time to dedicate and prove that Samuel Beckett’s impetus, maybe not solely, but in part, was to destroy narrative because narrative was still destroying humanity. IE: Auschwitz for Beckett and 9/11; genocide, ethnic cleansing, 3outof5womenaresexuallyabusedinourmodernworld, phalycentric indoctrination, etc for me and us. And his ability to anti-write to stimulate this thought of destruction by destroying the quality of Truth in anti-meta narrative was so euphoric for me.
And now this is where you say, “Remoy you’re being completely hypocritical.” And of course, hypocrisy is probably unavoidable, but I would like to invest a bit of time diluting this hypocrisy of mine. Not necessarily disassembling it, but really challenging its purity. First off I’m being hypocritical for saying finding Truth in narrative, meaning finding an agreeable systematic way to live in narrative is causing society to hiccup continually in its praxis. And yet, I say, “hey I read these stories and plays and novels by Beckett, and what he said rings so True that I believe it and I will hiccup with it as my mode of systematic thinking.” You get it? I look like to you and to me in the mirror as another normal hypocrite. But first, let me say that I wasn’t looking for Truth in Beckett. I had no expectation of finding any validation from Beckett’s authorship nor did I expect/hope/esteem myself to finding really any value of practical application in his work. Honestly, I expected to theoretically jerk Beckett and his corpus’s legacy off. I figured that’s all the study would be, a methodical masturbation of Sam Beckett. But contrary to my initial thoughts, I found value but only because I had to invest, and responsibly so, my time and effort to find it. Beckett was not the landscape I hoped or would ever think of looking for personal applicative Truth. But in his narrative landscape, where I thought I was marooned and hopeless, I luckily and benevolently found Truth. That’s dilution effort number one.
And now number two which deals with my study of Beckett and finding truth, but also deals, and actually deals more with this whole expository response against narrative because as I type and as you read, (if you’ve found the patience or kindness to make it this far) I’m asking of you qualify this reading of my, yes non-fictional or real, narrative as somewhat True. And how do I manage to defunct this whole you the reader, I the author, and this writing as not Truth but yet asking you to apply it as Truth, is similar to the defuncting of the statement, “Everything is relative” by realizing that that statement itself is objective therefore destroying any applicative quality of its hoped value. So this is what it looks like: “Hey guys don’t read stories or writings and look for Truth” but “Hey guys read my shit and see it as True.” Oh the hypocrisy! Oh the Humanity!
But this is the problem in and of itself. It’s the semiological decay of the point between sign and signification. The sign of the letter or the word has a breath in it into which where we read or hear the letters composing words, but that breath of impetus created by the auteur is flawed or maybe partially eroded because there is a secondary signification created by the reader who is not aware or connected with the primary sign. Therefore the audience the spectator the reader is recreating the sign in his or her imaginative psyche and formulating the value of the sign by their own secondary signification. That’s the fallacy of interpretation or as they call it, the interpretive fallacy. And even if we are true as truly possible with exigesis, it still is impossible to bridge the two purely because of the aforementioned semiological decay of language and that leaves Truth and interpretation marooned on two separate spheres. But as we, meaning civilization and society, have learned we ignore that separation between the two. Rather, we marry the two even when honestly we know, that we ourselves are reading the voice of our own personal writers into the story, devoiding the initial writer, and creating Truth out of the words of the actual auteur. We become the locuteur; our personal voice replaces the voice of what is acknowledged as simply the narrator.
So how do we fix this problem of one and two. With one, like I was luckily enough to do, was to find practical value, and not necessarily Truth, in places I wouldn’t look. I found value and qualitative practical applicative value in Beckett. And I was not there, investing in Beckett’s work, hoping to find practical application. But I did, and in that there can be validity in pursuing oppositional narratives and voices cause there you may find the most poignant applications of Truth. And then theres two. How do we finally acknowledge the decay of the sign of language found in narratives? It will sound easier said than done, but the most pertinent value of fiction is that the fiction where truth is gleaned is not your nonfiction. So to read the story in your own personal voice and to co-opt that narrative, and the learned or unlearned application of Truth by its characters is only valid for those characters in their fictional or non-fictional environments. To say, “This character lived their life and learned the such so now I will practice the such as big T truth as my application,” is noble and sounds normal or practical, but we are ignoring the facets of our lives which collude that supposed Truth because we ignore our own personal complexity of our personal narrative. And when you do that, when you steal the Truth, which I have to say is crafted by an auteur and not natural as in you and me the reader, you are bastardizing your own personal narrative by ignoring its complexity. However, the more appropriate retaliation to learned Truth, is remove the big T, and supplicate that with little t truths. There is nothing wrong with reading a story, encountering a narrative and seeing something valuable and acknowledging that truth and then go searching for the counter-truth in the myriad of stories and narratives out there. The ultimate Truth out there is that there is none (again this statement in defunct by the semantic argument of no objectivity is objective), but that there are many truths that tell our story in its fundamental complexity and that natural complexity is what makes fiction beautiful as a collection of truths lived and lives exposed.
Stories should serve as a broken mirror, shattered beyond comprehension where each sliver of narrative reflects in us a broken and fractured view of ourselves, and with that vision, we take the truth seen and we continue to live and look in order to see ourselves and the world around us as continually fractured, and with that we can continue to see ourselves as terribly lucky to really be alive without Truth.

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

Me too Mr. Carver, me too

2010-11-18T10:48:00.002-05:00

"I hate tricks. At the first sign of a trick or gimmick in a piece of fiction, a cheap trick or even an elaborate trick, I tend to look for cover. Tricks are ultimately boring, and I get bored easily, which may go along with my not having much of an attention span. But extremely clever chi-chi writing, or just plain tomfoolery writing, puts me to sleep. Writers don't need tricks or gimmicks or even necessarily need to be the smartest fellows on the block. At the risk of appearing foolish, a writer sometimes needs to be able to just stand and gape at this or that thing- a sunset or an old shoe- in absolute and simple amazement."
-Raymond Carver

Designer Bags

2010-11-09T16:13:00.003-05:00

So I had a friend ask me the other day how much sleep I get, and I gave her a bit of an exaggerated response, but close, and she said she couldn't do it and I said why not and she said cause sleep is too important, and I said living was too important, and she said something to the affect of you live better when you sleep, and then I stopped, because it's honestly impossible to explain sometimes that yes on paper and in feeling sleeping normally or gratuitously can make life better, more relaxed, or even better rested for intensely living, but in reality as by experience, I want to take as much time as I can to really live because as much as I've lived for as long as I lived the more I live the so much more I really live.

I think it comes from this unshakable foundation of Modern Evangelical Judeo-Christianity that girds the foundation of our civility. Whether you're a liberal pluralist who swears against the such or are a definite Jesus freak there are tones of this doctrine and dogma all throughout our lives. From the Puritan work ethic to our understand of morality as a utilitarian kin altruist kindness, we are molded in some part by this doctrine.

And when I say I want to really live, I'm purposefully being, or purposefully trying to be, antithetical to this Modern Christian ethic. And I realize that my purpose driven anti-Christ-life in a way validates the opposite. But I'm okay with that because for me it's solely personal and in no way a fit for the masses. And this may all sound a bit like a mess, but the crux lies in selfishness. Because to me and my understanding Selfishness, well, being okay with being selfish and not worried about being selfish is an anathema to the selfless ethos of Modern Christianity.

And call it a season in my life, and again be it a response, maybe that's all it is. A rebellious response found in a small season. But I'm finally okay with being selfish. Moreover, I'm going to continue to invest in being selfish. Not totally, where I pursue whatever it takes to be selfish. However I'm going to ignore the dogma of suppressing the self. I'm going to meet my self and greet my self and entertain my self and come to a conclusion as to what my self is asking and find out if what my self has asked for is truly worthwhile. And even if it proves totally unworthwhile in the long run, but absolutely worthwhile in the present, I still may pursue it.

I don't know, again I'm being exaggerative. I'm blowing it out of proportion. I just think that religious sentiment and morality molds the mind and shapes it outside the interactions of day to day reality and with that those minds that are completely vested in selfless morality then confront the outside world with its bigger reality choose selflessness without the consciousness of rationale because rationale has been excused for by selfless morality. And selfless morality, on paper looks right, but in reality, rationale, not solely, but definitely has to be exercised with morality. Ant this rationale only come about as it is learned by real interactions with reality and humanity and then and only then does morality exist. It does not come from proverbial books that tell stories where Absolute Truths are actually possibilities and it definitely does not come solely from the voice of one charming charismatic speaker whose ability to interpret are profound but whose abilities to know his (because her is still almost impossible) congregation individually is totally impossible. Morality is learned as it is selfishly exercised in the community of society.

All I'm saying is really try living. Give as much as you can to every breath, and make sure you invest it while awake and really engaged. It's better that way. It may not sound like it, it may not look like it, but trust me, sleep less and you'll live more. Even if you sound like a neurotic nonsensical douche.

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

My afterthoughts

2010-10-27T05:04:00.002-05:00

Now I'm going to be a positivist here. I don't necessarily want to be, it's nothing I'm yearning for, but I'll do it.

And this is my response, last night looked from one team, to be a strong regular season performance and the other team, my team, well it looked like they were still in the preseason. And I'm not saying this frustratedly or negatively, actually I'm saying it with quite the opposite effect.

The Heat scored nine points in that first quarter and in the end only lost by eight points. Wade looked slow, lethargic, soft, and downright unprepared. James looked like the King who was ready. Bosh, well, he's going to have to find his place. But the highlight for this game, at least for me, was to see that team, even when only one of the big three really came to play, is that the team, with all the rest of its parts, look spectacular. Joel Anthony had six or seven boards in the first quarter. Udonis made shots. James Jones made shots. In the third quarter when no parts of the Heat were working together, Spoelstra brought in Z and let the only two guys who know how to play together run a two man game. And with Ilgauskus and Lebron running the screen roll, it allowed the comfortability and knowledge of the two to open up the game for the rest of the team.

What I'm saying is this, even though this was a regular season premier with all the hoopla and fireworks for both positivity as well as egregious haters, my team looked like they were in the beginning of the preseason. And how they matched up with, in my opinion, the next best team in the East, well, they didn't do to bad. And midseason, after this team has really gelled and found how all parts function, this team, meaning my team, is going to be scary.

And damn the new jersey's look hot.

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

2010-10-03T17:18:00.002-05:00

Now I hope you accept my apology now, because this whole thing is about to get terribly over exaggerated, over sentimentalized, over romanticized, and honestly over thought, but goddamn I'm Remoy and this is the only way I know how to do. Well, at least, it's the only way I like to do.

These two movies work well within a relationship between the both. They obviously, not so obvious from the poster of Catfish, deal with Facebook. They both become period pieces in our common era and become the frames to our current modern lives. Parents use Facebook, obviously kids use Facebook, Human Resources use Facebook (check in on Rusty every once in awhile and you'll see it on his screen), predators use Facebook, and well, almost everybody uses Facebook. It's monopolized our lives and it's monopolized the internet.

But these movies aren't about Facebook itself. No, we are still writing and telling that story everyday. These movies are about the characters who develop this enterprise. The creators and the constituents. Facebook will never be to blame nor can it receive all the glory. It can just be there and be an opportunity for all of us.

I've seen The Social Network twice now in theaters and I wouldn't be surprised if I see it again. Don't be shocked, I'm that kind of guy. When I see a movie, when I really read a story I connect with, I can't help but want to keep reinvesting in hopes of finding more connectivity. So like I said, I've seen it twice and hope to see it a lot more. But why am I so connected? What about this movie about something so regular stimulates me? Well honestly it's the glorified character of Mark Zuckerberg the founder (or as the movie shows, cofounder) of Facebook. And by the way, on the record, Jesse Eisenberg's portrayal is so devilish and yet tragic you can't help but hate and yearn for him all in the same scene.

And what is it about this supposed Zuckerberg picture that shows an important picture to me? It's the character's motivation for this all. And that motivation is simply revenge. A big ol' Fuck You type of revenge. Honestly, that's all it is. It isn't money, and it's not necessarily popularity, it's honest revenge. It's a more poignant and definitely a more real retelling of the classic 80's quartet, Revenge of the Nerds. Now in this series you see all the stereotypical nerds. You see them in their plight to take back cool, or moreover, take back their human decency. And it's funny as hell. But what SN does that RTN doesn't do, is that it removes stereotype as you see the reality behind the hierarchy in modern adolescence.

Living in New York and doing everything that I luckily get to do, I by default get regarded, at least by a few, as cool. And even myself, even me in my own head, I get lost in the cool parade. And it's ok, I'm 26 now, and for the most part don't have to rely solely on the cool quality scale (even though I do). But when in doing this, when thinking about cool as a grade or cool as a hopeful possibility I sometimes explicity or sometimes ignorantly ignore a big part of me. And that is, for a majority of my life, I was not cool. To be more specific I was a nerd.

BEGIN SIDEBAR: Now, this maybe another sign of how lucky/blessed I am, but one facet of modern cool is the nerd factor. And I think it has to do with the possibility that a majority of the world for the longest time was not Zach Morris. Yet all the voices of society told us to be cool we had to be like Zach Morris, but we just weren't. And a majority of us who weren't have finally won. Big glasses, non athletic, normal, un "cool" clothes, all these thing along with all of us have taken back cool. We've taken back our human decency and our right to be cool. :END SIDEBAR

But again, it's so easy to forget who we/I used to be. It's hard to remember before "Nerd cool" that I was simply a nerd. It's hard to acknowledge that before I made the sacrifices and took the motivation to be cool, I was a nerd: Big glasses with thick ass lenses, fat kid, uncoordinated, nose-picker, unatheletic, stupidly smart, unclever, shy-as-hell, dorkily uncool unstyle, and basically insecure as all get out. I can't forget this kid no matter how much I want to or no matter how much I try.

