Circles of Confusion

insights and inquiries from a mind out of focus

[cinemojo]

Just some 3D photos taken in Alaska.

[cinemojo]

February

Behind me, a chill -- a cold hand on my back. But, lighting up my face, the warmth of the sun, my golden pleasure. Three months into her slumber. Oh February, lonely and frigid; uncaring and unforgiving. No leaves or brush, flowers or foliage or otherwise to hide the ugly parts. The cold reflects the coldness in men. The frozen landscape lays bare the truth-- we are open and exposed for what we are: helpless, naked things. Also, the truth of my own state, the things I have done, or, more often, failed to do. Those dreams abandoned, and the seeds I planted too late, barely began to grow before being frozen. But a warm cup of coffee between my hands, and a warm room, warm enough to not have to wear a coat. Both warmed by ancient sunlight. These are my only hints of a world less frigid. Still, she wakes up a bit more every day, and when I am very still, I remember, and feel her energy within me, burning like a swirling oven, warming my soul, and stirring life into my body.

[cinemojo]

Mask or Aid?

Bicycling through the winter in climates such as mine has forced me to wear a face mask during particularly cold days. While wearing a mask, I've been musing over the idea of masks in general.

The obvious thing is, we use masks to hide. Our face is our identity, staying relatively the same, or at least similar enough to be recognized, our entire life.

Masks hide us -- but not just our identity. Also, our emotions, our reactions, our vulnerabilities, our thoughts, our imperfections. They endow us with a certain kind of power, in that we can observe from a relative safety, without fear or self-doubt. We can present ourselves anonymously-- just another human without an identity. In that way, perhaps masks are actually closer to the truth. Our real faces incite an automatic judgement and response from other humans. And those judgements, however false or distorted, however far from reality, regardless make their way into our psyches, and influence our opinion of ourselves. They begin to seep into our self-identity, and even become how we ultimately describe ourselves to others... Until we become, not who we truly are, but what a few others have assumed we are, told us we are, based on nothing at all -- and so it becomes a sort of feedback loop: we are told who we are (or who we ought to be) by others, and thus we become that thing and wear that mask, which actually hides our true identities. We hide our true selves behind a mask forged by societies idea of who we are.

So perhaps to wear another mask on top of that one we wear daily actually enables us to be closer to our true selves. Perhaps that is the power, or the comfort that we feel when we put on a mask. Rather than hiding behind a mask, we are momentarily liberated from the mask we call our face.

One could argue, however, that hiding our human-ness, our imperfections, our vulnerabilities is to hide our true selves. I might agree, in part, with such an argument. However, if one considers that such vulnerabilities and perceived imperfection are not necessarily an essential human trait, but more or less a learned trait, pushed onto the individual from an outside source, whether it be other "individuals" (who are probably only regurgitating what they too have been taught) or by a mass media or society or religion that has something to gain by imposing such false ideas into the minds of the population, then one could conclude that our true and natural state is not that of beings that are nervous, unsure, jealous, distracted, self-loathing, or afraid, but instead, beings that are powerful, self-assured, confident, focused, determined, and motivated by love and virtue, not by fear and competition.

Am I then, arguing for a world where everybody on the planet wears a mask, where we hide our faces in order to be truer versions of ourselves? Not at all. That's a terrible idea.

Human faces are beautiful. Every face has a story. We must only learn to see that beauty. To toss into the fire the prejudices and preconceived ideas and the reactionary judgements that in any case are not our own, but those of past generations, those that are fueled by ignorance and hatred and misunderstanding and fear. We must only learn to love our skin, in all of it's various incarnations, with all of it's scars or wrinkles, spots or dents or lumps, and in all of it's many colors and phases of elasticity. And of course, most importantly, we must learn to love the one that lives beneath it. Because, after all, it is only a mask.

