You inspire me and it all started with your eyes, a beautiful blue that not even God could duplicate. They are your own, and through them you peered into my soul. I was not ready for them to break me so easily yet I was not opposed to their attraction. You sat across the table from me, flicking a "Bic" lighter on and off coming in and out of view. Even through the darkness your piercing blue eyes shimmered like starlight. A dancing flame for one ephemeral moment brought attention that you were staring directly to me and bringing light to your face, porcelain white against the dark shadows. Could you see me staring back as you looked past the conversation going on around us and directly at me?
We made eye contact through the flickering flame for just a moment. Either you were embarrassed or you were sending me a message because you let a small smirk escape. So warming and and thrilling, my heart began beating faster. A slight rush at first but later it would become an infection of my mind. I could not close my eyes without seeing you in the shadow smiling back at me. I constantly wondered why I could not forget your eyes, the way that you looked through me and not just at me. You completely saw through all of my walls and emotional shells, you saw the raw pain and emotion that existed within and with one warming smile you found a way to distract me from all of my worries. I thought I had died and gone to heaven, but as you continued to stare back at me I realized that I had not died and that in fact heaven was brought to me through you.
What were you looking for? Understand me correctly when I say that I became addicted to your stare. When you let your small smirk and glance direct it's influence my way, I felt a high unparalleled to anything tangible. To be honest most of my earlier appearances were solely motivated to just catch your look, it was very selfish. I was constantly coming up with ways to attract your attention and keep you as involved as possible. It was all for your eyes, all for the feeling of basking in the aura of your supreme beauty. As I got to know you, study your quirks, I found a person within you that made me truly happy to be around. Your smile was now simply the window into what I found within you and it was glorious. All past convictions occurring the opposite sex seemed lost. You proved them all wrong. What I thought could never exist now willingly allowed me to stare back into it's eyes and attempt to unlock your soul. The feeling was amazing. I had not felt that amount of happiness in a very long time. And you inspired so much, giving me the confidence to step up and better myself, to initiate a change. A literal transformation of the self.
I feel confident that it was you though who inspired this change. For a long time I was going no where. I was shut down and shut out from feeling anything. I needed your enlightenment. I had already found the path but it was befallen with darkness. How could I have emerged without your illumination? Never before had I asked myself questions so revealing and raw. How was it that your eyes could incite such an internal revolution?
I was afraid of putting this on paper, because now it is real, now it is a truth I must embrace. Like all things though it not simple and romantic. Edgar Allen Poe, John Steinbeck, and even Shakespeare saw an element of life that most turned away from. What did they see? They saw the harsh realities of life. In their stories the main character was not always guaranteed a happy ending. Often they died or lived a life of unrequited love. There is beauty in their works because it brings to the imagination a picture of true life. Many times the concepts they play around with spend their existence simply in the far hidden sections of the mind. They put words to the harsh realizations, they broke free from the monotonous fairy tale picturesque fantasies. They knew the truth, that life is tragic and cold. So why should love be any different?
I wonder if my fascination for your eyes blinded a truth that was right in front of me. Please believe me that I say this with pure sincerity and born from a simple frustration at the the confusion, your words are cryptic. They take me on a roller coaster of excitement. Once I am convinced you are trying to tell me something, hint at the way you feel about me you completely steer in the other direction. Obviously you are not interested which is completely understandable given your situation. But a second later you are building me back up to a false inclination. You provided very specific similarities to keep an eye out for, similarities that you know we share. Then you pressed the denial of something right in front of my eyes. Were you trying to tell me something? When you said I need to find that person where a conversation can be fluidly had as late as 4 o' clock in the morning, did you realize we had been talking all through the night and it was 4 o' clock in the morning? Again you pressed the fact that I could be missing out on the greatest thing of my life, something right in front of me. "Sometimes you will just find love,"you lectured to me,"you don't like it, you don't want it but you feel it. And you will be missing out on the greatest experience of your life if you hide away from it." You seemed frustrated, as if maybe you were feeling something, you didn't want to but you do.