A lot of people my age these days are lucky enough to have their own families. Finding significant others and making beautiful babies. And with that, their is the natural hope to give your kids, to give the future generation the possibility of a better life. You know, it's ok to want your kids to have it better and for their lives to be devoid of the shit you had to deal with. So with this, you see kids with really cool names. You see kids with hip clothes along with hip hair. You see kids, little kids, being nerd cool. And again, it's ok.

But I think if I'm ever that lucky to have kids, if I'm lucky to ever have little Remoys (which I will name every child I have male or female Remoy), I think I'll do the opposite. Because I know this, I was a nerd, and a part of me will always be a nerd. And because of the nerddom of my yesteryears I'm able to be the man I am now. I've had the ability to go through that metamorphosis from dork to cool kid. And I know, not all and maybe not many (that's me being nice, I really mean all) of the cool kids from those yesteryears of school and adolescence are no longer cool. They're no longer striving to live better and be better, because they experienced the Zach Morris way too early. Let's just say they were spoiled with the Zach Morris without having to achieve it and value it and know what it takes to maintain it.

So when I have these li'l Remoys running around, I'm going to hope and try to instill in them the forces that will ground them in the qualities of what it takes to be a nerd. I mean genetically, they'll be taken care of, but socially, I'll reinforce that they be smart first. I'll reinforce terrible styling of both hair and clothes. I'll let them rot in their own insecurity. Because I know later on, like Zuckerman's success, they will be motivated by revenge. And maybe like Zuckerman or maybe not, or maybe just like me, they'll come up on top to this plateau of perspective and quality understanding. It's been a good life for me. And maybe I owe more to Zuckerman, because shit, he's the one, or at least his pet project is the one keeping me cool.

I'm Remoy Philip bitch.

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

Hands

2010-09-26T10:14:00.004-05:00

I have this non-erotic fetish with hands. Male hands to be exact. It's not what it seems. I honestly believe that a person's hands can tell the trajectory of their lives. A man's hands (Seinfeldish?) are a good definition of their person or at least their story. A person's face can be misleading. A person's mouth, well that of course is filled with lies. A man's feet have seen more too much work. But their hands, I really think you can read a story in a person's hands.

When I was younger, I used to look at other boys hands and think that my hands didn't measure up and they never would. A majority of this comes in the shape of the knuckles. Trust me, the knuckles are important. The knuckles that join the fingers to the hand and not what people call knuckles that join the segments of your fingers. You see, the knuckles are very important. When the fingers are coiled together and the hand turns into a fist, how those knuckles stand tells a large part of the story. The cool tough boys had these big knuckles. Big bony knuckles. Four mountains jutting straight up, impeding the the future of the horizon. Some of these mountains, tall and pointy with a severe definition while others have a gently orbicular face. I would look at these boys fists and compared to their social standing I knew they were cool, tough, strong. Their fists didn't lie. Their knuckles told me, "I'm going to be doing this for a long while. And I will be doing this well."

I saw mine in comparison and knew I was not them. Mine, seemingly smaller. My knuckles, hidden by thin layers of fat. Mine made to look like round domes and with no strong peaks just gentle squat hills. And when my hand was extended with my fat short fingers stretched as far as they could, the roundness of my hand was shameful. No veins, no muscle striation, no definition.

But when the other boys let their fists be free, you could see the young veins of prepubescence bulge and grow. There they were, like little serpents of life waiting to be worked or do the work. Waiting to pulse and give life to those hands that were even more so waiting to be made alive. To be made alive to work, to be strong, to really live. To live without fear, to get in fights. to build things, to build a life without fear.

I remember always feeling guiltily jealous for not having veiny hands. I didn't have that for the longest time. There was always a thin layer of fat that was hiding my life. If you looked you could see the blue-green streaks of life hiding beneath the surface. But I couldn't expose them like I'd like to have exposed my life, my vivacity for life and strength. I knew the potential was right there, right under my skin, but the outside world would never see. My ability to be young and strong and alive was hidden under my inability to be strong.

Being a man, changing from a boy to a man, is hard. Stories all throughout our lives are told. They are our guides to what maybe the truth of what it means to be a man. Be strong, not soft. Little signposts, little guides like hands, are the archetypes for our path to becoming men. But maybe it's my twenty-first century rebellion, but, those stories are the lies. Those archetypes of definition are what are misleading. Men are boys who have finally come to terms with growing old and staying young. Men are children who are comfortable with living within and outside the bounds of growing up. Men are boys who finally learn to say change is ok. Men are little kids who understand what compromise really means. Men are boys who have found out the truth about selfishness. Men are ok not trying to be men, but trying to be better selves.

I look at my hands now, and I am happy. My knuckles are strong and mountainous with valleys; valleys soft and secure. My skin has pock marks of growth and youth. My veins are proof that I am vital. My outstretched hand, with my short crooked fingers and chubby palms, tell me it is ok to be comfortable with who I am.

I'll let you know what else I see along the way.

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

PS: One more thing: I'm half of a boy, but I'm twice the Man

My life is a shit show. And that can mean two things and go either way.

2010-09-21T10:14:00.005-05:00

Woke up this morning with a terrific urge to lie in bed all day and read. Fought against it for a minute. Then looked out the window at the rain. And gave over. Put myself entirely in the keep of this rainy morning.

Would I live my life over again?
Make the same unforgivable mistakes?
Yes, given half a chance. Yes.
-Raymond Carver

The hardest part of it all is that the stories just end. I don't want to sound insensitive by moving this considerably insignificant point to the top of the list, but I think this is really the pinnacle of it all, where in the end it all trickles down from here; as if all the pain seeping into any open space in my mind comes from here; comes from the infinitude of these stories.

It's hard because in a long time, you create many stories. Memories mostly, but stories infinitely. Stories that yes, you do remember, but stories that made you who you are. Who you are now, currently, and in the present. But when it ends, the stories end. You, meaning I, as of very recently, used to tell them. With exuberance and zeal. Without an ounce of shyness. Because they were so beautifully poetic and eloquent; and still so vividly real. They were cinematic, and terribly personal.

And all these stories grew together forming ridges and boundaries and open spaces and walls. They made a vast array into what I now call my life. But with a choice, a decision, they all end. And it's as if the wind was just completely let out them. They've deflated and become unadmirably flat. No more life, no real vitality. As if looking at the past were simply that; just looking back at the past.

Anywhere you go in this city there are stories either to be made or stories that have already been made. Personal ones. Real ones. You're either searching or you're celebrating. And at this point in my life, it's an odd coupling of both. Because I yearn to celebrate but I know that the celebration will turn into mourning. And I could earnestly search, through every block, or around every bend, and I'd find, but what I'd find would always bring me back to the final fact: the lack of life in the end.

I can no longer tell these stories. Well, at least, not out loud. I can no longer tell them, be proud of them, share them in celebration, or even just for a smile. Like I said, they have met their end. Every step I go forward, is one step away. It's as if there is this mystical line, not imagined but purely real, that was formed when decisions were made. And that line separates me from the stories. That line was the end of one thing and the birth of another. That line separates the stories from encountering my current life, it impedes them from becoming a visceral part of me. It stops them like I stopped it.

It's hard to imagine a life without them. It's hard to imagine a life without her. It's hard to compare a life, later on, being any bit subsequent. Everything, like it, or not, will be a comparison to the life lived before that line. The future will be checked by the past. My life in this city has to be relearned, but I'm worried that it is impossible to do so. I'm worried it's impossible to love again, hell, love in this city, without being constantly reminded of the corpus of love behind me. That corpus, that collection of stories and memories and sentiments that framed the backdrop of my life for the last two and a half years.

Its been a hell of a life. I like to think of it as, "My life is a shit show. And that can mean two things and go either way."

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

Marina Abramovic's shit don't stink??

2010-09-03T14:08:00.006-05:00

For the longest time I've had a difficult time understanding the assemblage that is Modern/Post-Modern Art. It came from a severe lack of understanding and therefore was projected antagonistically as "I hate, can't stand, loathe, 'this shit is retarded' modern art." Well yes, I was antagonistic, but I had a strong natural frustration, not necessarily opposition, but frustration with the medium and the artist. And when consulting those who had taken affinity in the genre, I was greeted with the responses of "There is no meaning," or "It's just simply beautiful/cool", or even "I just like it."

I have had for the longest time a strong respect for Classical Arts. This being through the lineage of the Western European Renaissance; and a product thereof. I respected it, because upon seeing it you were looking at the beginnings of a modernity. An understanding of line of sight, perspective, and construction. The images, as the gradually changed, grew more and more real. And yet subtly, hinted through iconography and other means, would tell subplots. These little gems hidden from plain sight, allowed the viewer, given there being time to study, a little glimpse of the artist(author's) vision or even version of the story. However, the simplest facet of the work that made it so valuable to me personally, is that it managed to make the art look real. There is a definite mastery in the work.

And then there's the historical shift into the realm of the Impressionists. I would say most love this time period and the artists that created this genre. And what made it even more impressive, at least to me, was that the bulwark of the art came as a shift. These acclaimed artists as Van Gogh and Monet and so on was that they knew the school of the Classical. They were well practiced and if needed be, could they themselves be masters of the previous genre. However, the challenge had shifted and moved to a different realm of approach when it came to painting, and that was to remove the object and insert the environment. The subject being viewed was no longer a face or an image or a relationship between characters, but rather the environment, the haze of ambiance of the setting of a piece became more the subject. And there was value in that because those artists, in their phallocentric places in history, were valuable for adapting their skills and their knowledge.

My immersion into this modern spectacle of the "Modern Art" has been slow. I only recently have shifted my antagonistic angst. I am slowly starting to understand the values of the genre. Now to allude to the aforementioned responses of those prior who initially liked this "Post" genre. It's hard to say that their responses were "wrong" in a sense because relying on that strict of a binary of right and wrong is counter intuitive to the genre and its supporting artistry. But I will say that giving pieces in this genre the quality of good or valuable based simply on the bright colors or the jarring elements of the pieces is cheapening it. It's taking value away from both the pieces themselves as well as the artists.

The climax of my shift in understanding came today while at the Guggenheim. It was simple enough that all I needed was an Audio guide which is provided freely at the museum. (A great format for any museum tour in my opinion) And with this tour I was allowed the opportunity to get a first hand understanding of both the motivation of the artist/author and also the supposed qualities that "should" be gleaned from the pieces. This ability to hear the qualitative understanding for each individual piece, removes the wall of misunderstanding. Now again, however, it is still up to the viewer, it is their, in this case mine, responsibility to see if those "should" properties are valuable or even readily plausible.

A couple of the pieces that I saw at the Guggenheim were of artists I actually knew. Meaning a real person, who lives now, and with whom I have shared a conversation or two with. Also there a few Christian Boltanski pieces there, and in the case of this artist, I was able to participate in one of his pieces as a performance artist. So with these kind of experiences, again the wall of separation between artist and piece and viewer is removed. It allowed me the ability that in each piece there is a pursuit by the artist. And that pursuit is worth vesting in.

In this genre of modernism and it's "post" counterpart, the pursuit or journey is a dynamic one that maybe the most valuable part of the art itself. Because with each piece, I won't necessarily guarantee, but I do believe that there is meaning. So to say a piece of art has "no meaning" is a wrong hypothesis. Ask the artist, and you will find no matter how disfigured the art or how scattered or even removed it looks, there was predetermined meaning. And that meaning in this day and age works in relationship to the idea of the Classical. This is the simple social critique of power that Michel Foucault brought to our attention. The works themselves being almost so "anti"-art in their appearance or aesthetic is a value. Well that is somewhat obvious. But that antagonism in the piece is only the first level. That's when you must really consult the artist. You must see that the artist is dealing with other severe power relations. This genre of art is very difficult because the challenge is to try to understand. The process takes time. It is an investment by the viewer, who is used to the beauty and aesthetics of normal Classical art, and see past that to see the reality and struggle that the artist is trying to purvey. There becomes a real relationship, a strong dynamism between the artist and the viewer through the channel of the piece or pieces. The artist is communicating something, through a medium that maybe terribly un-artistic or even extremely vulgar, but that piece that has those characteristics is in and of itself more the communication and less the truth.

And these artists are coming from real places. These artists of this genre are producing art that is less hierarchical and less grandiose but relying definitely on more spectacle. But why? It could be that art in this age of civilized luxury can only be spectacle. It has been slowly and methodically removed from the taxonomical hierarchy of status. Now, more than ever, a person, any person, as an artist can communicate. But what is the communication? These impractical alleys of communication rely on the discussion of speculation; speculation and social theory. However these two realms of speculation and social theory are not far off vestiges of social capital, because when engaging the real artist/author you realize, at least partly, even it be a small part, that the communication comes from something personal. The best artists are communicating themselves through the means of the Modern in the channels of speculation and social theory while allowing the theoretical and the esoteric the sincerity of the humane.

It's not that I think all Modern Art is good. I still think a majority of it could be easily written off as sensational trite bullshit where most of this shit survives in the superfulous cloud of social capital. I mean fuck Marina Abramovic and her staring contest. But maybe if I got to know her, and know where her communication comes from, then I may say her shit don't stink.

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

Ron Paul on Islamaphobia

2010-08-23T18:01:00.001-05:00

The debate should have provided the conservative defenders of property rights with a perfect example of how the right to own property also protects the 1st Amendment rights of assembly and religion by supporting the building of the mosque.

Instead, we hear lip service given to the property rights position while demanding that the need to be “sensitive” requires an all-out assault on the building of a mosque, several blocks from “ground zero.”...

The outcry over the building of the mosque, near ground zero, implies that Islam alone was responsible for the 9/11 attacks. According to those who are condemning the building of the mosque, the nineteen suicide terrorists on 9/11 spoke for all Muslims. This is like blaming all Christians for the wars of aggression and occupation because some Christians supported the neo-conservative’s aggressive wars...

This is all about hate and Islamaphobia.

