awake

i can't sleep.

it's eight o clock at night and i'm sleepy, but i can't sleep, so i decided to turn on my trusty laptop and ramble a little.

 

hang on, i need a little music. what should i listen to... zero 7 seems suitable enough... a little pseudo lounge ambiance for my dark little bunk bed cave.

 

part of the reason that i can't sleep is my fault. i got 'home' from work at around 2 after lunch and i was fairly sleepy. i didn't quite have the motivation to go to the gym and so after about 20 minutes of just laying on my bed in a daze, unwilling to move for just about anything, i decided... screw it... i'll go to bed now and wake up at 10 or 11 tonight and go to the gym then when it is not crowded. that way, if i feel like i need to sleep a little more than 8 hours, i can... last night i got about 5 hours worth and it was by no means satisfying.

 

so i did. i brushed my teeth, pulled back my sheets, jumped in, and off i traveled to slumberland. then i woke up at 7pm just now... well 45 minutes ago... and although i am still sleepy (yawning even), i just can't seem to knock myself out again.

 

great idea dude... now i have 9 hours before i have to be at work for an 10 hour day... AND the gym is at its most crowded right now.

 

on a different note: my floor looks like a cock fighting arena... there are feathers everywhere. the somewhat less expensive down comforter that i purchased before i left seems to have been manufactured by the same people who put braille on drive through ATMs.

 

everyone imagines down feathers as such a soft and insulating material... what they fail to detect is the needle sharp little tips of each feather where it was originally attached to the bird. if one were to, by chance, pack several tens of thousands of these little feathery barblets into a low thread count cover and then sell it to unwitting customers who are only looking for a warm night of sound sleep, then one could probably make a fair amount of money. that unscrupulous individual would only have to come to terms with the fact that said customer would feel like he or she was sleeping in a porcupine nest... night... after night...

 

i've gotten used to the fact that feathers are everywhere. they are stuck to my clothes. they pile up in dunes across my floor. they weave themselves into the weft of my very soul and i cannot get rid of them.

 

that's probably a little overdramatic, but then again i suppose all duck lepers are a little melodramatic when they are tired.

peace out yo.

in the name of medicine

ladies and gentlemen,

i regret to inform you of the bitter illness that has beset your beloved. i am afraid to tell you that there is no quick cure, and that rehabilitation will be a long and arduous process requiring much trial and tribulation, as well as support and dedication from his loved ones.

 

the cause should be of no surprise. there is a plethora of scientifically sound historical evidence that link the known causes to this kind of affliction. unfortunately, in times of global crisis such as these, often the personal safety of the few is sacrificed for the effort for the greater good. it was also found that the required OSHA placards (that detail the level of risk that an individual may face in this environment) were conspicuously absent from the workplace.

 

however, regardless of the amount of information available or preventative measures put into place, the end result is the same: a testosterone saturated environment with only remote links to the outside world... your dearly beloved has been diagnosed with chronic maleness. the term derived from the latin root mal, apparently meaning bad.

 

the subject first started displaying symptoms about two months ago when the testosterone rich environment started affecting him almost immediately. within days there appeared the early warning signs of upper labial follicle development... also known by the layman's term 'silly mustache." this in itself is not normally serious. often things like this flare up from time to time, normally on weekends when accompanied by suitably stimulating testosterone producing activities such as auto mechanicalism, and other fixing or bug killing activities, but it usually disappears in time for the relatively benign work week. in this case however, the follicle development continued, nay was cultured and even encouraged within the social context of his work environment. now two months later, the silly mustache is fully formed and promises to grow even further with no sign of subsiding.

 

the next and more serious phase of the affliction was more surprising... with very little warning, the subject began to spend more and more time in a physical conditioning center, engaging in painful and repetitive activities designed for nothing other than the restructuring and manipulation of musculoskeletal structure and the cardiovascular system. again, this activity has occasionally been a part of our dearly beloved's life schedule, but usually in short bursts and never with the regularity and intensity here mentioned.

 

over time, this has lead to a decrease in the amount of time spent in correspondence with his friends and family. it has lead to a decrease in the amount of net creative energy excess and a reciprocal increase in the frequency and duration of shop talk and guy time.

 

one of the serious long term effects of this dangerous affliction is the possible dissolution of relation with the previously existing ego (in the Freudian sense) and loss of connection with all things beautiful and creative (think california). overall the subject has been prescribed pens, pencils, paints, and paper, as well as music and books. the sketchbooks, pens, and pencils are already in his possession, and a very large shipment of paints is enroute, but we may need your help with suggestions for reading and hip music to inspire this young man so that we do not forever banish him to existence as just another uninspired, commonplace, testosterone driven guy.

 

i plead for your assistance, in the name of medicine and all good things.

 

in response

it's been a while since i've written. i guess i was a little surprised by the responses that i got from the last little ditty i wrote and i wanted to respond in turn but haven't know exactly how to yet... first of all, i loved the responses; there is not shortage of well written images of love and support, and i feel blessed to be able to receive that energy. at the same time i felt guilty. the five paragraphs seemed to strike a chord, and my sister was not the only one to write me and ask if everything was ok.

