The Life Examined

thought for food

[robertschwartz]

Chapter one: Stream of consciousness book exercise

I have a funny hat. It's pointy and orange and bends at the tippy top. I'm not a gnome, but wouldn't that be a ball? A small dinky shovel in my hand, to me heavy as all get out, stuck in the freshly shuffled topsoil. My lil boots covered in dirt and my face a-smirk with the satisfaction of a garden alight with glee, thanks to my dutiful stewardship. How I would work all day, wiping the sweat from my micro brow, bushy with white thick hairs—maybe a ladybug squatting there, flittering and enjoying the slow cruise across the field. The flowers at my feet, my soft step, and my compact, very tiny milk quart body not even snapping the stems, but actually providing a verdant springiness in each soft leather gnome step.

I am not a gnome. Gno, gnot a gnome at all. I'm just a man sitting in his field with his felty pointy hat, my face to a breeze, and a sunset’s warmth ebbing like an ocean tide in my mind. Fleeting warmth like too much cream in a cup of coffee still holding on to the last of its heat in the hopes of one more satisfying sip. I take a breath. Hearing the light hollow woof of warm-cold wind and the thin eek of tinnitus in my ear.

Here,

No thoughts.

[robertschwartz]

New Writes Old Wrongs

That's a nonsense title for this post. I haven't written in this thing for about three years or so. I feel like I just broke out of the Instagram/social media doom-scroll trance. I feel like the minutes I'm experiencing right now are slow and time-dilated because my brain hasn't set foot on the solid presence of time in many months/moons.

I used to write a lot. It was an escape. It was a last-ditch effort to assemble the water-warped jigsaw pieces of my existence and try to force two like-colored pieces together in the hopes of assembling a greater vision or image of my life's meaning and path. I, of course, don't believe that there is such a thing as an objective meaning to anyone's or anything's life. I think meaning is just a construct, and if you so much as feel inclined, you can find a goal and get real gushy about it and call it your purpose.

What I do for work does feel somewhat like my life's meaning in that I have a feeling I get when I'm leaving work: a smile pulls at the edges of my expression, and a little room heater gets plugged into my heart. I feel good. I feel gratitude, fortunate, and some proto-some version of giddy. I laugh at work, I have friends at work, I have love for people I work with—love.

The only thing that eludes me now—and that's nearly the perfect word, but not quite—is a loving partner whom I'm excited to start a family with, and a home (the money to own and comfortably operate a home).

The person I work with that I probably love the most is not an available partner. Though that doesn't really bother me in the slightest. It gives me a pop of hope that such people exist and that I can feel pretty enamored with someone if they've got all the right traits: personality-wise, physical-wise, value-wise, and intelligence-wise.

I'm on the dating apps during the holiday season, and the apps are really popping off right now. I think it's just due to the fact that loneliness is the ever-present weather pattern that rolls in with the season right on cue with the freezing rain and somber snow.

I continue to not find people who want to have a family, and very rarely do I feel motivated to continue talking to someone after the date, even when the date goes quite well. I had a date with a cute little dentist with a great wide smile and bang-on personality, and yet after the date, the phone felt heavy in my hand, and my desire to reconnect again with her was as appealing as washing a dish. Sure, I have a dishwasher—it’s the easiest thing in the world—yet I just… don't wanna. Probably the sexiest dish never washed, but I suppose a dish nonetheless. I think a lot of my desire is secondary to their desire, which is usually pretty unfortunate. I think if they seem excited to talk to me, then I get excited to talk to them. But generally, the opposite impetus never really happens. I'm not terribly excited to talk to anyone. I don't find most people that exciting at all. That blows. I think the person I feel most excited to talk to might be that one guy I friended on Instagram, and we share incredibly inappropriate memes with each other. I do get a lot more than I would’ve expected from that Insta relationship.

There was an Instagram post where someone said a quote that was: "It is not the object of life to fit in with the crowd, it is to escape, and to find yourself in the ranks of the insane."

I think I got that mostly right the way I phrased it. I like this quote very much. I forget who it is attributed to. Oh, actually, I think it was Marcus Aurelius. Which is unexpected. But I do like that quote very much as I see culture as a trap. I also think we are predisposed to follow culture out of a basic necessity to survive, yet it is a great strength to demonstrate that you can cast off the oppressive script of mass culture and break free. It's real magic. To do it and change the world, bending the culture with your arrogance and insistence, is the highest form of courage. Though, if someone has no aptitude for absorbing social culture and can only move to the beat of his broken drum, then it is not courage at all. Generally speaking, that could either get him or her celebrated as an artist or celebrated as a dead artist long after they have been murdered for their heresy.

[robertschwartz]

despite my nature (the nature of your love)

You are patient with me,

Your shorelines

reach unwavering to the sea

as my ebb tide drifts blind

and impulsively,

you are patient with me,

Your kiss entreats

like the warm promise of spring

when only frost bites my branches

and winter seizes me root and seed,

you are patient with me,

And laugh at how my mountains posture stubborn

against the stream,

And teach me how water’s soft devotion,

Will always fell mountains with ease.