Now the harsh reality. Now the Shakespearean twist. It does not matter how comfortable I am around you, or how great of a person I think you are. It does not matter that I have for once found some one I truly want to be around. It does not matter that I have already found that one person you were explaining that I need. But if all my previous inferences are wrong and you feel nothing, you have no how idea how truly tragic this is. So you tell me what I need in a woman, and unknown to you you are explaining yourself. I can see that clearly, can you not? You tell me to go after it like an objective in Risk, but it is not that simple. Do you know who you are? You tell me to not deny love and that if I feel it then I need to put myself out there and go for it. Oh, if you knew the tragedy that is boiling beneath the surface. Do you know who you are? If you do then you would understand why I must continue my solitude.
Nothing shall ever be said of my feelings and that kills me. It makes me feel even more alone because now that we have established a great friendship, how could I ever separate myself from you? I am fated to exist in this constant silent obsession. Nothing will ever break my will though, I will always be the shoulder and the ear that you need. When you need some one to keep you company late at night because you feel lonely, I will always be willing to sit with you. And when you look at me you will always be ignorant to the true meaning behind my stare.A secret that will be brought to the grave. I only wrote this to show that I too possess the ability to allow love to trump logic yet some how a logical approach was needed to find acceptance in my fate. With harsh realities and Shakespearean love, logic and reason is the only safe harbor. Do not traverse the depths of feelings in the turbulent sea of love when you can sit safely atop a logically built boat, alone but safe.
C.R.
Saturday, August 30, 2014
Sunday, August 24, 2014
Teenage Angst
Rock and roll is as necessary to my life as the blood that pumps through my veins. It is my opinion that rock is the best style of music in our modern time. No other genre can compete. Respect is much deserved for those who possess the ability to play in a rock band. A perfect collaboration with your brothers in war is needed and often being non-verbal. Signature changes and volume control is simply based on how well each musician understands their contributors. A constant ebb and flow of fast paced melodies built from the imagination alone.
The drummer establishes a steady beat often adding short fills of an extra snare or the pedals kicking the drum and dropping the hi-hat; occasionally a drum roll through the toms is stuck in between phrases and kicks off the next one with the crash of his cymbal. He is in complete control of the tempo and drive of the sound, with the bassist working in line with his melody. Behind the dark tone of the song is the bassist in his heavy sound and even heavier strokes. Breaking free from his own melody the guitarist escapes the structured rhythm and begins improvising. His fingers are working with one hundred percent efficiency as they climb up and down the neck with almost no resistance. Complicated fills are being performed through bends, hammer-ons and pull-offs, tremolo picking and the extensive use of vibrato. Completely in tune with his guitar the fingers know where to go based solely on instinct, and a perfect knowledge of the rosewood neck and how the nickel wound strings resonate through the body. While performing these complex maneuvers he is skillfully crafting it around his own created rhythm and at the same time casting forth dark undertones of an almost satanic nature.
To play rock and roll effectively the player must be prepared to completely bare his soul. The instrument is a clear window to the inner most secrets of the self. Listen as the guitar cries! Listen closely to the dark sound of E minor right before its flawless transition to A minor where a couple of strings are picked on the way back up to a heartwarming G chord, only to return to the dark pit of the E minor. All the while the guitarist is clenching his eyes shut, not needing his eyes for his heart is sufficient. The tone is set by his intensity of the strums, the time he lingers on a single note and the strain in his voice as he forces out incomprehensible lyrics.
My earliest memory of rock and roll was watching my father play with his friends in the garage of our house in whatever state we were living in at the time. Before I could even read I could lay down a steady beat on my dark blue pearl drum set for my father as he played his guitar. When I was in second grade my musical interests comprised of Fear Factory, the Offspring, the Butt-hole Surfers and the Red Hot Chile Peppers. But no other band had had the effect on me that Nirvana did. Something about their grungy and dark sound enthralled me. There was something hidden deep within Kurt Cobain's lyrics that resonated within me, influencing me before I was even of the mental capacity to understand the symbolism. Rock and roll has a heavy impact on an impressionable child living in poverty. As Kurt Cobain voiced his frustrations about life I was struggling to comprehend my own. At the time I could not dare to know, but I understand now that I too was angry. I was angry that we had returned to cock-roach infested motel rooms around southern California as places to live. I was angry that my mother had lied to me, told me things were going to get better when it only ever got worse. Even more so I was mad at God. Kurt Cobain was my god. In the sixth grade I once tried to turn in a paper about why Kurt Cobain was my hero. I was forced to redo it because I was told that a drugged up suicidal rock star could not be a child's hero. I fought for the topic of the paper but I lost. I ended up writing about J.R.R. Tolkien instead.