 

so i looked back at what i wrote, and it is SAD. i didn't think i was sad, a little homesick maybe... missing my wife, my family, my friends, good mexican food... but i didn't think i was sad. i was laying in bed looking through my iTunes library remarking on all the albums that i have had since the beginning of time, but that remain nonetheless unchecked... never to be downloaded onto my wee pod. i was wondering why i keep those albums, and i couldn't explain. i didn't know. so i figured i would ask one of them, "hey CD! yah you! how do you feel?" and see what they would say.

 

silly patrick, you might say... CDs can't talk

 

oh but they can.

 

they sing all the time, just like most everything... most people just don't take the time to listen, but there are songs everywhere. a sail can sing about it's weariness in a storm. an ice cube can sing about relaxing into oblivion. the wind can sing about the frustration of trying to grab the world without fingers. a dam holding back a great river can sing about dreams.

 

there is a voice for everything and anything can have a message that can anyone can understand... a poet or writer or songwriter is just a translator.

 

so yes. everything is ok. i feel a little far from the world at times, but i always was one to look for distance from time to time to regain my perspective. there are a lot of thoughts running around in this little head of mine, more than one of them is related with what i am doing over here and where that fits into the scope of the world, the universe, my life, my karma, and my future.

 

so many thoughts are not easily organized or easily shared. i am continually learning the extent to which i guard my thoughts, and i am constantly trying to relax my grasp on them. it would be nice to know what is going on in my center. in the meantime, i may ask a tree what it thinks... or a door... or a CD even. if you have any questions, let me know... i may answer here or perhaps in an email, but i'll answer if i can.

 

thank you. i love you too.

p

integrally obsolete

i am an overspecialized memory.

i am the cd you bought years ago because i was popular at the time and you listened to me a hundred times, but not anymore. i sit stacked on your bookshelf or in your cd case next to Bel Biv Devoe or David Bowie.

 

you know exactly what i sound like. you know exactly what part of your life i remind you of, and that time is not now. i don't fit.

 

you've tried to put me in the player on one of those days when you were feeling nostalgic, perhaps to impress someone with the breadth and diversity of your music collection... only to get part way into the first song and realize it was a mistake... i don't fit... you'd be much better off with some hooverphonic or kate earl or ekova. i'm a old emotion that you've outgrown; lacking the complexity of the life you've created, i no longer apply.

 

but you hold onto me. i stay there in your collection. another ring in your musical tree trunk... another layer that was once your skin that you wore, but that now is just another hidden layer above your core.

 

my purpose no longer to sing, but to remind and support... silently.

white noise

i tried to sleep without the air conditioner on, because i got too cold. it was fairly cold outside... more cool really, enough for a pair of running pants and a windbreaker (if you wear that kind of thing), but definitely not the kind of weather where you need an air conditioner. i mean, it's january.

i couldn't use the heater though. the prior occupant was very clear on that account:

"if you turn the heater on, it will smell like something is burning. then all of your clothes and things will smell like burning, and you will not like it" (he e-nun-ci-a-ted)

i didn't believe him at first... smell like burning, HA. he probably didn't clean out the filter. i opened up the access door and Voila! it was filthy. so i gently removed it and carried it outside so as not to knock even a modicum of dust onto my rug. once outside however, i beat it against the railing for a minute in the somewhat unchoreographed ballet style of a drunken swashbuckler.

i returned back inside, somewhat disheveled and all-together covered in dust, replaced the filter, turned the heater onto the lowest setting, and waited all of 4 seconds before i could smell the burning. it was all of 10 seconds before i smelled like burning, and i most definitely did not like it.

it smelled as if the whole thing would blow at any minute: coppery ozone with a little of burnt dust and hair thrown in there for good measure. it tingled my tongue and stuck in my throat when i inhaled. there was no question, the heater was definitely not turning back on. so it was off then... if a/c is too cold and heat will burn the place down, then i wasn't going to use the damn thing at all. so off went the light, and into the bed i went.

i heard the door down the hall open, someone took 23 steps to the end of the hall and opened the far door into the wind, slamming it into the railing. then someone two rooms down coughed. then the person next door came home, and i heard every single article of their clothing hit the floor. then i heard the music they were playing... in their earphones. someone else left their room. someone else came back. someone told a funny joke, and somebody didn't sleep.

me

so the fan came back on, filling the room with a soft teddy bear of a noise that hid the world from my ears. i put my running pants and windbreaker on, pulled the covers up over my head... and fell blissfully asleep.

sweet dreams.

a shiny tool

if i were a screwdriver...

i would aim to keep my edge. i would seat myself firmly in the screw and torque evenly, so as not to slip out of my groove and strip the head. i would dedicate my existence to it, being there for the screws: making sure they can all remain firmly seated, so that none work their way loose, to be lost forever. i would watch over them and make them my responsibility and i would find my honor in that.