We now have an epidemic of “sunshine patriots” on both the right and the left who are all for freedom, as long as there’s no controversy and nobody is offended.

Political demagoguery rules when truth and liberty are ignored.

-Ron Paul

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

Atta boy Dov

2010-08-20T10:58:00.003-05:00

So my mind, it's pretty large, but here's a few things for you and me to chew on.

I found out yesterday that American Apparel is basically done. I guess when your stock drops down to a dollar and you have 8 thousand stores (that sounds about right) it's probably a good sign to bow out. Well, this makes me unhappy. I mean not that I shop there often, in fact I don't think I've ever bought anything there, but still. I mean, I'm hip, and very close, ok I'll say it, I'm a hipster. And even if I didn't shop there, I thought about it. I knew people who bought stuff there. I mean, it's kind of a staple in New York and I'm not talkin' about store fronts. And here's what makes me even unhappier, maybe downright sad. Dov Charney, granted he's insane, has been gettin' a lot of shitty press. It could be considered that his not-so-best-retail-practices are what are sending Legalize LA down the shitter. But here's my quams with that. The shitty press is centered, at least to my lack of knowledge around two things. Exhibit A: They hire hip kids. I mean like uber hip kids. Hip kids who probably do coke and definitely look like they do; regularly. Well, I get it, fair employment should be the standard. Fat chicks and muffin top dudes should be able to work there. But I mean, if you want to sell your undeniably superficial clothes, you put in on the best John. So your employee better look like a coked out (I wanna say whore, but I'm not going to) dude(tte). I mean there have been days where I've put my skinny jeans on and a really tight jersey shirt (with or without a v-neck) and looked in the mirror and thought, "Wow! No!" and then promptly removed the said skinny jeans and really tight jersey shirt (with or without v-neck). And for my sake alone, I can say it was a smart decision because my muffin top just looked a bit too heavy on the top. So that's exhibit A. Now to Part Dos. Dov himself got a lot of heat for doin' the whole, "hey you're cute how old are you? 18. Yeah that's too old. Next!" And so these girls who may or may not have been under the legal limit, he photographed. Provocatively is being kind.

Ok but I have a little contention with this second point. Your'e telling me Dov Charney and American Apparel are getting heat, so much heat that it actually and seriously affected his business, to the point of bankruptcy, and a very major reason for that is because he exploited (I really don't want to say it, but I got to) rich white girls. Are you crazy. I mean even Roman Polanski who outrightly raped a thirteen year old girl gets away with an extended vacation/exile in Switzerland only to then be recognized, not by all but by some, as an artistic saint. And you're telling me all the other major retailers or brands who exploit different countries and their citizens, you know it as "sweat shops" or "child labor" or as I say "colonial rape," are affected, uhmm, not at all. And Dov's campaign for his brand, was "made in america by americans," gets flack cause cute little Gen, short for Geneveve which was previously Jennifer, which she changed at age 14 due to her opinion of her parents' parental malevolence, decided to put on a leotard and bend over. Well lesson learned. If you're going to exploit anyone, anyone, don't let it be the rich white chicks. They'll getchya.

And there's this ludicrousness that permeates everywhere. But man, there's something else I want to go over here. I don't know much about politics or religion (that was both a concession for if I screw something up, but if you didn't catch, it's my setup). But the debates over the Mosque in Lower Manhattan and the religious integrity of Obama is absurd. And most of my argument here is just reiterating Keith Olberman. And the funniest thing he said, which made me giggle like only Remoy can, is the connection between Islam and the War in Iraq. Now we went to war right. I think it's safe to say that our fight, specifically in Iraq, (as if we actually needed to fight this fight but whatever) was to liberate the Iraqis from there bat-shit-insane dictator Saddam Hussein. Now, there was the whole weapons of mass destruction thing, but we've all come to learn, but not come to terms with the fact that Iraq doesn't have those things. So the war went from a war against nuclear war, to a war of protecting the inhabitants of Iraq. Now I'm still waiting for the reasoning for this. Oh, to free the Iraqi's from their oppressive leader. Oh, ok. Wait, so you don't want a Mosque at Ground Zero (which there already is which has been there before the former World Trade Center made its debut, where there also is a representation of all of the three major Abrahamic religions) because that will set a precedent of support for Islamic fundamentalism. Which of course, duh, will lead to terrorism.

So no Mosque because of the negative religious precedent in a country where I'm pretty sure there is a precedent (1st Amendment) for religious freedom. Ok, got it. Yet, you went to war, and wanted to go to war, and allow at least 4 thousand of your troops die to free the Iraqis who, I'm no genius here, but I think, are Muslim (that means they are Islamic). Cool

And this whole Obama thing. A. As if the quality of our country has changed severely based on his religious beliefs. I'm sorry was the economic crash based on Obama's prayers to Allah or more of Reagons prayers to corporations. I don't know. And then there's the whole name thing. Really? Barack Hussein Obama. Sounds islamic. I can go with that. But the man says he's Christian, and I'll take his word on it. But it really doesn't matter to me which god he prays too. But to honor that line of thinking that has Americans shiftin' in their seats about his name, well if that's the case, if his name is the key to unlockin' the secrecy about his religious fervor, well I got a problem them. I mean come on, my name is Remoy Philip. Remoy is like Danish. And Philip, well that's either Hebrew or English (which ever way you wanna look at it). And you don't see me ever wearin' lederhosen and blowin' on a damn ram's horn. You don't see me wearin' wool suits all year round and my skin is definitely not white. So my friends, the name equation, I don't think it really produces.

Lastly, I'm almost done I swear. But it's been a very nostalgic summer for me. Not even at my own hands, but it was kind of like dropped down from above. Anyways, if you didn't know me before, you may not know that I was and still am a romantic comedy/chick-flick kind of guy. I mean to this day, Sleepless in Seattle and Doc Hollywood (and not because of the fact that you get an almost full-frontal with a PG-13 rating) are up there in my list of quality films. The reason being they're fun and they thrive of emotions; mostly good emotions, but emotions. They don't require the mind to work before, during, or after. Your emotions may turn here and there, but in the end they're going to be sunk and you'll be both crying and laughing at the end; well, if it's a good one.

And yeah, I haven't seen a good one in awhile. I tried that hipster attempt called 500 Days of Summer and yeah, as not a perfect hipster, I hated it. I mean, come on you gotta get the girl; especially if her name's Zoey. But there's a couple comin' out, one today, one a couple months from now that got me amped (yes I can involve a high octane word as a superlative for a romantic comedy; try it). First one: The Switch. Now I don't really like Jennifer Aniston. I mean she's pretty, but something about her voice is just annoying. Like really annoying. And I think the same of Bateman. His voice doesn't do it for me. I get that most people find indirect wittiness appealing, but I don't like my leading men to be dorks (I say "my leading men" in heterosexual confidence), but men. And Batemen, well yeah, he's not my man. However, this movie, it looks funny and I mean come on, Jeff Goldblum can redeem anything, and yeah he'll do the same for this one. I can guarantee it. And that little kid, he's so damn cute and funny. His timing looks awesome, and maybe it's just a really well edited trailer, but I'm sold. I would see it tonight if I wasn't already occupied. But don't worry I will.

But the one I'm most excited about, and again if it's just well edited trailer, well done, comes out in November called Love and Other Drugs. I mean it's got Jake "bubble boy" Gyllenhal. And I'd like all you women to realize that before he became a brooding mysterious donnie darko dick he was the funkin' bubble boy. Anyways, he's in it and beautiful Anne Hathaway. I mean she really looks splendid in this movie. And the way her character acts, with a rough, almost boyish exterior, but a soft and romantic interior, is classic. The story is nothin' drastic. Charmer boy charms many a woman, but when he meets a woman who can't be charmed, rather sees through his charm because she herself is a charmer, he falls hard in love. Nothin' wrong with that. And then mix in the fact that he sells Viagra and she's probably dying or something and that's what has built her hard exterior, and you have a sobbing mess of love and emotions. I'm all about it. I'm straight up 'bout it. I can't wait. You know what, watch the trailer, and tell me you aren't swooned and if not by the movie at least by Gyllenhal's dashingness or Hathaways almost naked body graced by her naked curls (not those curls).

This things full of errors and typos and incorrect usages of their/there/they're. But funk it, I think we can still all enjoy it.

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

Greedy Me

2010-08-17T19:05:00.006-05:00

I run sometimes. Not as often as hoped, but I do. And as I do, or even as I walk, I pass this place sometimes where I see two faces from awhile ago. The awhile is misleading, because the awhile even though being awhile, has changed from the present to the past quicker than I like. And now it's been awhile. It's been almost four years give or take a few days, and in those years their faces still are the same. Still standing out. Still young even though they grow. Their bodies have gone from small and sturdy to awkwardly long and feeble. Yet, in their feebleness, they look more deft than I remember. Their actions, their play is quicker and smarter. As their faces have thinned their minds, their understanding of the intricacies of their worlds, the small big worlds that surround them, have grown exponentially. They show it in how quickly they react. They show they will always survive.

They will never recognize me. Maybe they will as I ignorantly underestimate a child's mind; a child's memory. But I definitely recognize them. For a few days in that distant awhile, we had a relationship. It was simple. It was outside, in the same exact environment I see them in now, and we talked. I'd throw him in the air, higher than he'd ever been. And then she'd get jealous, as only a child can, and with success I'd give in and threw her just the same. Higher than she'd ever been. This would go on for only a short while, but for those few minutes in a day I was their friend, and at least in my mind, and to this day in my recollection, I really was their friend.

But now I am removed. Our relationship has changed. I've become an onlooker and no longer am I a friend. Those short-lived relationships were enough to stick with me, maybe forever, and less than enough to stick with them. They don't see me as I pass. Maybe they see me, but what they see isn't any different from the rest. And that's ok, because I'm comfortable where I am and I'm ok. I'm ok with seeing from afar without having to invest up close. My memory allows me in those short moments to rekindle a relationship without having to ever interfere. Without having to ever force a relationship into a hole that was not made to fit that kind of relationship.

But it doesn't mean I don't wonder. I don't dream or hope, but I definitely wonder. I wonder greedily. I wonder greedily because I am greedy. I wonder everything about them. Because in those steps as I pass by them, I know they exist and their existence has changed me. And as it has, I selfishly wonder to fulfill the story that I know surrounds them both. Again, I don't dream for them. I'm not naively hoping the best for their futures. Rather, i just want the lines colored in and the picture shown to me; show in it's always incomplete finality. Or it could be I'm just greedy for something I can never have again. The volatile fragility that is growing up, maybe, well, yes, but in the relationship between me and them, maybe I long for that volatile fragility I potentially see in them. Being young with possibilities where so much is new. Where frustration and rage and even sometimes joy lead to tears. Where time still lags, and meaning has no meaning. Thinking is futile and living is just living.

I remember his name. I remember their father. I don't know her name, but her face is stuck in my mind. They'll be my age soon enough. And they will look different, but I'm sure, if I ever saw them, I would remember.

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

At Cavanaugh Park...

2010-08-14T10:07:00.007-05:00

I'm too nostalgic. I'll admit it. I'm nostalgic for conversations I had yesterday. I've begun reminiscing events before they even occur. I'm reminiscing this right now.

Sometimes Noah Baumbach just can take reality and put it out in front of you. And your only response is, "Absolutely!"

The question has been asked, but I have to ask for reference's sake. But how do I (we) reference the last (or even current) decade? I mean simply just the "Two Thousands" isn't rhythmic enough. It's not quick off the tongue. It's not poignant or witty. The eighties, nineties, the bloody sixties, we've all heard the sixties. These decades fit precisely in between the bookends of number and "ies." And there they sit as we reminisce, even if the only thing we have to reminisce is a story or two that we never even experienced.

But the last decade doesn't have that precise colloquial name. It's impossible to do, the first"ies" maybe. Could be the millenial"ies." All sounds like I'm trying way too hard. But I need something because for me and a lot of others, its the decade we went from teens to adults. From tweens to semi-mature almost-grown-ups. And for that there are many memories that are worth my nostalgia.

See seein' a band that doesn't really mean much anymore can be just fun. Because ten years ago they meant something, hell, they meant a lot. A little anti-cool and a lot frustrated and with that, they make songs that speak for you even if the stories they tell aren't your stories at all. They are your rebellion or your soap box. They are your cool points and your window to the pit of emotions that is melodic and star filled. They are the myriad of emotions that is an American teen confused about his (or her) American future. But now, now it's sentimental and it's just fun. The words mean a whole lot less about the future but mean a whole lot more about the past. The songs are old, and you are older. So are they. And to them, I guess, they were real as well. Those words were their frustration, and just as you co-opted them, they were worth with it because it was real and because it was frustrated. But now that angst has become silly, and it's ok to laugh, because laughing and singing and dancing means you may have just moved on.

I have this battle with sentiment and nostalgia. I don't let myself do it much anymore. I don't allow myself to soak up in that sepia haze. Because when I put those goggles on, no matter how much I look at the past, it looks so beautiful. Even the pain and frustration, no matter how painful and frustrating still looks beautiful with a patina effervescence. As if I'm anesthetizing the reality of the past where the value of the past doesn't deserve the anesthesia. And as I gaze over them as images of a time, I loose the depth of meaning. I lose the fact that the romance I see through my nostalgia forgets all the pain that allows me this position. And that may be, at least for me, I'm doing myself and my past an injustice.

And that romance that links the present to the past via sentiment also locks me in. It's not a terrible shackle. Well, maybe not at face value. But I think this ball-n-chain of nostalgia can cause one major issue in an individual. Now I will say this, nostalgia will allow you to look at the past and say that was "simply the past." However, while it does have this quality, the bigger issue is that I don't you think it really allows you to just move on. With nostalgia, it plays this game of allowing you to feel like you're letting go of the past, but in essence you don't let go, because you're locked in to the sentimentality of the flat picture of nostalgia. You can't let go of that, and you don't want to because the romance of nostalgia is all too pretty.