[cinemojo]

Changing Tides

Something like hanging by a thread, or a deep churning, a liquid vibration beneath the surface. Over time, a skin has formed and hardened to a crust And we've mistaken this shell as stability as permanent fixtures as a solid foundation on top of which we may build all that we depend on. We've totally forgotten the vacillating, undulating, capricious and precarious, immeasurably delicate nature of the substance which now moans and rumbles so that we cannot any longer avoid or ignore its agitation. Though we may seek professional help to distract us from these stirrings The truth, regardless, tickles our senses. and though the days bring with them the bustling and bickering and milling about which muffles the sound-- as deep as the earth, like the songs of whales, a painfully slow crescendo, still, it takes only a moment of silence or solitude, a break from the comfort of habits, and the restless refrain reemerges, like a spectre hiding in the shadows, waiting to reveal himself.

[cinemojo]

Musings on Fear

How does one move past fear when one has been crippled by fear for most of his life? Fear of death. loneliness. failure. change. Though change is the very nature of life. Yet so many fear it. As a society at large we fear it, we resist it unless it becomes absolutely inevitable. or necessary. And not just necessary with respect to psychological, emotional or even physiological wellness —we’ve gotten far past that now. But really, except very rarely, it must be a “life or death" necessary-for-survival type situation. Then— suddenly we are open to change and the opportunities it presents. But are we truly creatures of habit and comfort by nature? Does our predisposition toward routine (no matter the cost) come naturally? Or is it learned behavior? Are we made to fear change? It seems to me that the latter is more accurate. and carefully calculated too in order that the current paradigm, and power structures remain intact for as long as possible. Because a culture afraid of change is necessarily a prisoner of the past of outdated and irrelevant institutions who themselves yearn to die, to crumble and turn to dust and take to the winds of time. Yet — like a brain-dead patient It is the machine that keeps them alive. And we power the machine with our fear. Like hamsters on their wheels trudging along toward some dream or away from a nightmare. But it is their natural right to expire and be replaced, renewed, reborn into new ideas. And it is that fear that prohibits the evolution of ideas. And just as I in my own life must learn to let go I believe we must, too, as a global society learn the same. Let us accept death. Let the rain wash away the blood and dirt of those who have come before us. Or let the fire burn, and the wind carry away the ash of excess, that which is no longer needed (which ever metaphor you prefer) —so that we may see, finally past the past and burn steadily, and brightly with determination and without fear into that glorious future that patiently awaits our embrace.

[cinemojo]

I wasn't the only one watching the sun set through the fog tonight.

[cinemojo]

Meeting Myself Half Way

I'm a new person every day. If my today-self was introduced to my yesterday-self I think I'd think You seem so familiar, do I know you from somewhere? And also, I'd be jealous of yesterday-me For being so naive And I'd be jealous of yesterday-me For being so free of all the things that burden me of all the self-flagellation the newly-acquired, oft-repeated self-defeating mantras that build up, pile on, every day anew That for some unhealthy reason are so much easier to build than to destroy Perhaps Shiva can help knock out the bad parts, like a jenga game without sending the whole thing tumbling down. We might both learn something from meeting one another He, that time is precious. I, to stop holding on so tight. He, that intention and action necessarily manifests. and I, that fear and regret necessarily stifles. Though I may never meet yesterday-me At least not for some time I can seek comfort in knowing I will soon meet tomorrow-me A whole new person with experiences quite distinct from my own And that he might seek some guidance from someone who seems so familiar.