One summer even the motel rooms became too expensive and my family was forced spend it in a cheap tent. We listened to "In Utero" on the way to the first campsite of a very long summer. My father was usually working, trying his hardest to bring us up and out of poverty. My mother was tasked to tend to us all day at the campsites, building and tearing down the tent and organizing the trips to and from the next site. As a twelve year old boy of three sisters, emotions were not acceptable. My father had made it very clear that crying was not for the men to do, and that I had to be strong for my sisters and mother. A lot of pressure for a young kid to handle. But through Nirvana I had found my source of serenity. Through Cobain's angst I was able to suppress my own. Often my sister's and I would argue in the car about what we should listen to, Amy Grant or Nirvana. I was not the only one to struggle through that period, my whole family seemed to suffer their own internal war. My sisters and mother sought faith to ease their frustrations, I found rock and roll. I remember waiting in the car while they were in the church finishing up some service so that they could attend the food bank line thereafter. While the the preacher inside was filling their heads with mythological bullshit I was in the car carefully dissecting the lyrics of a Nirvana song with my father, "In Bloom". Whenever we would pray before dinner I would close my eyes and sing "Pennyroyal Tea" to myself, my favorite Nirvana song. Kurt Cobain held my respect even before God. Rock and roll had provided for me an opportunity to actually give in to my angst. It allowed me to sing the songs with the same tenacity and passion allowing me to tap into an addicting energy. I think Frank Turner put it best in his song "I still Believe":
C.R.
The drummer establishes a steady beat often adding short fills of an extra snare or the pedals kicking the drum and dropping the hi-hat; occasionally a drum roll through the toms is stuck in between phrases and kicks off the next one with the crash of his cymbal. He is in complete control of the tempo and drive of the sound, with the bassist working in line with his melody. Behind the dark tone of the song is the bassist in his heavy sound and even heavier strokes. Breaking free from his own melody the guitarist escapes the structured rhythm and begins improvising. His fingers are working with one hundred percent efficiency as they climb up and down the neck with almost no resistance. Complicated fills are being performed through bends, hammer-ons and pull-offs, tremolo picking and the extensive use of vibrato. Completely in tune with his guitar the fingers know where to go based solely on instinct, and a perfect knowledge of the rosewood neck and how the nickel wound strings resonate through the body. While performing these complex maneuvers he is skillfully crafting it around his own created rhythm and at the same time casting forth dark undertones of an almost satanic nature.
To play rock and roll effectively the player must be prepared to completely bare his soul. The instrument is a clear window to the inner most secrets of the self. Listen as the guitar cries! Listen closely to the dark sound of E minor right before its flawless transition to A minor where a couple of strings are picked on the way back up to a heartwarming G chord, only to return to the dark pit of the E minor. All the while the guitarist is clenching his eyes shut, not needing his eyes for his heart is sufficient. The tone is set by his intensity of the strums, the time he lingers on a single note and the strain in his voice as he forces out incomprehensible lyrics.
My earliest memory of rock and roll was watching my father play with his friends in the garage of our house in whatever state we were living in at the time. Before I could even read I could lay down a steady beat on my dark blue pearl drum set for my father as he played his guitar. When I was in second grade my musical interests comprised of Fear Factory, the Offspring, the Butt-hole Surfers and the Red Hot Chile Peppers. But no other band had had the effect on me that Nirvana did. Something about their grungy and dark sound enthralled me. There was something hidden deep within Kurt Cobain's lyrics that resonated within me, influencing me before I was even of the mental capacity to understand the symbolism. Rock and roll has a heavy impact on an impressionable child living in poverty. As Kurt Cobain voiced his frustrations about life I was struggling to comprehend my own. At the time I could not dare to know, but I understand now that I too was angry. I was angry that we had returned to cock-roach infested motel rooms around southern California as places to live. I was angry that my mother had lied to me, told me things were going to get better when it only ever got worse. Even more so I was mad at God. Kurt Cobain was my god. In the sixth grade I once tried to turn in a paper about why Kurt Cobain was my hero. I was forced to redo it because I was told that a drugged up suicidal rock star could not be a child's hero. I fought for the topic of the paper but I lost. I ended up writing about J.R.R. Tolkien instead.