But at least for me, the moving on has become to muy importante. The future, and that damn present, is all too visceral. Don't get me wrong I love the past, but the future, the future where I'm free to be whoever and do whatever without the shackles of the sticky romantic antics of the past. I think, check it, I know that I'm more free now, once I've forgotten the nostalgia, once I've chosen to let go of so much of the past sentiment, whilst really analyzing the past for what its really worth, pain, frustration, and joy, and then just moving on. The romanticism, and it's cheap beauty is what locks us in, but the freedom of reality is what keeps me moving.

But damn that Cavanaugh Park shit, that takes me back every time.

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

Between the River and the Ravens

2010-03-25T05:12:00.003-05:00

Just for a rhetorical discussion.

THE conservatives have been saying that with universal healthcare that they would have to pay, through their tax dollars, for abortions. They would be paying for something they are against; don't believe in; sin. And rightfully so. I agree it's unjust for the government to force you to do so (however let's consent that the government has forced our country's peoples to fund things much more heinous and under the scruples of integrity and even religious honor).

But for discussions sake, it's interesting to consider now that healthcare reform is starting, to see how many people, how many couples now can actually entertain the idea of having a child rather than an abortion. Let's be honest, healthcare costs are terribly unjust and terribly expensive. Birthing a child in a hospital, damn thievery. But now that people have the option of an actual feasible pregnancy when compared to having an abortion, it will be interesting to see the results. Will everyone's tax dollars now go to cover more abortions or more new lives. Look our country is getting older. At least right now it's a fact. Maybe now, we can alleviate that pressure and the fear of what it costs to have a little person and enjoy the beauty of having a child.

Also, with those tax dollars consider all the miracles you can be apart of. Consider that.

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

Bougie Art

2010-03-10T12:33:00.003-05:00

It's somewhere around here. I've been looking for a way to qualify art as a form. There's no doubt about it, the former codified lines are now blurred beyond recognition.

I've had a hard time when coming in contact with a piece or a presentation that carries with the conception of art and really caring. Most art, that I considered valuable or at least somewhat prestigious, comes from sort of classical period. Those were the real artists and those were true artisans.

I have no problem sticking with that, but now in current, when again the lines have been blurred by incoherence, I'm trying to define how I gauge art as a form. Most times when I get in contact I just don't get it and I don't see the value in it's performance because the creation lacks the skill, the work, the learning, and the valor of the classics. Or at least upon my exegesis.

Now this is not some Foucaultian critique. Anyone who's been involved in academia in the last decade has been bombarded with the deconstruction of power a la Foucault. And yes it's powerful and necessary, very for both, but again over assessed. For Foucault, I'd think he'd laugh at the "Author" he'd become. But yet, for me in this modern age where these lines of art have blurred, I think I can define art, or give something credible value of "art" if it comes from or as a voice not necessarily against power. But a voice whose existence is validated as an upheaval of the power that surrounds it.

I had a weekend where I was confronted, wrong word, where I entertained a lot of art and supposed art. It was fun. And I kept coming up with the same questions: "What is art?" "How is this art?" "How do I define this as form?" And I've come up with this conclusion, cause let's be honest, most art, like this blog, is mad bougie.

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

I said this?

2010-03-09T11:27:00.003-05:00

"it's what you ask for when you venture out on your own, especially when that venture is the search for qualities and values unknown by most... it's a lonely rode someone said sometime ago, and I agree"

"Life's all about compromises/sacrifice. What are you willing to compromise/sacrifice? That's why choices and decisions are always the hardest. Where will be the payoff and what will I lose. And as you grow up the harder life gets, because you are stuck with the responsibility that all you have, all your future will be is a reflection of those choices."

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

Talking

2010-02-18T17:34:00.003-05:00

Ah, tis tis.

I feel the Tiger's getting the best of me. I read the other day, if you're a rat, which '84 makes me, then you must be on the run. For those four legged felines are 'bout to be on your ass, so you better run. Run rat, run. And I'm feelin' the pain. As of right now, I have a bum back, a shoulder that's not in pain, but I fear could be relatively soon, and an oddity of sorts, but I have a cut/sore/death in the back top left corner of my mouth that keeps me from opening my mouth to wide say I want to eat. And that's just like this week.

Ah, who am I to complain. My time so far being on the run has been good. I've survived any near death experiences by laughing or watching Lost. We got a Montana trip in the works; however, I've been informed of how cheap Aruba can be made and the luxuries that are provided makes me wanna jump off Montana's ship and jump on board to Aruba.

Here's the deal with what almost happened in the Boozer trade. And the biggest part, the biggest implicit voice that I heard, was that the Heat were ready to give up Beasley. That's straight up bullshit. Other than Flash, Beasley's your man. He's got great star potential. He's proven he can work out his messes and with that shows his dedication. And the dude epitomizes the new small big man that the league is thriving off of; and dude does it well. So to say to him indirectly, you're the man, and so the man, that we're going to get rid of you after all you've given to us, I just don't know if that was a smart move. And for Boozer? I've never been sold on Boozer's consistent ability. I think Michael Beasley is franchise. Even if they lose Wade next year, quote me on this, Beasley will get you to a .500 year season.

This is honestly in my lifetime my fourth time taking elementary Spanish. Part of it being my prof and part of it being my, about-time, maturation, but I may actually get somewhere. My professor at times will digress into a small but heartfelt diatribe on the social undertones involved with the Spanish language and the Spanish culture.And for me, that's imperative. So with that understood and my take on language the hardest part for me to marry is this. And it gets complicated so if you don't get it, its just that I'm a terrible teacher.

Where do you draw the line between learning a language? Now what's the parameters to this line? Or at least the poles of the binary? I say one side is utility or necessity, and the other is romance and social capital. And the latter is what frustrates me and gives me plenty of reason not to want to learn another language. In fact, the utility and its values is meager in comparison for my loathing of those who undertake language simply for romance and social capital. It's complicated, but I believe for those who use a lesser language, meaning lesser in contrast with that of the hegemony, and then migrate and assimilate their values and even language into that of the hegemony their story and their mother tongue is way more than just social capital. And deep in their memory, where the language is natural and synonymous with pictures of their past and smells of their homes, it is a mockery to consider that language to be used and spoken of in terms of social capital.

Now for utility's sake, for me it is admissible. It's obvious to most, via statistics, that we need Spanish specifically in this country. Somehow Spanish, the language, hasn't been overcome by English. Maybe through the luck of numbers and necessity it has survived. And because of that survival, its staying power has changed America and therefore changed the way we speak. So for that Spanish needs to be learned for utility's sake. But again there's that line. I never once spoke Spanish growing up, minus the American Spanish colloquialisms, and for me to take it on and use it with bravado proves me ignorant to the values of those who only speak it or have survived off of it. I've had English and I haven't felt the toil and challenge of surviving off of it. English isn't my second language. Spanish would be.

I don't know but I will leave this as my move towards check mate, for those people who own Spanish as their social capital, as their ability to be full of shit. Know that Spanish is a colonizer's language and for you to speak it so luxuriously makes you just like those that came to the early Aztecan or Inca and forced it on them initially. For in the same way that early Indian was a joke to the Spanish conquistador, the same way you treat the new Spanish Indians.

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

A Thought Experiment

2010-01-14T11:12:00.002-05:00

Convinced that to dream of refuting a doctrine before having thoroughly comprehended it was like shooting at an object in the dark
-Abu Hamid al-Ghazali

Belief is reality. One replaces the other. Reality is not "a belief", and a belief is not "a reality." However, belief is reality. Inseparable to the one who has the reality or the one with the belief. For one is the other.

And for those on the outside of that belief meaning reality, it is easy to objectify for it is just "a belief" or just "a reality." Judgements are formed as a product. However these judgements are easy and yet destitute because they were never reality but just "a belief." Belief being reality encompasses you as easy as it is to breathe. And judgement becomes hate as easy as it is to breathe.

It's a shame too, because at that point for those who are outside, for those who objectify, for those who shoot in the dark, the judgement is as useless as the reality because neither is bridged with understanding.

Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

unheimlich

2009-11-28T10:53:00.007-05:00

I remember playing football and loving it. Choose to believe me or not, but I wasn't half bad. Now when I was young, about 10 or 11, I still had quite the imagination. And combined with my love for sports, especially the real football, American football, my imagination transported me directly into the game.

It used to be when I'd get home from school the only thing I'd want to do--really wanted, maybe needed for when you're that young want and need aren't easily discernible--was to go straight outside, see the field in front of our little apartment and run wild like the game was made for me. Yes, I was a shy boy, and maybe there was a lack of young neighborhood boys with spirited imaginations, but it would just be me outside, under the waning sun running back and forth with a little rubber football tucked under my arm; no one else, just me. When I was there, I really saw the field. Not just that the field was transformed into an arena with lights and a crowd and goalposts and real colors, but that I saw the field. I saw the field with the opposition there whose only goal it was to stop my team. But they failed to see me. They failed to see me for who I was. The talent, the glory, the ability hidden in this young body, just ready, ready for the right moment to let it all out. I would see them seeing me as incapable, but what I saw, what I saw was a chance to show how capable I really was.

I honestly can't imagine what all those people, all the families and such that lived in that apartment complex thought. Man. I was constantly running back and forth with no one else around. Just back and forth, spinning, juking, weaving, as if the imaginary was the real. I did this for hours. I would run up the steps to my home, get some water, a snack, maybe even an inspirational push from the sports on the tv, but then I'd be back out there, running, to most it looked without aim, but for me, it was with purpose. For me, my team was losing, our hopes were at the brink of falling, falling by losing. Close enough, and I was there, as time dwindled out, to save; be the hero, be the savior, be the athlete whose team on the brink of failure showed pure genius and will to pull his team out of that abyss of failure. Alright, maybe thats a bit much, but I just wanted to prove myself and win. So I'd take the hand-off or field the punt, and I would be off. The key would be to make it to the sideline. But to get there you'd have to get through the first onslaught of would-be tacklers. That would require a juke or two; and when at the last second when a tackler would be about to wrap you up for the take-down, a spin move, a quick jolting revolution, using the legs to break free, and again for the sideline. If I could just make it to the edge, I could outrun them. I could beat them. Everyday, back and forth I went

One time I remember I was doing the same. I think it was a saturday, for I had been playing all day. College football had been on, and Michigan with there blue and gold jerseys gave me the energy to just want to run for days. And as I was a playing, I noticed an older kid skating down the alley adjacent to the field. He was skating, when I first noticed, a bit away, but he was skating my way and would be next to me soon. So I was a bit self-conscious, I mean I knew there was a bit of incredibility for a kid to just run back and forth indefinitely with no real game or teams or fans or even goals. I was insecure, and I tried to play it cool. Make that other kid believe I'm just practicing; yeah that's it, I'm just practicing. The boy kept skating and got closer and closer until finally he was skating next to me and my field. He stopped his board and got off. He headed directly for me and I was scared shitless. What was he going to say? What was he going to do? "Hey, if you want it to work, its all in your feet." I was still scared and still terribly self-conscious. "In the feet." He grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me. "This does nothing, but if you really want it to work, give me one way with your shoulders and feet, then you can juke the other way. Look, I'll show you." And then for the next couple minutes, he showed me how to really shake defenders and really work the ball with my whole body. And then he got on his board and skated off. That was it, matter-of-factly and then off.

I never became anything too noteworthy, but honestly, I wasn't that bad. I used to love playing football at Jonathan Klem's house. There'd be a few kids in the apartment complex, and we'd just get together in this little dusty courtyard field, next to the jungle-gym and pool, and just play. There was the this mexican kid, Jesse, he had a mullet and a pretty good arm. I wasn't a bad quarterback either, tight spiral, not enough distance, solid accuracy, but I couldn't play both positions. So when Jesse and I were on the same team, there was no hope for the opposition. I mean we made the other kids look really stupid. And I liked Jesse, for where he was just doing it to have fun and play, I was doing it to win and compete. I wanted to win and Jesse wanted to play. And when I ran with the ball, I was an elusive little guy. All the "practice" had paid off. I was able to weave through defenders, see where I wanted to go, and when adversity came from nowhere, I was able to elude it with my ability and will. Every-now-and-again I really got rocked. I remember one time, I couldn't move my forearm all day. If I even tried to move it from a cradle position it would sting all the way to the top of my neck. But that was just one day out of the many.

When I played organized football, with jerseys and cleats, I was never given the opportunity to play the position I adored. Maybe the glasses, maybe the shyness, but no coach asked me to tuck that ball and run. But when it came to drills. I wanted to show those coaches and those other players who had no clue what I really could do. When tackling drills came around, the goal was not to become a better defensemen and hone in on my tackling skills. No, it was to fuck kids up and make them look stupid, unable to do the drill, unable to tackle, tackle me. To spin off a tackle; to shake a kid out of his shoes. I'm sorry Dave, but there was one instance I remember particularly, where David Ritchie and I were squared up and his only job was to wrap me up. He had no chance; repeat and repeat. I just saw it before he did; I knew where I wanted to go, and he had no clue how to stop me.

I was walking through the park the other day. It was a gloomy fall day. Cool and wet. I saw some kids playing football. Two-below no tackle. I took the time to stop and watch. One boy was the talent, really quick and too elusive for his friends. He was the superstar of the group and the rest were really just playing for the fun of it. I tried to insert myself in that picture. Put some shorts on and a t-shirt, join them and start running. Which one would I be? How could I keep up? I didn't stay too long, for I had somewhere to be. But those kids just had to play and for them, that was their job.