[cinemojo]

The Roadkill Blues

Tired eyes and cold fingers typing out random nonsense words. Making this sentence, and that one up there. I have to ask myself if I really have anything important to say. Usually I answer myself with "No." But I keep writing. I keep typing, I keep talking. If only to hear myself speak. Or think. My minds voice. Is it only to validate to myself that I actually exist? That I am still alive? But if my thoughts have no meaning, how alive am I, really? All I have is questions, and no answers. Words are only symbols, to reconfirm my ideas, to give my world structure in the form of language. Because without language, what am I really doing? Taking orders. A grunt here and a grunt there, and I know that I must do what you grunt. Or else forfeit my reward. An occasional warm meal and a warm place to sleep, where I can, at least for tonight, forget about the cold world outside. But, it costs me my freedom. It costs me most of my waking life. There has to be a better way to spend my time. The days fly by as if they were never there to begin with. The month is like a dead squirrel smeared into the road, over and over, by every passing car, until it becomes unrecognizable as a squirrel, and blends in with the road, a tiny carpet to wipe the dirt from the passing tires. And then it is scraped away and thrown to the curb, where many a biker will look at it inquisitively as they pedal past. And if they look enough, they will see the progression of the tiny pancake, from the squirrel that darts in front of them, to the one who failed to make up it's mind quick enough as to which tree it was running to, to the furry thing, gutted open on the pavement like an autopsy patient, to the skin laying next to the innards, like a spooning couple, never to be reunited, to the flattened pelt, reminiscent of a squirrel, a profile, a shadow of what was, still trying to make it to that tree, to what now lays before them, the teeny matted and dirty remnant. And the rumbling tires that don't have time to stop for the funeral. But a glance, yes, okay, and maybe that's enough. I feel bad, and that's enough. And just like time and memory (which, if you've forgotten-- was the metaphor), we take a glance, and maybe we feel bad for a second, but we go on our way, because who has time to stop? But maybe we wouldn't need to stop, if we just slowed down to begin with, and let the squirrel have his moment. And these are the random nonsense words that my cold fingers and my tired mind produce.

[cinemojo]

Leaving on a Jet Train

The tracks below me rumble like a distant thunderstorm, and then gallop like a race horse. I am a passenger atop a stampede, ripping through the air. The whistle screams like a banshee, warning all who stand in the way.

Looking out the window, we pass a million trees, the leaves still mostly green, but in spots, brilliant reds, yellows, and oranges, as if the sun had melted into puddles, and their leaves were dragged through. Or else some giant being plucked each tree from their place and dipped them in like paint brushes, but, lacking inspiration, left them to dry, and flake off and color the wind. Or like broccoli florets dunked in dressing, only this dressing is gold and crimson and glows in the dark, and even more in the light.

Or maybe the leaves, feeling the bite of winter approach, with one final expression of life and vitality before they fall and crumble into dust, squeeze every last bit of energy and sunlight from the previous months out of themselves, and externalize their inner beauty-- shining like stars, like red giants before they flicker and dim and die, surprise and overwhelm us with their magnificence, so that we can not forget them through the cold dead winter, and so we long for them after they have all fallen, remembering them at their finest, yearning for their spirit enough-- just enough-- and with such fondness that the spirit survives through even the most frigid of winters, and their life is thus renewed. A subtle hint, a forget-me-not, a terrible tease to hide your vibrancy until just before death. The brightest colors, only to welcome a colorless future.

[cinemojo]

The Road to Nowhere

The unyielding whine, faint repeating beeps, and constant rumble at my feet have acquainted themselves very well with me. The screeching halt and the sudden puffy release, like the prisoners of my bowels finally set free.

The murmur of overlapping voices, the abandoned plastic water bottles, rolling to and fro, and to again. The stubborn attempts at avoiding eye contact, more comfortable looking at electric screens than human eyes. Much easier to plug our ears. Let music engulf the world, and it seems more poetic, more to our liking, like a soundtrack for our lives, as if they didn't already have one. Easier than listening. Easier than hearing something we might not like. Something that could challenge our perception or make us angry or sad. Easier to wrap ourselves in plastic, sealed from the world. Wouldn't want to spoil. Stare out the window, at the floor, at the ceiling, at the shiny metal bars, and the hard blue seats, at the yellow cord being yanked relentlessly. And if you happen to meet eyes, you aught to look away soon, as to avoid any necessary interaction. Better to stare ahead, at nothing at all.