One summer even the motel rooms became too expensive and my family was forced spend it in a cheap tent. We listened to "In Utero" on the way to the first campsite of a very long summer. My father was usually working, trying his hardest to bring us up and out of poverty. My mother was tasked to tend to us all day at the campsites, building and tearing down the tent and organizing the trips to and from the next site. As a twelve year old boy of three sisters, emotions were not acceptable. My father had made it very clear that crying was not for the men to do, and that I had to be strong for my sisters and mother. A lot of pressure for a young kid to handle. But through Nirvana I had found my source of serenity. Through Cobain's angst I was able to suppress my own. Often my sister's and I would argue in the car about what we should listen to, Amy Grant or Nirvana. I was not the only one to struggle through that period, my whole family seemed to suffer their own internal war. My sisters and mother sought faith to ease their frustrations, I found rock and roll. I remember waiting in the car while they were in the church finishing up some service so that they could attend the food bank line thereafter. While the the preacher inside was filling their heads with mythological bullshit I was in the car carefully dissecting the lyrics of a Nirvana song with my father, "In Bloom". Whenever we would pray before dinner I would close my eyes and sing "Pennyroyal Tea" to myself, my favorite Nirvana song. Kurt Cobain held my respect even before God. Rock and roll had provided for me an opportunity to actually give in to my angst. It allowed me to sing the songs with the same tenacity and passion allowing me to tap into an addicting energy. I think Frank Turner put it best in his song "I still Believe":
"...I still believe in the sound
that has the power
to raise a temple and tear it down.
And I still believe in the need
for guitars and drums and desperate poetry.
I still believe that everyone
can find a song for every time they've lost
and every time they've won..."
C.R.
Monday, August 4, 2014
The Path
This road is not without sacrifice. It is not without pain or disappointment. There is no guarantee that it can even be successfully traversed. Many have tried it, even more have failed. The cobblestone path is not well defined and the rocks that are composed of it are not smooth or pretty. Some loosely sit on top of the sandy earth and slip away underneath the treading foot. Jagged edges scrape against the pants and no foothold is completely stable, though every step must be made in complete confidence for the weak will always fall. Some will walk this path and never find the end. Others will find the end but forget the path. At every turn there is uncertainty. The winding path often becomes difficult to travel and may even reach a dead end. Small successes become great triumphs and great triumphs may just be the next step forward. Love will be lost, friends will disappear, family may turn their back and self doubt will rear it's ugly face. Happiness will be hard pressed to find. It takes an incredible amount of strength and courage to undertake it's path. Great intelligence and determination is necessary for navigation. But only through sacrifice will one see the end. There is no going back either for the fall is mighty and should one turn their attention away the road would consume them. Caleb took this road.
The other road is lined intricately with white brick and colorful mosaics. Flora and fauna grow in harmony with the straight road and the end is easily reached. No challenges of worth present themselves and the ease of the sojourn makes internal growth impossible. No need for hard work or self improvement. There is no struggle, no hardships and no long term fight for joy. Quick and instant gratification. Why wait for happiness when one could gain it immediately? The road is open to everyone and all, and very rarely do those find its path a difficult endeavor. She took the other road.
At the fork both decided their route. Through everything that preceded they made their way together. They prevailed. But faced with their choices, both made their steps forward. In truth Caleb had made his choice much earlier and lest be consumed he had to continue. Caleb was strong, she was weak. Caleb was brave, she was a coward.
"A fucking coward!"
Correction: She was a 'fucking coward'. Yes, he surely had to sacrifice.
"Everything! And yet I continue forward! And for what!?"
For the destination. For your fate.
"Fuck fate! I am so tired of this! Just sick and tired! I feel chained to this road! The very same road that is supposed to grant me freedom! Freedom from poverty! From Anger! FROM MYSELF! Yet with every step nothing improves. It never gets any better."
Again, self doubt will rear its ugly face. Faith in the path may be lost but never can the sojourner show weakness. Weakness is liable to failure. Every sacrifice made is completely necessary for the traveler's success even though the commitment to such sacrifice will cause disillusionment, sorrow and even increased difficulty.
"It's just too hard!"
Every ounce of anger and frustration now coming through Caleb's tone.
"What is the point of the destination if the road itself will kill me?! I don't even know the destination!"
Of course the destination is unknown Caleb, it changes with every step. And never was there an assurance that it would be easy. It's not easy but nothing worth having ever is. Caleb knew his anger was just a product of his journey now being undertaken alone.