I didn't know it initially, but when I left Texas, when I left my home in Amarillo, I sacrificed the idea of "home." I honestly came to New York with the ideals of creating a new home or redefining Remoy within the sanctity of a new home. And maybe, to others and, at times, even to myself, I may have succeeded. But most of the time, all I can help but feel is a freedom of transience. It has its negative qualities which are really too difficult to reveal unless you've done the same. Jason knows. To metaphorically say what I feel is to say that my roots are too far grown to ever plant anywhere again. It's as if the big lights are on me again, and the world doesn't believe or maybe just can't see it in me, but I know where I have to run, or maybe all I can do is just fuckin' run. I've practiced long and hard, I've been taught by both life and people inherently involved, and now I'm just waiting for the ball again. This time I'll run and run and run and just keep running.

Live Relentlessly,
Peace
Remoy

War of my Life

2009-11-17T18:03:00.004-05:00

Sometimes its hard liking what you like. Especially in a city that in its outset seeks to conserve individuality. And with that individuality is that of a pure esthetic that shies from the popular. The indiscreet is valuable; the popular is shitty.

I was seventeen and just staying up all night because I had no other responsibility to keep me anchored to any sort of normal schedule. I had a normal routine of watching two channels, where one channel was my reserve, where the second channel lived on my jump button. My second channel was VH1; and I think it was still Insomniac Music Theater. Whatever it was, I was watching through videos, as sparse as they were, and John Mayer came on. After his video for "No Such Thing" finished, I went upstairs, downloaded some of his tracks, and then spent the next few weeks dedicating my time and ears to his music.

I remember driving before my college class to go to Wal-Mart and pick up Heavier Things. I had read how different the album would be. How strong, different, how electric it would be. I sat in the parking lot, as I should have been in class, and I leaned my seat back and just listened.

I had moved to New York, and I was there about a month or less, when Continuum was due to come out. I took a bus out to a mall nearby in Queens and found the album. I got home, with nothing else to do but be alone, I put on the album. I listened for awhile.

I saw John yesterday. I just picked up the new Battle Studies. I'm not sure if I like the album. I'm not frantic over it. But I went to a show last night. It was really fun; honestly, it was cathartic. I went into the show not expecting to enjoy it, expecting for a free show to contain a short set and tracks from the new barely heard album. However, my reason, my impetus for going was to celebrate the fact that in three months I'd be 26 and it will be 9 years that I've been a fan of John Mayer. I was never suggested to listen, nor was I brought up on his music. I was able to discover his music, and I was able to let the music and the artist mean something to me. In all its stages and its forms, from the crooner, to the popstar, and even the rockstar, I was a fan. During the show Mayer played an old song and made the claim that whoever he was in 2001 playing and living the song is not a man or boy he's far away from to this day; I came to the show cause I knew neither was I.

A lot has changed in the last decade; at least for me. It's good to have an anchor in something that still can mean something.

Let a man be lost.

Live Relentlessly,
Peace
Remoy

It's taken me a year but I finally found the words to say it

2009-08-31T14:43:00.006-05:00

I'm here to talk about what's been somewhat annoying to me, and as always, it has to do with people.

Now I will be the first to say, I've taken a minimal amount of classes and read only a small amount of historical and political texts to really grasp the rhetoric and employ the nomenclature. So hopefully you will not see me brandish too many words from that culture for I do not have the experience nor the knowledge.

However, in reference as of lately people have been speaking in quite controversial language concerning the such political activity of health care. Now in my understanding the quarrel is over should health care be in the private sector and the public sector. I am trying my hardest to see if not just two, but all the sides to this quarrel. For those who oppose it, there is the belief that whenever a sort of relief as "free" is employed there will be those will corruptly take advantage of it. So if there was a "free" health care supported by hard working tax payers, then there would be those "ghetto" people who are to lazy to work and get a job and getting free relief, while those of us hard working types are supporting God's country. And there is the point that needs to be made that the rich are the one's funding a large part of our country. Their tax dollars are the one's really which make a difference, while their are many, not to that there aren't rich who don't, person's of the lower class bracket who escape being taxed and yet demand a free lunch.

Next, having my mother be apart of the health care system, through my years of growing up in my family's home, I've heard on numerous occasion how the bureaucrats of any structure, public or private, are manipulating the system by filling their pockets while the respected workers, being here the physicians, nurses, and such, are making minimal when compared to the prices being charged. And at the rate of the inflating health care prices, the work is shifting to almost a sales oriented system, raising the total owed from each individual, rather than a "caring for an individuals health system." And then there's the idealism of the supposed liberals or progressives or idealists that dreams of a health care system that would allow everyone in this county free health care, because health care, meaning medical care should not be earned but is instilled through our governmental upbringing as the freedom of "life", liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

Ok, now that that's all covered, I want to take one of those and really run wild because I'm really vexed. I'm fucking indignant. And somewhere deep inside of me, I want to be apologetic, but I just can't be.

I've been hearing through numerous channels, the right wing, more specific, the Christian Right Wing's (and know I do apologize for including in this generalization those who oppose the thinking of this social group) opposition for health care and deeming it such titles as communism and socialism. My problem with this is in how could anyone supposedly believing something so mystical, unorthodox, unsystematic, where there is a belief in an idea, a whisper that ripped through the fabric of our universe, and supposedly, our hearts, apply such logic to their thinking where the restoration of a person's life is in question. The problem with this Christian thought, that only opposes health care reform do to political constituency, is that when socialism or communism is used you are looking through the lens of history applying to our current situation, trying to use rationale and logic, as an effort of deductive reasoning to support yourself and your stand; now when considering the narrative you praise as certain, true, and life altering, which I alluded to earlier with terms as mystical and unorthodox, how is it possible you can apply any systematic thought and say that it is YHWY based.

Now here I will impose a critical read of the story that is again, supposed to birth this mystical belief. In the Gospel of Matthew a story comes to place when the Pharisees come to Jesus and ask him a question based in trickery. They ask him, being Jesus, if they should pay their taxes to there oppressors, the Romans. To add some context the story, know that the Jewish people of Judah were oppressed by the Romans on many a front, and when it came taxation, the Jews were taxed up to 70% of there earnings--and very much known, the Jewish hierarchy was taxing part of that tax. Now Jesus, emboldened with frustration asks for a roman coin of currency, and then asks the Pharisees whose face is on the coin. Being that Ceasar's face was on the denarius. They replied, "Ceasar's." I will finalize this with the text:

"Then He said to them, 'Give to Ceasar what is Ceasar's, and to God what is God's.'"
Matthew 22:21

Now this, this is the ripping of the fabric. To look at this critically, A. Jesus tells these people, who are being severely abused, and in this instance financially, to continue to give, and give wholeheartedly. 2. He implies that the picture of God's face is inscribed somewhere and on something. And for whatever that is, He implied to us all that is what is important to God.

I want to take this critique and apply it to my previous thoughts/frustration. First off, why is health care being asked to be made public? It's an ethical question dealing with that of freedom and equality; and freedom and equality for all American people. Meaning, that the believers of such belief, believe that as Americans, we have a right to both freedom and equality. And health care, meaning any sort of medical treatment is rendered a part of both freedom and equality; not that of a separation of purchasing class. Now for the antagonizing side of the ill-mentioned Right Wing; they have deemed this a push towards socialism, or outrightly labelled this communism while forgetting the fact that this issue is specific to the redemption of a person.

Now I want to pull out a second resource, an ironically enough, a Christian text at that, but I want to reference Dr. Timothy Keller's The Reasons for God. I'd like to give this a fun significance, due to the fact that I am typing this all at my college, Hunter College, where Dr. Keller and his church meets every weekend. Now not to be analytical of the book or it's writer, but I would like to preface this with saying that after reading this book in its entirety, I'm not a fan. However, the information I gathered and choose to use here fits and is true apropos. Keller references in the chapter titled, "The Church is Responsible For So Much Injustice"; as an anathema to the Chapter title itself, Keller uses different poignant parts of our world's history where the church or people motivated by Christ bring justice to an unjust world. He speaks of directly that for the time of both British and American slave trade, now considered heinous and despicable (still to some "not' or just "slightly," similar to the holocaust), where people of those times, the abolitionists motivated by this idea of grace, freedom, and equality where the seed of thought in them was Christ, demanded change. However, both liberal and conservative of those times, saw that this would cause a huge economic disaster since so much of the efforts of production were created by and through slavery. Some writers considered it an "economic disaster." But what Keller brings to light is that certain Christians not only pleaded for an abolition of slavery, they gave their word that they, they themselves, would penny up the costs for that was supposed to be lost in gains. And yes, there may have been a slight economic rift, and yes there was change that may have been felt, but something intensely more brilliant happened and is still happening.

That, is an expression of the agape found in the gospel. That is the good news.

But yet, I hear, we hear as irrefutable evidence, that those for modern health care reform are pundits for the downfall of society. I hear, "there will be those who manipulate this system because the people are fallen. I don't want to pay for those thieves who will manipulate us." And I agree. However, for every non-profit be it religious or secular that never has to pay one dime of property-tax, who bloats their employee's salaries way beyond that of sheer necessity, and manipulates through teaching it's followers the supposed "truth," they are just as savage and manipulating than any individual that will supposedly take your tax dollars for health care. Does no one else see the blatant hypocrisy? The arrogant asses of Right Wing politics are more than comfortable to give there money whole-heartedly to establishments that manipulate people, steal tax payers dollars, while its own bureaucracy pads its pockets, and then has the audacity to scrutinize others with an hypothetical statement dramatizing the poor thief. Are you kidding?

But what's more ridiculous, is the fact that people make such a strident claim of faith, faith in something so majestic, something so irrational, something where deduction lays no claim, and yet choose to as individuals apply rationale, deduction and systematic thinking into not helping others no matter what the cost. You're going to tell me you believe in something that whenever I or anyone else tries to contend, you can say a multitude of dumbfounding things such as, "Well, God only knows," "God created me before I was ever known," or the best of all, "In the beginning..." and yet you are going to apply an analysis on our culture with the lens of rationale when your whole existence is based on the most irrational thing possible. You're going to use history found in history books to analyze our current time, but then disregard that history when it contends with your religiosity.

Earlier I spoke of a gospel reference and I want to go back there. What then did Jesus mean when he said "Give to God what is God's." Because when I read and reread the gospels Jesus performed many a life-changing miracles of restoration for people not because of there belief. Now he may have precursed it as a praise of their faith, but their faith in what? Furthermore, what's more jaw dropping is that He, meaning Jesus, forgave and healed people who didn't ask for repentance. That, according to this Good News, is the most outstanding thing possible. The miracle of forgiveness by a man who was used, scoffed against, and taken advantage of continued to forgive and redeem whether it was deserved or not. That is the mystical tear in the fabric that is supposedly to be lacing the hearts of every Christian. Am I wrong? What is God's is his people, no longer Jew or Gentile, but all people.

But to you hypocrites of the law that lay claim to what you consider to be big t Truth, and yet fail terribly to employ that universally for all, you claim it so aggressively yet fail to love universally, you, you hear me, you are the faggots that will burn in the pits of hell. And you will desperately cry out to God and ask Him, "Father why have you forsaken me," and He will say, "I never knew you," and spit you out of His mouth. And you know why that will be His response? Because you spent all your fucking time and energy believing in Him, rather than really trying to know Him.

Live Relentlessly,
Peace
Remoy

2009-08-26T12:23:00.002-05:00

"Around a large campfire late one autumn evening, Jesus comforted his disciples by speaking to them of a heavenly realm that far surpasses the beauty of anything on earth. He spoke of a place that never grows dark or cold, a vast city that is filled with beautiful mansions, with streets of gold, and with unending expanses of green and fertile land--a place of perpetual peace and fulfillment.

Jesus spoke of this kingdom late into the night, painting pictures of heaven until the fire began to turn to ash and a chill filled the air. One by one, each of his disciples drifted off to sleep with the images of heavenly treasure and luxurious mansions feeding their dreams.

In the end only Jesus and a poor, unknown, and uneducated disciple were left, each one lost in thought, watching as the last cinders of the fire began to die.

After some time had passed, this solitary disciple looked over to Jesus and spoke

'I was wondering about something,' he said.
'Yes, my friend,' Jesus replied.
'Well, there are so many people who follow you now that I can't help worrying that someone like me, an old, uneducated sinner, may get overlooked amidst all the great thinkers, politicians, preachers, and radicals who are being attracted to you and your message.'

Then he turned his face away and continued, 'I've never been in a mansion; in fact, I have never even seen one. So, I don't care too much if I miss out on all that. But tell me, will there be room enough for me when I die--will there be somewhere for me to stay in this kingdom of which you speak?'

Jesus looked at the man with compassion. 'Don't worry,' he whispered, in a tone that could barely be heard over the distant contented noises of the sleeping crowd. 'Tucked away in a tiny corner of heaven, away from all the grand mansions and streets of gold, there is a cramped little stable. It doesn't look like much inside or out, but on a clear night you can see the stars shine bright amidst the cracks, and you can feel the warm breeze caress your skin. In this kingdom, that is where I live, and you would be welcome to live there with me.'"

-Peter Rollins

Live Relentlessly,
Peace
Remoy

Moore's Law and Economics

2009-08-14T14:53:00.003-05:00

Its an interesting precipice to be standing upon. For a few generations now, we have yet to face that cataclysmic war that defines us as a generation. Not to demote the "War on Terror" or to degrade the work of American Soldiers, but nothing characteristic of previous generations and the formidable wars they faced has yet to define us. However, the economic and industry climate is quickly and drastically changing and will force us as a generation to make decisions to adjust as well as to force us to define the future of both our country and our world.

Its what seems could be categorized as an effect of Moore's Law; specifically coupled with technology. And this doubling of technology, as tech advances quickly it has challenged the slow movement of our economics and industry. The internet and the products it's produced has seriously challenged both how we do business, but also, what businesses will survive. It has pushed the evolutionary understanding onto the field of business. Those that are quick to adapt, those that are able to adapt, and do it well, will find a way to survive.