 

i would pray at night that the hands that held me would honor me. i know sometimes a screwdriver is used to pry up a lid... or chip away at something with a hammer. i know sometimes they are used to shimmy locks or punch holes or to break something apart.

 

you can tell when you see them. they are twisted, gouged, and bent ever so slightly... just enough that they no longer quite seat; they slip from the groove. they are passed over for another. they are discarded. they are lost. they are forgotten.

 

oh what desires are there for a tool other than to be used with respect and good purpose?

book report

i am listening to Tricky in my room and thinking how i
would like to meditate.
i just finished reading A Fortune Teller Told Me by
Tiziano Terzani.

i would recommend it to my closest friends. it is an
autobiography of the international correspondent
during the year 1993 when Mr. Terzani was warned by a
fortune teller (back in 1976) that he faced a grave
risk of dying if he chose to fly that year. choosing
to honor the possible danger, he travels by boat,
train, automobile, and foot, all throughout the far
east and relates his travels and insights in this
book. i liked it because he is honest and open with
his voice. he does not sugar coat, nor does he
apologize for, his opinion.

so now i just recommended it to you.
with love
p

Needs

I need a cave.

I have to be able to extinguish the fire to stop the movement across the walls. I need to be able to feel the breath from my nose as it touches my upper lip. I need to close my ears.

I want there to be vibrations in the stone at my feet that i can press my forehead into. I want to feel earth against my skin in gritty units of age.

 

I would swallow huge spheres of ice, as large as my head, and i would enjoy the inner numbness as i melted them away, all the while concentrating on my breathing.

All the while concentrating on my bones relaxing...

 

I want to read the wall with my fingertips. I want to interpret the eons of movement and pressure in the braille cracks and fissures. I want to walk barefoot on the rocks and remember the sharpness before the skin callouses.

 

i need a cave that i can leave... so that even the moonlight blinds me.

OUT OF TOUCH CONTINUED...

HA!

that relatively buffoonerous act was me hitting send before i was even done. (not like that has ever happened before) although it could have been the doings of THE MAN, being the all powerful entity that it is.

 

so here is the deal. there will be no responses of mine in the comments section... not because i don't wish to respond, but rather because, in my somewhat ethereally-handcuffed state, i am unable to get to the page to respond... so therefore, i will have to respond here:

 

elijah,

i love you too, and i feel your love and support and the love, peace, and harmony that accompany it. i arrived here a just after the new year chimed in to find the land much muddier and a great deal colder than when i last left it. it is a strange thing, this place. it is easy to forget what day it is because i go to work everyday. it's groundhog day in a strangely communist world where everyone is wearing the same clothes and shows up to work at the same time everyday and does the same thing. everyone has health care. everyone has shoes. everyone gets paid about the same. we all live in the same little trailers with two beds and two cabinets and two desk lamps and two bedstands. instead of monday tuesday wednesday, we have curry day, and taco day, steak and lobster day, and chicken cordon bleu day. i measure time by how many pairs of clean underwear are in my cabinet and to a greater extent, how many times i have done laundry. it's a silly little world that i find myself in. yet the silliest thing is that part of me craves this while i am far from here. i will talk to you soon.

 

heather,

love of my love. right now you are navigating the streets of istambul with your walking feet and your looking eyes. how i wish i could be walking at your side with your hand in my hand and your scent in my nose. my feet feel too heavy when you aren't standing on my toes and dancing through the kitchen with your blinding smile. i am jealous of istambul and of all the other strange lands that feel the touch of your toes instead of me.

this is a strange life, and i do not know why i so hunger for things that challenge me. nor can i explain my affinity for contradiction and opposition. i am reading and thinking. i am feeling my way out again and searching for the part of me that i haven't seen since school. i know he is around somewhere.

speaking of school, i ran into a splendid gentleman who also went to santa cruz. it is a strange thing in my world and we both had to admit that we were both the first people that we knew to share that in common. not only that, but we were in the same dorm... we were both residential advisors... and we both had responsibility of the SAME HALL.

we spent all of our middle meal (hard to call it lunch when it happens at 4am) reminiscing about the school and the area and the people and the magically unique environment that we left for this world.

the exchange was a bittersweet, and it helped me remember a little more about who i am.

 

there is a lot of sarcasm and negativity sometimes when one is surrounded by others who are separated from their friends and loved ones for hundreds of days at a time. i endeavor to keep that in check, and to foil the sour emissions from others as i am able. this is a serious work that all these men and women have undertaken, and i pray that they do not forget the little bits that make them individual and beautiful. nor that they forget the implications of their actions, as i endeavor to do.

with all the hurt, pain, disillusionment, and destructive elements in this world, i pray my actions do more to alleviate these things rather than inflame them. my fear is that i will never know.

 

with all of my love,

p

out of touch

i am officially out of touch.

for one, my internet/email access is limited. the man has got me down. when i can get online, i can't even check out my own blog. why you ask? because it is BLOCKED! FORBIDDEN! VERBOTEN! OUT OF BOUNDS! STAY OFF THE GRASS! DO NOT FEED THE ANIMALS!