"She is a fucking coward!"
I know Caleb. But her company would bring you down. You were struggling on the way here even, what makes you think you could survive this?
"Love!"
Love? It does not exist on this road. Nothing matters but the end. Everything else is subject to change just as you are Caleb.
"And what do you know of love?"
Your right Caleb, I am but a humble pen but through me a mad writer pours his heart out.
"Well he's full of shit! He claims to know of this road when he himself has yet to complete it!"
You are correct, but who better to convey it's frustrations than one who views it from within. I know you are in pain Caleb.
"I am."
I know you have lost faith.
"I have."
But strength is required ahead. Failure is not an option. One does not travel this road for it's scenery. There are no pretty side paths that lead through valleys and furtive plains. The ground below you is harsh and uninhabitable. When one reaches the end and looks upon the journey behind them they do not see this. What lies before them is their own strength and a greater appreciation for the struggle. And you will feel empowered because you have become God. You will look upon your triumph with arms raised in a 'V' and shout out 'Success! Finally! I've done it! I've overcome adversity and even myself! I AM HERE!' And your thunderous voice will echo throughout the world and force those who took the other path to look upon their own journey. But what will they see? What will she see?
"Mediocrity."
Exactly.
"It's what she deserves."
No Caleb, It is what they all deserve.
C.R.
The other road is lined intricately with white brick and colorful mosaics. Flora and fauna grow in harmony with the straight road and the end is easily reached. No challenges of worth present themselves and the ease of the sojourn makes internal growth impossible. No need for hard work or self improvement. There is no struggle, no hardships and no long term fight for joy. Quick and instant gratification. Why wait for happiness when one could gain it immediately? The road is open to everyone and all, and very rarely do those find its path a difficult endeavor. She took the other road.
At the fork both decided their route. Through everything that preceded they made their way together. They prevailed. But faced with their choices, both made their steps forward. In truth Caleb had made his choice much earlier and lest be consumed he had to continue. Caleb was strong, she was weak. Caleb was brave, she was a coward.
"A fucking coward!"
Correction: She was a 'fucking coward'. Yes, he surely had to sacrifice.
"Everything! And yet I continue forward! And for what!?"
For the destination. For your fate.
"Fuck fate! I am so tired of this! Just sick and tired! I feel chained to this road! The very same road that is supposed to grant me freedom! Freedom from poverty! From Anger! FROM MYSELF! Yet with every step nothing improves. It never gets any better."
Again, self doubt will rear its ugly face. Faith in the path may be lost but never can the sojourner show weakness. Weakness is liable to failure. Every sacrifice made is completely necessary for the traveler's success even though the commitment to such sacrifice will cause disillusionment, sorrow and even increased difficulty.
"It's just too hard!"
Every ounce of anger and frustration now coming through Caleb's tone.
"What is the point of the destination if the road itself will kill me?! I don't even know the destination!"
Of course the destination is unknown Caleb, it changes with every step. And never was there an assurance that it would be easy. It's not easy but nothing worth having ever is. Caleb knew his anger was just a product of his journey now being undertaken alone.
"She is a fucking coward!"
I know Caleb. But her company would bring you down. You were struggling on the way here even, what makes you think you could survive this?
"Love!"
Love? It does not exist on this road. Nothing matters but the end. Everything else is subject to change just as you are Caleb.
"And what do you know of love?"
Your right Caleb, I am but a humble pen but through me a mad writer pours his heart out.
"Well he's full of shit! He claims to know of this road when he himself has yet to complete it!"
You are correct, but who better to convey it's frustrations than one who views it from within. I know you are in pain Caleb.
"I am."
I know you have lost faith.
"I have."
But strength is required ahead. Failure is not an option. One does not travel this road for it's scenery. There are no pretty side paths that lead through valleys and furtive plains. The ground below you is harsh and uninhabitable. When one reaches the end and looks upon the journey behind them they do not see this. What lies before them is their own strength and a greater appreciation for the struggle. And you will feel empowered because you have become God. You will look upon your triumph with arms raised in a 'V' and shout out 'Success! Finally! I've done it! I've overcome adversity and even myself! I AM HERE!' And your thunderous voice will echo throughout the world and force those who took the other path to look upon their own journey. But what will they see? What will she see?
"Mediocrity."
Exactly.
"It's what she deserves."
No Caleb, It is what they all deserve.
C.R.
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