But behind that, Capitalism and the Free-Market system are being directly challenged. Meaning, that Capitalism and the Free Market economy is under contention. I think I'm being to broad, and stepping into spheres where my understanding is menial. So let me preface this as an observation that is anecdotal. But when the 80's push for Trickle-Down Reagonomics was formed, the public seemed ready to be really rich. And for those that were anticipating to get rich, which was everyone, they believed that the system would stabilize and the system was incorruptible. And it seemed to be working. But again as we incorporate Moore's Law again, in the last decade or even half decade, the efficient change in technology has caused a quick change in our economy. And then our economy has showed its weekness, and thank God for this late coming recession because the economy can settle to an equilibrium.

However, the private market is what's under consideration. This is the big scare or big worry. We are wondering what to define as private and public and with that the public should be governmentally regulated while the private will find a way to regulate itself.

As this equilibrium finally approaches, we hope to see our GDP reaching for the green. Let's be honest, the rest is a factor to the GDP: unemployment, National debt, reform, these plus many only matter when it comes to considering the GDP.

Is this the end of something big and the start of something scary? Absolutely, and it will be something that will name our generation after.

Live Relentlessly,
Peace
Remoy

To the High Life as in the Miller Kind

2009-08-09T00:09:00.004-05:00

I've always considered myself a lucky man. Luck has been at my side most of my life, through friendships, through jobs, through love, I've carried a piece of Lady Luck's heart with me.

And there are certain friendships that come along, that may not extend with a superior depth, they may not bridge deep gaps of incommunicable frustration, but what they are is high quality. The way you know is that you and the other person can exchange a look, eye contact being key, and that look void of ideal sentiment is truly timeless. Within that shared look you both acknowledge a certain quality, completely personal to the both, that without would make this world a bit more fractured; and that fracture, that instability, would make this world a bit more hellish and a lot more unlivable.

I had an amazing day in Amarillo. I really value my time here, especially with the people I get to share it with. We all go through metamorphoses, and the times between individuals vary considerably. Meaning, my personal metamorphoses, whether it be by choice or circumstance, will not by any means coincide with that of another; however, in the same vain, two or may may join in a similar metamorphosis which can be similar to a "flock" of persons but still be completely personal and relative to each participant. But no matter what the metamorphosis, the quality shared between some friends seems to hold; the seal can handle the strenuous volatility that in most instances would break the bond, but in these certain exchanges, the seal just holds.

And by no means is it easy. I am not who I was three years ago, four years ago, nor ten years ago. Today I looked at a picture of my madre and I say circa '94, and hot damn, thank the Lord I'm not that kid anymore. If I were still that kid I'd be ridin' the hip coke-bottle glasses look into the ground.

But these changes, these one completely personal to me, causes an unrelinquishable frustration that is almost incommunicable and lends to be very excruciating. The inability for one person to really convey, to really communicate by any means what they feel so adamantly necessary to share, could be both the greatest torture as well as folly of mankind.

So that's why, that is why when you have a bond with a person, where in one look, both of you acknowledge not only in the value of the other, but value the energy shared between you both, and that value is of high esteem by you both and will almost never be ill-tarnished, then that my friends is something a person of luck will always remember how lucky they truly are.

Live Relentlessly,
Peace
Remoy

Oh them Okies

2009-06-05T18:10:00.002-05:00

I try not to get seduced into political sides or get into conversations that rely heavily on binary comparisons whether it be subtle or not. But this cartoon frustrates the hell out of me. And then knowing the context of where it was created and posted, pushes me to the brink of objective understanding. Its a violation.

Live Relentlessly,
Peace
Remoy

Witness

2009-05-21T11:08:00.001-05:00

Diamond Street

2009-05-20T22:07:00.004-05:00

Tragic things happen daily. But sometimes the visualization not of the exact physicallity of the tragedy, but the products of the tragedy stick with you. It gets personal and it gets very emotional. Especially if the the tragedy, the mechanics of the tragedy, are similar to some of the same mechanics you're cycling with in your own life. You can't help but then project a future outcome similar to the one you've just become witness to. Your mind and its prized analysis won't let you leave the situation without inserting your mind, body, and soul in with the same products. As if it was that easy? But for your mind, whose limits are unforgiving, it will put you there. Place you without sensitivity. And there you try to hide, try to consider yourself the victim, or at least you not the conspirator of bad taste. But no matter how much your mind places you there, the personal reference to the actual event, lets you know that someone, personal to you, and this person's sphere of influence as well, is having to actually deal with it. You know it hurts, and you don't pity them, you really don't feel sorry for them; but worse, you wonder what it feels like. You wonder how you, if it was you, how you would deal? You think to yourself, I would have done did it better, or I could have articulated myself better which would deserve a bit more forgivness. Maybe, but the fortunate thing for yourself is, even though you're fuckin' up a bit the same, or you've encountered the same mess, yours isn't publically tragic yet. You may be dealing with it personally, wrestling as if you were wrestling God, but no one else knows. It's not documented anywhere, it's not displayed for anyone else's eyes; your kids don't know. This is what they tell you to do, "Learn from these things," "Be thankful it's not you," "Don't make the same mistakes they do." But God forbid its that simple. Cause, Lord knows its not. It's not even close. No matter how much others lead the way, struggle, find themselves and their loved ones in tragedy, you follow suit. You selfishly resist the tale that teaches; you forge ahead hard-headed and proud. Because that's what gives you merit, pride. That's what make you immortal. Maybe, but becareful, because there is no guarantee. No, no you and yourself have nothing more than luck and freedom. Freedom to do or don't do, and luck to be the spotlight. He was unlucky. And I am very lucky. She lucked out. But I'm luckier. Poor kids, how unlucky. Well at least, it's their problem and not mine.

Live Relentlessly,
Peace
Remoy

Political Polarity

2009-05-16T14:45:00.003-05:00

Here's some pleasant irony. You have to understand it within two severe generalizations. But it's pretty funny.

Christian Dude: You are not gay from birth. It's a choice.
Gay Dude: You're right, I'm not gay from birth, but I was born a homosexual.
Christian Dude: That's insane. God designs you, He knows you before you were even born, and he wouldn't design you as a "homosexual." No, you chose that.
Gay Dude: Well, if I chose my homosexuality then you definitely chose your god and you definitely chose how to believe him.

They both think the other's crazy while thinking themselves normal.
They both think from birth they were designed a certain way, while the other made a choice for their own identity.
They think the other is crazy for thinking that way, yet both trains of thought are identical.

=Irony

Live Relentlessly,
Peace
Remoy

For Allen Ginsberg and this Queer State

2009-05-12T19:24:00.002-05:00

See here's another problem with the whole objective/subjective duality. It's a problem that stems with the birth of biology that grew into what we now honor in modern medicine. Well not completely modern medicine, but what has become due to maybe conglomerate corporate control of modern medicine. Also let's marry that to the fact that everyone, meaning every individual it seems of the modern progressive world, has this sense of agency to own their health and their own medical history along with the ability and prowess to define and prescribe for other's own medical state of well being.

Mania
Herpes
Chronic Stress
Insomnia

Let's extrapolate on this mess. The problem is that objectivity is derived from the field of modern science. We use objectivity to explain things, scientifically, from there whereabouts to where-we-are-going. Medicine is the same way, it is used as objectively as possible, with error, to explain your personal make-up's whereabouts and also explain or possibly tell where-you-are-going. The only problem with that is that instead of operating on a multi-functioning spectrum of diverse variation, it functions on a very strict binary created by the conglomerate autonomous society of the numerous selfs of this world. That binary is: functioning (healthy, normal) / malfunctioning (unhealthy, abnormal).

ED
Bi-polar
Gingivitis
Epilepsy

There are two unsupposed prescriptions for society. The Normal being and the abnormal individual. You see it don't you! It's the fact that there exists an objective level of normalcy when it comes to one's health or availability to being normal. However if someone be born with a difference, a biological difference say in amino acid construction that may cause a change in physical or physiological makeup that person now has a physical telling of abnormalcy. True the size or state of abnormalcy may reside on a value scale of abnormalcy, but the initial judgement of being abnormal or malfunctioning renders a person to be anti-normal.

Cleft Pallet
Homosexuality
Eczema
Astigmatism

That's the problem with this nature of objectivity. Not purely the value of objectivity, but the almost innate nature to couple this level of objectivity with the binary of normal and abnormal. This self acknowledged level of normalcy may exist in the mind, however in the reality that we seem to all share, normalcy doesn't exist, rather difference does. The key is to challenge normalcy with difference.

Spina bifida
Crones
Moles/Freckles
Asthma

I will resign a subtle level of medical objectivity be assigned to the common person. I think scientific or medical objectivity should be assigned to the pros and be used in a professional atmosphere where the logic behind the objectivity is not to separate the perfect from the imperfect nor to capitalize monetarily on a person's difference, but to help those whose difference lend them to a disadvantage in a societal setting; or be it a person or a person's guardian's choice to better their own situation. I understand there also are many things of the psyche that are unobservable by the naked eye and that come about more by conditions and less by nature--things derived from the environment that alters one's decision making capabilities or even mental state (perversions of mental stability that can cause serious malfunctions in the decision making process)--and need help to keep society, the interplay of all people's, in a state of cohesion; in those instances medical objectivity must be employed to again help stabilize the individual in order to create a functioning (partly broken) society.

Sleep Apnea
Arthritis
Pregnancy
High Cholesterol

What I'm saying is more of critique on the way society has evolved to an easy remedy of using this binary when the levels of construction don't have a valid existence. Normal meaning perfection as one pole and the other pole being abnormal which is valued as an extreme response to other pole. So when one is labeled, prescribed, or described with a biological imperfection, or even one that may be derived by an environmental setting, or albeit, one that we know not as both natural or nature conceived, that person's understanding of their social value and personal value is steeped deep in a discretionary misunderstanding. All due to a corrupt value system which is scientifically produced but unfortunately mishandled by an imperfect society.

Diabetes
Synesthesia
ADHD
Fybromyalgia

Again I want to be sure that this isn't seen as a ridiculous attack on modern science or modern medicine and for that even an attack on the processes created in order to create a more healthy stable world. (I mean we used to lobotomize people a few decades prior and now look where we're at; that's some progress)But more this is a construction of a critique, a semiological or linguistic critique; the signs of normalcy and the language of society. Because truly understood, abnormalcy due to one's makeup, be it biologically explained or not, is self acknowledged but prescribed by standards codified by society. And one modern channel for creating this codified standard is through a malfunction in the understanding of objectivity and its power in the hands of all rather in the hands of the appropriate few.

Live Relentlessly,
Peace
Remoy

The Post Post World

2009-05-07T19:32:00.003-05:00

This semester I engaged in a bunch of rhetoric and it was damnly fascinating. The way people engage it and form dynamics in discourse. Some get testy, some are masters of debate, some person's have this genuine innocence to learning that makes you smile at when they smile because they simply value the practice of learning.

But I will say this. Yes, this is a contention. Starting with the positive. I'm glad, or maybe I'll finally acknowledge that living in a "Post" world, is a good place when it comes to learning in any aspect, especially through academia. What I mean when I refer to "Post" is as in the prefix when attached to other things such as: Structuralism, Gay, Modernism, Modern-art.

The reason being, is as I so willingly define, is when the "Post" is employed as a prefix it shifts the objective learning or objectivity of the central vantage point of disseminating a specific subject matter, and shifts it to a multi-lensed approach meaning. So the shift occurs by moving away from a central canon of how to understand a specific subject matter, but then shifts relatively to a communal vantage point which requires the students' energy to shift lenses to grasp a great breadth of understanding.

However, in this "post" understanding, their seems to be a vulnerability to get caught up with a facet of identity which is found in the suffix value of the "ism." I've spoken great deals about this before, but not specific to an ism, but any title you then garner for yourself as an identity, be it Socialist, Feminist, Post-Structuralist, Universalist, then lends to you to the folly of the marriage of the ism and the value of the post. Because while the post, how I value is relatively non-objective in understanding, the ism begins to bring back to objectively forming understanding. It objectively renders understanding back to the identity of the value preceding the ism. Furthermore, when you qualify yourself with an ism, you then are spending your time in a selfish manner. I'm bold with that, but I believe that isms are employed specifically politically, and no matter how people try to absolve politics as any way selfless, it's completely selfish. Politics for an individual or a group cannot be divorced from selfishness; especially in the modern world and in modern politics.

And with the ism fixed to the post prefix you begin to see this selfish mode begin to objectify things which then formulates an enemy to thrust all angst towards. Someone or something, more often then not the terms "system, machine" are used as an adequate enemy. And however easy and maybe qualifying of a response it is to castigate someone or something with full responsibility of evil or imperfection, what the initial indwelling of the post identity is to fracture objectivity by taking into consideration the multiplicity of it all. There has to be an understanding of the fissures not only in the character of every individual but in the character of understanding, logic, time, systems and any qualifiable endeavour. But this understanding that all these things have imperfections is what grants us the ability to move into a mode of pacificity when encountering further imperfections and instead of forming a selfish upheaval against any certain villainous thing, we can then form a new objectivity in order to breathe and encounter the complexity of a big "IT" that's found in IT all.

The post isn't perfect because I find that still there are certain canons formed. There are lines of thought or triggers of quality that divide people, and there is a level of civility or even hegemony formed when in comes to qualitative judgement towards particular things. You still are supposed to like or value certain things; and if you don't you maybe discredited. That's is unfortunate and pushes for an understanding that even the system of the "post" world is flawed.

Live Relentlessly,
Peace
Remoy

God's days

2009-04-14T21:27:00.003-05:00

I celebrated, or at least observed, my first holiday, religiously bound holiday, unreligiously. Confounding to say the least. It's almost bizarre. I know it may sound crazy--for different people on different levels--that you can celebrate a holiday without any religious affiliation.