The bus is a delivery truck, and all around me, packages, wrapped up in pretty paper, and bows and ribbons wound so tightly, each eagerly awaiting it's turn to arrive at it's final destination, where someone other than we might be curious enough to find out what's inside.

[cinemojo]

Is It Tomorrow Again?

I know it's today but it feels like tomorrow. But tomorrow, today will be yesterday. And then it will actually be tomorrow. But for me tomorrow, it will be today. And today will be yesterday. And when tomorrow is today, today's yesterday will be but a vague cloud of memories, lived but once, never to be lived again. Experienced in real time, so alive in the moment, but so soon, so much like a dream, packed like sardines with so many other yesterdays. And then the dream of yesterday's yesterday will be but today's dream. But today feels like tomorrow. And I'm almost certain that tomorrow will feel like today.

[cinemojo]

10 Minutes

2:32 A.M. September is here. August is now only a memory, fading more with every moment. Summer ends and Autumn takes its place, the cold and relentless Winter soon to come. My covers will be my sanctuary, and I'll have another excuse not to wake up in the morning. Too cold. Toooooo cold. Here I have a nest, a toasty cocoon. Let me stay until the winter ends, and then I will emerge as something new. Still me, but with wings. I'll fly into the Spring and Summer with seemingly everlasting life. But no. Society tells me to come out into the cold. To work, to eat, to bare it. And to have fun too. Look! The outside is slippery! You can sled on it, or pack it into balls and throw it at people, or make it into ice and skate on it, or eat it -- So many possibilities! But I see through your propaganda, your pro-Winter bias. Whose heart is so frigid as to make the frozen earth seem like a delight? You bastards. It's 2:42 now. 10 minutes have passed. Who was I then, and who am I now? Who will I be 10 minutes from now? I will be me, but with wings. Good night.

[cinemojo]

Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don't matter, and those who matter don't mind.

-- Dr. Seuss

[cinemojo]

I took this photo on moving day. This was the street of my summer sublet apartment. John street. My roommate was also John. I love the mess of wires, and the dangling shoes, I assume of residents past, who might some day drive down this street and point at the pair that was once theirs. And their feet remember walking in those shoes. A cool summer breeze and the lazy sun, fatigued by a hard days work, hung out with the clouds all afternoon, playing rose-tinted music to the world.

[cinemojo]

Moments After Those Pain-stealing Broccoli Jones

Sometimes when I am very tired, I hear voices. Have I said too much? Don't be scared. I don't think anybody who might lock me up for that statement is reading this. They're not real voices telling me to burn down a building or rob a bank, though they sometimes tell me to raid the fridge at 2 A.M. I usually listen. But mostly, these voices just fly through my head. Many different voices. Sometimes male, sometimes female, sometimes voices I recognize from real life or fake live (like TV or movies), and sometimes just random voices I've never heard before. Whoever they are, they are crazy as shit. The things they say rarely make any sense. They are so nonsensical that I am inspired to write some of them down when I'm able to catch them in my half-asleep state. Here are just a few of the ones I've caught: "You have a nervisod. It's really uncomfortable, but you have one." What the hell's a nervisod? Somebody seems to know. "They're big, they're brown, and there's curtains in front of them." "I'm an under-pillow backpack machine." One of my personal favorites. "Moments after those pain-stealing Broccoli Jones" "Supersonic Speedbump!" "Dancing with Ayn Rand"

[cinemojo]

What does a turkey do? --Me

[cinemojo]

Splash Dash Splash

I've never seen this movie, but after having watched this-- which may be the most bizarre laundry room scene ever, I feel like I have to.

I've never gone through such a range of emotions in such a short amount of time. From "this is dorky" to "aww, okay this is cute" to "actually this is pretty hot" to "wait, what is he... whaaaat?! Ok, this is creepy." to "hahahaa, that was hilarious". Do give it a splash.