Easter is interesting; for me it is synonymous with Christianity. The easter bunny, the eggs, whatever. It's all nice and all, but for me, it is birthed directly out of religious doctrine. A celebration; 40 days of lent, the tail after Fat Tuesday, and a crescendo on that beautiful grace-filled Sunday. But for some it's just a Spring celebration.

We had dinner, a few drinks, a lot of good food, laughed a bit, and just had fun. I don't think prior I've gone an Easter Sunday without going to church. Honest to God, I haven't missed too many a week without going to church, but Easter Sunday, it would be heretical not to go. No, it's not that, it wasn't even dogmatic; it was just a sweet fun, yet very ethereal reminder of where we had come from and what we had to be thankful of.

I mean Christmas, Thanksgiving, the holidays are different. I knew that there were somewhat of legitimizing forays off away from any religious tantamount that people would value and exercise. Granted, it's the holidays; Santa and Pilgrims and good food. But for some reason, call it ignorance, Easter really didn't seem like one of those days. I thought it was purely religious based with a slight offramp into eggs and rabbits and grossly engrossing sugar filled treats.

It's a new year for me. And humbly I move forward, luckily learning, and happily living.

Kudos Kids.

Live Relentlessly,
Peace
Remoy

"Girl"

2009-03-31T19:21:00.004-05:00

Recently I reread Jamaica Kincaid's story "Girl" (which annoyed me because I wasn't able to recall where and why I had read the story initially; and since I put a heavy amount of personal expertise into my ability to recollect, I grew ridiculously, and still quite am, annoyed), and formulated these three theses:

The production benefits of ownership of woman/women is a definite value and cost saving commodity. Not only are you owning the general commodity itself but also, you are owning the means of production. However or through whomever the roles of gender constructs are passed through does not matter; all that matters is that it is, and it works damn well.

The issuance of "norms" of behavior; the passing on of "who you are" as opposed to "who you should be"; patriarchy qualifies what is valuable and where there is quality; Homo Sapien's have an innate stimulus to control, classify, and awkwardly objectify their world.

To write differently; to challenge that writing, not in a codified pattern as in subject verb agreement accentuated by predicate, invalidates the construction while validating ambiguity.

Live Relentlessly,
Peace
Remoy

Call of The

2009-03-17T19:46:00.004-05:00

It just seems impossible to me as society makes its way--be it forward or backwards is a linguistic argument not under the bright lights of contention right now--say it evolves, that terms and ideals that are so readily demonized by the affluent accademia such as hegemony or colonial project are the negative forms of a binary that validate themselves as the positive or antithesis of the supposed negative. My simple argument just says that modern society, aka civilized peoples (and as it seems more and more peoples are being civilized or are civilizing themselves) have to acknowledge that these supposed bad things, or evil entities of society exist and in a way have become a natural adaptation of society. It's not just a negative foray of society, but a vital part in both civilization and it's individual peoples.

Individual autonomy in and of itself seems damn hard and near impossible even if completely removed from society and it's norms, then how on earth as society and peoples evolve can you say that as groups post agricultural revolution and the birth of luxury, leisure, and interdependence, autonomy in and of itself is a luxury of a precivilized world. Then I shall say that autonomy in a social system of language transactions between individuals can no longer keep alive. To better articulate my argument, once a hierarchal system was installed into society, any sort of revolution, no matter how formidable or radical the ideals behind the revolt, against that is impossible. Society is far past egalitarian living, that at least now as the environment around us heavily supports class systems, then we have to live by that. So tyrranies of sort by people taking and giving power will exist.

People who acknowlege these power sources as evil are only then trying to validate themselves as more than good, but pure. However, I would offer the idea of truly being understanding and a real academic of sorts, would be to unbiasly take into consideration the value of the premise of power and classes of all stages and understand how in the science of society it serves as a highly palpable mechanism of society.

I'm done for now

Be Relentless,
Peace
Remoy

Wack ass denim

2009-02-28T17:57:00.004-05:00

This is not an assault on our economy, this is not political. This is a commentary on wack ass denim. Jeans being. Men's jeans be it more precise.

THree damn pairs in the last month and a half. Yessir. Three solid denim solos goin down. And now this kid, the kid with the hole up above. Yeah a new pair, then a skateboard, and a kick push, and then a giant gaping vag in his jeans. Yo, it's seriously a question of quality. A quality in denim. A question of production. Yo I get it times are tough; times are rough, but let's work better to make better denim. goddamn it, make better jeans.

I like jeans. I like jeans without vag's in my penal area.

Be Relentless,
Peace
Remoy

"Good Man Yerself!"

2009-02-17T16:30:00.012-05:00

See, it's only cause I articulate things through speech terribly so i have to encourage myself via the computer screen. I wish I spoke better, but here we go.

So I was on an impromptu, yet completely comfortable, at least for myself, double date with my lady, my cousin and his wife. We were at Lehman College up in the Bronx at a performance by the Dublin Philharmonic. Gabriel Byrne was surprisingly the subtle MC of the event, which has actually turned up as a fun allusion or road sign in my life. And as I watched the performance and tried to keep the weight out of my tired eyes, I came to an overall conclusion.

You see a few months ago, a barber from bushwick gave me a quick little anecdote as a response to organized religion: "It's 2008, we've moved on." And I was thrilled with that response because of the arrogance and boldness behind it. It underlined the factual elements of time while looking at that timeline to see how human ideals have shifted. Said so matter-of-factly and yet so poignantly it really struck a chord; and I laughed for awhile.

After watching the performance, and a good one at that of the Dublin Philharmonic, I came to a better conclusion of the barber's statement, or maybe just a more graspable or tangible explanation. The performance at hand was orchestral, and held value, a high value centuries prior, due to the actual practice. The practice meaning the abilities of those involved and the achievement of the actual doing and doing of it well. Life, and not anecdotal, but life in prior centuries was based on codified systems based on hierarchies:IE The feudal system in Britain and France, the caste system in India, and also colonization of old worlds by at the time, modern countries. All these worlds had powers that literally were able, slowly and dogmatically, to create value systems through ideologies, theologies, and disciplinary actions. Here was where the power created certain truths, or values based on practice. And only certain people could or were allowed to practice or were even valued for being able to engage the practice. So for the orchestra to have value, in generations past, it was the ability and the practice of the persons employing the practice, and that was the quality. In theory, the practice here garners regard and the overall value through the practice of the performer.

Now somewhat of a negative binary, due to the thinking of Descartes and Nietzsche, was birthed the idea of relativism, difference, and subjectivism. Into where we now find a hyper post-modern approach. No longer is the value set on the practice of certain energies, but the value is held literally by the individuals interpretation of not only the practice but of any "set" that can be deconstructed. Here a person can analyze literally anything versus a set of personal filters and gauge what is quality. No longer is there somewhat of eliteness to a practice where only a qualified individual with certain talents or capacities is valued for those talents and virtuosity, but the value is challenged by the individual observing whatever the practice maybe and assessing the values under systemic understandings.

To bring this back around, when watching the orchestral performance of 50 some odd individuals in a symphonic performance, I no longer have to value the people or the performance for what value there is in the practice or accomplishment; no, I can value it due to my own interpretation. I no longer say that the rigorous codified ways of performing found in orchestral codes were achieved, and by that, performance was either good or bad; valuable or blase. However, I can say, that the bagpipes resonated a sound that indicated something to me consciously or subconsciously that pointed to a value based on a personal understanding of what I find valuable, furthermore, palpable.

You can see the same shift in truncated timeline of another art form, poetry. According to codified structures of Petrarchan poetry, a sonnet consisted of two stanzas of a total of fourteen lines followed by a sestet. The whole poem consists of a rigorous codified system where certain parameters are met in order for the piece to be a qualified ranking sonnet. For this piece to be seen or valued, its goal or the goal of the author was not to challenge the system, but to elevate his abilities by the constraints of the system and that is where the grandeur was found. The public, or then the elite communicated to the public the value of the piece due to its ability to be precise in those constraints. Now, each piece held a subjective prowess resonating from the author; I don't want to misspeak in that sense. However the system was what quided the initial qualifier for value.

However, when it comes to modern poetry, there has been a total resistance to the system. Value is taken by the reader and then qualified in how the author can look past the former constructs of times past. Authors, individually, have their own forms that bind up their poems that later represent something to the readers which the reader can then assign where and how the value is found.

So when my barber friend, said, "It's 2008, we've moved on," what he was saying is that, the times for systemic thought and the realm of constructs "constraining" humans, has shifted. Now I'm not saying it's a good thing, or that on-overshift may have occurred, I just enjoyed his assessment of the overall movement in history and congruently in norms of thinking. And after watching the performance of the cast of individual performers united in sound, I was better able to see, then grasp what had happened in the last millenia.

And again, I don't want to devalue something that held value. It seems, that the constructs found in the middle ages were and are a product of the self described era of the "dark ages." Warrior culture was prominent and dissidence was erupting everywhere. Humanity was in chaos, maybe naturally, with one another, and as a correction of the evolution of humanity, this birth of urban coexistence came and with it brought systemic understanding and systemic values. It may, or may not have been needed, but whatever it may be, it seems to be a product of a very violent time period in history.

Well are we resorting back to that time? Are we overcompensating, and about to shoot ourselves in the foot and trample over all the ground we've made? I don't think so. I think that we may overcompensate for a quick second(understood relatively as an integer in the grand scheme of history), but we(humanity) will find a way to coexist and form a stronger and healthier interdependence on one another. It may call for disagreements and even blood shed, and in the end it may be the death of everything once gained, but unfortunately we do not have the ability to live outside ourselves into the future, but live with a quality that renders the past and hopes for the future.

So to that, we all say; "Good Man Yerself!"

Be Relentless,
Peace
Remoy

Where Water Comes Together with other Water

2009-02-10T14:08:00.002-05:00

I've cried more in the last month and a half then I have in the last ten years.

I'll be ok.

Be Relentless,
Peace
Remoy

The Day that John Died

2009-01-27T18:35:00.004-05:00

There was a boy once. He picked up his things one day and headed to the big city. Dreams, hopes for the future, a bright tomorrow. Well as his time was spent in this new world, the environment around him demanded new things. Not many a friend, no real television, and all the same movies he had watched for the past half-decade left the boy with a hopeless amount of time with nothing to do. A friend of this boy had a terrific idea of going to the library. Initially the boy was skeptical but always fancied those times when he was younger and could read forever, in the car, in his room, on cold days, on really hot days, in class, in bed, the boy just remembered he liked to read.

So he went. He went to the library. He got on the train filled with brown curry folks and light brown Spanish folks and rode into the city. To his surprise, as he exited the station, directly to his left was the library. A quick scurry and there he was. It wasn't the most beautiful of places, and I guess as in most libraries, a place that was once valued but was now neglected. So he explored and meandered around with no real inclination or draw to authors or books. Titles and names all sounded so beautiful and fanciful. He didn't know really where to start so he just began. He'd go back and forth. A few times a week. A book here another book there. He'd read on the train, he'd read in the park, he'd read alone in his room, or he'd read alone at the cafe. He would just read, and he read a lot. Not only did he read a lot, but to his own surprise, he read quickly and valued both the quality of his reading but also the expediency of his skill.

And for that he kept on. Not stopping. Until once, a friend of his told him of a book. "It's by so and so, and there's four books. A quartet. Each book with the same central character but centered in a different decade. A different decade of his life. A different time for the man to be the man in his existence." Well the boy had heard of so and so, but with no real value to how or why or even the quality of so and so and the so and so's work. But since the boy had a bounty of time and even more so, a bounty for the pleasure of reading, he decided to give it a try. So again, he went to his library that was left of his exit, and he found the book. He found the first one. And he read.

And wouldn't you know it, but the friend was right. The book was about a young man growing up in a world not completely different than the boys but yet not very similar either. But the book was dirty, true, and very eloquent in its nature to be completely human. And the boy valued this, because if there's anything that boy valued, is that of what it means to be and see human. So quickly he consumed the first, and then soon sought after the second. With some energy spent he dug up the second book which the title employs a word that the boy will never really allude to because he stubbornly does not know how to pronounce that specific word. And this book, with the title that looks so easy, but is so difficult to phonetically decide how to say, is different. Well, this book was the same, but it was so different. The character was the same, the time had changed, dramatically, so the character was forced to change. You watched the character change as more characters washed in and out of the story. Let it be said, that the boy was hooked.

Then the boy quickly found the third. And he read it, he read it because now he not only loved the story but the character and the author for writing it and the friend for recommending it and the pleasure of just identifying with it. The boy was not the age of the central character, nor was he anywhere near being anything like the protagonist, but the the book was starting to shape something that finally started to sink into the young boys mind. An impression that the central character was an icon not only for a time but for a place. And even more so the environment, both physical and semi-permeable, surrounding the central figure became more of a character, more of the protagonist than the human character itself.

Once the boy finished this book, he was unsure about finding the last one. The quintessential end to a good book. The ending you want to get to, but the ending that defines the end of something good. But he had to finish; three epics down, and one more to go. The title itself signaled the finale, and the boy knew what was to come. But with this foreknowledge, he continued on. This time he read slower. Vested more of himself into the book. And the book climbed dexterously through the climax of the protagonist's life and again personified the setting, the place, the time as important to the story, maybe even more important than that of the central character. And once the book ended, and that history concluded the boy was content with what he had read. He was content at where he was after he had finished the four book anthology.

...

Today I was blessed to have a god moment, or call it a spiritual moment, or maybe even a kingdom moment. Something so personal that it only can credit something metaphysical. But I was walking and received a text from David thats just said, "John Updike died." David didn't have to inform me, and I could've ended the day by parusing through the news and come upon this information (which I still haven't felt the need to look into yet), but I didn't. Dave knew, or maybe didn't, that Updike held a certain compelling value to me, and that it was better for him to tell me, and for me to quietly ruminate over it throughout this day.

You see, it wasn't something completely devastating, but yet, it was. In Updike's Rabbit series I became a critical thinker and reader. And after completing these books, I knew I wanted to try my hand at writing. Updike transformed the world for me through words, so simple but so descriptive, and showed me a world so human and so seedy and real and ironic and sad and a bit beautiful that I knew that Updike himself had channeled himself through experience. He had, at least for me, conquered what it meant to be human. And for that, I will miss him.

Be Relentless,
Peace
Remoy

My Cultural Footprint

2009-01-22T11:45:00.014-05:00

Forgive me, but I haven't done this in a minute.

If anybody has been alive in the last five years, you've heard, whether to your liking or not of the collision of doom that is our current state of affairs; global environmental crisis. Again, whether you believe it or not, the idea is living, growing, and booming, and with that the terms and jargon are also very alive among youngsters in cafes across the country sportin' tight jeans and angelic logic. One of those scandolous technical phrases is that of the "carbon footprint." Let's lower your/our carbon footprint. Well I have a quaint mimic of that phrase: "cultural footprint."

We can agree that the idea that the true or untrue environmental crisis is a very complex idea. A numerous amount of variables that deal with an ecology on a whole which is so obtuse that the knowledge is continuing to expand. So the efforts to chill the "footprint" means taking in a scope of understanding and doing the least amount of damage as possible. Sacrificing your selfishness in order to propel the world forward instead of living for your self while destroying a future of a very diversified world. Now there probably will not be a definitive right answer, but at least through using deductive reasoning, a person can make decisions no matter how costly to themselves in order to better this world; in order for this world to have a future. The same holds true for my idea of a cultural footprint.

I love the movie The Last King of Scotland. There's a line that Idi Amin uses to degrade Doc Garrigan: "You came to Africa to play the white man. But we aren't a game. We're real." Do you see where I'm going?

There was a point in my life where initially I thought I was doing so much good. I don't regret what I did, but now in retrospect , I see my folly and truthfully am very lucky that I learned what I did when I did. I see how my goodheartedness was an ignorant approach to living and sharing this world. I went to a place where I thought people needed my help. And I went there and I helped how I had defined and credited my "help." And for me, I was doing good; I was helping, and not only that, but I was romanticizing the place and it's people while devaluing their humanity and their world through my understanding of goodness and through pity.

It's modern colonialism. Any way you look at. There's a hegemonic power at play that defines good on a world understanding. So when that power steps across into another world--no matter how sweet and innocent and "really" good they may seem, even to themselves--especially a world or environment that is so old and delicate and privy to the manipulation of that hegemony, then any occurrence of the power meeting the prey causes serious damage to our world. This will forever alter that environment. Like how when a road for loggers is built through the temperate forests of Bolivia, a negative chain of destruction begins not with the loggers but with the road and then just snowballs and snowballs into a crisis of existence for flora, fauna, native peoples, and also just as much in the neighboring lands. Whether you understand the history of that luxurious existence or even if it doesn't have any intrinsic value to you, you are still ridding the world of that existence. It's such a cultural norm (colonialism is an almost inescapable cultural norm in the modern western world) which is taught and glorified for Americans to do. Go abroad, do good, sleep in a monastery, see the world, ethnic foods, "Eat, Pray, Love"... Jesus Christ! So when kids with selfish desires (maybe even selfless desires, but not objectively surveyed under the microscope) go into worlds that again are very delicate with diversity and are held together by a web of fragile ethnic beauty, they are capable of doing so much damage. Serious fuckin' damage.

I really don't get it. Why can't the white kids go to Canada, Europe; goddamn, the US of A is so wide open and has so much to see and learn. But for some reason people go to third world or developing countries instead of letting the native peoples deal with there own issues or at least grow in a native environment free of cultural pressures. A homogenizing of the world slowly and forever reducing the world to a static nothing. And yet, they feel the need to go to places that are vulnerable to their cultural power which can and will change the world: South of the border Worlds, the histories of South East Asia, India and it's pretty colors and funny people. GET THE FUCK OUT OF INDIA! These aforementioned countries have a sweet demeanor to the whole that allows them to continue to be vulnerable to the outside pressures of people from the Western World. Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying these places with their peoples can't stand on their own, but the subconscious pressures of goodness and quality are easily formed and very malleable in the mind. Like how the prior humans wanted just to explore, establish worlds of modernity, learn, the same is done but hidden by Kelty and Patagonia branded backpacks and remembered in pictures plastered over the net by the generic Canon Digital whatever. It's ironic because these are the people, pundits of social and environmental awareness, who will fight with words and deeds in order to educate everyone on how bad the state of our environment is, but then they will trudge all over people groups and cause just as serious damage as a "big truck" owner or a person who doesn't understand the dilemma of overpopulation because they didn't really think and see what their own selfish wants are doing to forever change the world. I mean we could adapt and live in a world that was completely concrete and sterile world which is limited to only what us as humans need as necessities for our brief stints in this universe, I mean environmentally we could. And very much so, we could live in a world where cultures blend all the same and there thrives a gross homogenized people where everybody thinks the same and acts the same and values the same. I mean, we could.

It's like this. In the Hassidic parts of the city where you go and you know you are an outsider and you will not be let in. You can walk around, you can be around, but you will not be let in and you will not change the culture. The culture will choose under it's own volition when and how to change. No cultural change will be allowed, well at least not very easily. You know on skin level, it may not feel nice but I appreciate that. I had to wrap my mind around a conflict that involved two very, at least at face value, similar words: Tolerance or Acceptance? And for me, i'd rather have a tolerant world rather than an accepting world. Because like I said, there is a majority, a power, a supposed right, a hegemony, and with that they hold the value scale to determine what is valuable for all. So when acceptance occurs things are amalgamated and changed and stolen from. However, with tolerance and acute acumen you can recognize the value of all while logically forming boundaries where things are not allowed to be changed due to their own cultural value which is internally defined, and all are therefore accepted as equal but different where the principles of those existences are bound to those of the individual groups.

I'm done
at least for now

Be Relentless,
Peace
Remoy

For myself who I can't seem to stop hurting

2009-01-01T23:59:00.003-05:00

Would I live my life over again?
Make the Same unforgiveable mistakes?

Sometimes life goes without anything else but just being life. Simple and complex, both mixed and maybe somewhat unfortunate, but very intertwined.

Sometimes

A kiss is a kiss
and a movie is just a movie
and pain is pain
and real love is real love
and a mistake is not a mistake
and a choice is just words
and a few words in a book will make you cry
and a few thoughts can create a lifetime

I guess for me, I have to surrender to that notion. Give up most my opinions and forgive myself the most. Because sometimes life is just that, and fortunately for all of us, that’s all we will ever need of it.

I woke up this morning with a terrific urge
to lie in bed all-day and read.
Fought against it for a minute.

Then looked outside the window
at the rain and gave over. Put myself entirely in
the keeps of the rainy morning.

Would I live my life over again?
Make the same unforgiveable mistakes?
Yes. Given half the chance, yes.
-Raymond Carver

Be Relentless,
Peace
Remoy

In the Morning

2008-12-26T11:45:00.005-05:00

Look, here's what I'm saying, it's not that it's easy, or will be easy, and nor is it perfect, it cannot be made easy, but I am saying, I guess I want to say that even if it just is, it can just be so well. I wish I had more eloquence to say that with, or maybe say it with less
confusion, but those are the words. It can be just so well.

I like to think if moral platitudes served there purpose to the fullest, to the best way possible, then they would be for the mortal, for the self; really the only way to be
employed. I've learned a lot in my way too short twenty-four year going on quarter century life. But the one thing I've learned about all that I've learned, is that if I was to try to teach others or learn the rest, that man that would be so damn retarded. Not on the retarded like, wow that's retarded, but like on the "so damn retarded" level of
complete misfortune of wasting time and/or energy. Because, the proverbial logic that sits in me, that causes me to beat uneasy and leaves me ruminating for seconds, hours, days, lifetimes, works only and works best in me. I'm lucky for that. That understanding is one of many, but applies to them all.

It's not that this idea of "people aren't perfect" is something grandiose, or a show of words on the range of Descartes or Fanon or whosoever is brilliant or clever or witty or eloquent enough at the time, it's just that it works. Not from the outside saying that--meaning: just pointing the finger from your box of soap--but from the inside pointing at yourself as the rest of the world lines up individually and form and echo of all reciting the same two words with a contraction in the middle. Cause then you can move on. Then we could all just move on. We wouldn't have to rely on some highfalutin premise for all which relies on the fact that people, as in humans, won't not just let you down, but that they won't also fail, fuck up, wear down, loose their cool, or just mistake it up.

And with this gem living in your conscience, you can look at the world and just understand that when the bar is set low, the payoff is much bigger. When you're sitting at Christmas day lunch, and you shut your goddamn loud brain, and you just watch and listen, no matter how much bad you hear or have to deal with, you understand that it's OK, cause no body is perfect. People just aren't perfect, and that is perfectly A OK.

Be Relentless,
Peace
Remoy

"sirbed" like "renob"

2008-12-16T20:04:00.004-05:00

I’m not crazy or overtly neurotic, no, well maybe, but it’s that I just think. You know; as they say, paralysis of analysis. Wait but I hate that. I hate platitudinal logic. I created that phrase; combined ideas into one strong metered word: platitudinal. But you know, when you coin that clever (being clever is given to high esteem) phrase, take something and breathe in it value as such of an idiom, and forever so take all the human character away from it. As if every type of human dealing is so damn trite and meaningless. A characteristic, a classification, a trait; no, it can’t be. Not just, but more, so much more than could ever or so forever be endlessly described. Shoot me for thinking. Shoot me for thinking in layers, for understanding things are hopeful and yet sedimentary, and if it be so, then you must dig. Sift through and acknowledge the breadth of the never-ending scope of, well, it, of it all. And for that, for that, and I guess for me, that is me. I am unfortunately too well versed, and I guess vested, in the self inflicted tumult of not necessarily “deep” in the sense of some high esteemed value for the word “deep,” but truly “deep” as in a long painstaking trek into places that I am and should be scared to forever go; the abyss of the “deep.” And that is me, and that is part of me, and again that is none of me. For that is me, the encapsulated me, but who in a moment, once the previous moment has left him, fleeting and temporal as is life, has changed; become something anew. Amorphous in the metaphysical; a shape shifter who has bet everything and lost nothing and has torn down the walls of Jericho in order to reach his promised land. And here I am, walking amongst the rubble of my new world. Thinking with hope and wondering through the debris of what was this world and burdened in thought to create, to build, to structure never endlessly to build; to build everything new. As if the world will crumble in a moment, and I could completely forget what was and look forward, until forward, until the future, until whatever may be, will be, concurrently, becomes me now.

Don't throw your shoes

Be Relentless,
Peace
Remoy

Earlier

2008-12-03T14:54:00.003-05:00

I saw this girl on the train earlier. She was crying. Not loudly or any bit over exaggerated but just slightly. Like she had encountered a tiny vice of melancholy and what was once a seed had germinated, flowering her with simple tears. It wasn't noticeable. Indeed, you had to search for it. Indeed. I looked at her intently, just to make sure, to understand why she was hurt.

She was a petite girl. I call her a girl, but she was definitely a woman. But there's something so innocent about tears like hers that I can't help but refer to her as a girl. And there she sat, across from me, ever so often taking a finger to wipe away her simple tears. Her lips upturned at the ends with her eyes blank while her mind was distended and lost.

I wanted desperately to be her hero. Pick her up and shake her. Extend words of grace and tell her she would be OK. Make her see her value. Refer her to things of the beautiful of nature. Make her laugh. Change her completely in a moment, and take the value of solitude and replace it with the quality of communal laughing. That's what I wanted.

But I don't think that's what she may have needed. I think she needed those tears. If anything, that's what she had, and that's all she could have done. I would give her hope. Change her world, at least momentarily. But whatever had hurt her, the thing that had scoured away her pretenses, it was living and vital to her time on that train. The depths of the pain, or the simplicities of her grief was completely real, at least for her in that time, and the only thing she could do was breathe in that doting self sympathy. She didn't need me, she needed herself.

God speed.

Be Relentless,
Peace
Remoy

A Poem

2008-12-02T23:20:00.002-05:00

by Remoy and Anya

Blue eyes on a green string
Speed bumps for my heart to sing
I walk too fast down the hallway,
My feet are looking but I’m not seeing
I smack into your speed bump
And wish I could see forever
Jump, run, flee
Get out of my misery
And hope to find hopes final dream
I feel too suffocated to even scream
My inner eye is smogged with steam
With “spreading those wings” I’m having no luck
Anyway; no one in this city gives a fuck

Will I go on and live forever?
Or ever not be just a specter?
Take me hard and let me be
Fly me away; birds of frost
Wings of Ice; high, high
Cold; colder, up and up

These desires are archaic
Homer had them; Dante went to hell and back
But people are the same as they always have been
Even if your language and voice sound more “in”
Is there anything wrong with contentment?
Solid in yourself but away from the judgement of men?
let me be, too
Not ablaze in the sky-
Quietly burning on the ground; brilliant, yellow and blue

And her breasts spoke of heaven
The pleasures of her blend into the depths
The soft spot between her thighs
Tears alone; singular
Bleeding one by bone
Down and down
A trail their own
From a mind
A fairy’s shout of release
Praises a brooks steady life among the trees
Teaches me,
Forever teaches me

Bliss,
The word seeps into me through his breath, through his kiss
Hot mist of his words wind it’s way in my ear
He tickles down to my stomach, down with the corners of his beard
His knuckles curl around my wrist,
Begging my legs to submit
Crash into flesh with a quiver of limbs
We blur into a tangle and into my current he swishes
With my strong strokes time and tempered by went
Soft sounds escape as we work to quell this fever

Let’s write a poem RIGHT now. I have this weird fear that I’ll blow up on the subway and wouldn’t have lived enough

Be Relentless,
Peace
Remoy