[robertschwartz]

Slow it down

See the soft warm autumn trails

Your arms make, those flesh tone figure

Eights that hugs trace across four

Dimensions, embraces like depthless points

That hold the space, for which we drape the never ending line of time.

Go gone and go on

[robertschwartz]

waking up

Slight crumb around the eye. The flaked residue of a tight-eyed nights rest. Robert's breathing first thing this morning was furnace hot and texture-scented like brown woven socks. He stretched/yawned and shuddered like a bellows or an adolscent brown bear....something seemed different this morning. It wasn't that the world changed but somehow his perception of. It's never that the world changes, just your perception of it. The world is one story with nearly 8 billion walking alternative perspectives of it. It was that first warm modicum of dust straying into the sunbeam streaming between the blinds of his open bedroom window. The dust mote, hung there infintesimately small and yet Robert could see its shape. It hung there for less then a brief moment and yet the moment held for leisure and a spinning non-causal eternity. Yellow. humming. spinning, with all the fragility of time. It hung there but never moved from its place and his perception zoomed into its depth's and Robert felt that even the whisper of his next expired breath would knock this tiny dust mote from out its sunbeam to perturb the whole stinking universe; As the sunbeam, and the mote of dust, and the moment's glitter had become Robert's whole universe. And as Robert blinked and the dust flittered by, Robert had lived a whole life in just that fraction of time. A quantity of time, but not much, Measured only in the motion of dust between two soft ticks of the second hand sailing along its circuitous voyage to seek the thrill of a minute's time.

[robertschwartz]

corona free write

The rain makes a crush crush squish sound like a thousand lemon wedges falling from the sky. The sky is so grey, i cant help but envy its personality, I wish I could cry and look that cool doing it. I’m sitting in bed, my back an achy question mark, my eyes are heavy and dull like your least favorite pair of rocks. I’m bored. I’m fucking bored and I wish I could pull a rainbow out my chest and scream filthy swears in a new language cuz reality is a lead pencil line drawing of a slug right now. How do i pass the time, how do i pass the time, how do i keep myself from eating myself into an earlier grave. Man i want to eat. This is only partially an eating disorder. I wish i was buff. Buff like a buffalo. Buffer than a buffalo but only half as tuff and I would punch a hole in the wall and invite you and your mom to brunch.

[robertschwartz]

To sate a heart set on hate, requires love a hurt heart cannot

by itself create

[robertschwartz]

I've seen words used best,

poured out from the mouth

as molten steel inside a weapons mold spilt,

cast like a wicked spell to cut and jab and with the flick of it,

Kill.

[robertschwartz]

sand trap

I feel like we’ve been digging for hours

dina, its been literally a single minute. Listen, you said we needed to start spending more time together. I like to look for precious metals on the beach I thought you’d like to spend time with me doing an activity I love.

you really love this?

*picks up metal detector and starts scanning sand*

o my god yes, its so relaxing. The ocean smells great. I listen to some tunes. and sometimes...sometimes...every so once in a while...you find treasures!

what treasures have you found?

I found an old oooold bottle cap.

...ok.

it was very cool...

what, thats it? Did you sell it? Did you make some money?

WHAT!? and give away the bottle cap? No way ma'am.

Your idea of treasure is sincerely everyone’s idea of garbage.

You’re being a mean piece of shit right now. I’m going back to my music. *cues up TLC’s don’t go chasing waterfalls on a walkman and continues scanning the sand* (SHOUTING) YOU CAN CONTINUE TO SULK. I DON’T CARE.

[robertschwartz]

ghosts of reconciliation (small play)

Robert is asleep in his bed, he is tossing around a bit, and exhaling little “hm...hm”...sounds audibly. The ghost of his father slowly makes his way into the room. He is peering over at the bed curious but casually. His father is wearing an off white business casual button down shirt and black slacks with his hands in his pockets. Robert stirs awake. His father stops approaching.

Dad...what are you doing here?

you were thinking of me...I came to see you.

Am I dreaming?...you should be dead.

I should be dead?

Well, I don’t mean you should be... But you are.

that’s true.

How did you get here?

I don’t know. You were thinking of me. I followed the “feeling of being thought of”. it brought me here. to you.

What’s the feeling of being thought of?

...nice. I guess that never changes. it feels nice...like being held ...when no one is around. You, thinking of me..

 I was dreaming about you. maybe I still am. We were having a fight.

what were we fighting about?

We we’re ...*puts hand on head* I can’t remember...the details are slipping away, but we were yelling. We were standing in your bedroom. Shouting across the bed.

I’m sorry... I don’t know what would make me so angry?

anything.

what do you mean?

anything. anything and everything made you angry. Its what scared me the most about you.

You were scared of me?

Yes. 

you were scared of ME?

Yes...You scared the shit out of me.

I’m sorry. Are you scared now?

You standing here now? 

Yes

In my room, the ghost of my dead father? ...actually. no.

*smiles* Well thats good. In your dream, where we fought, were you scared?

Yes. But, I stood up for myself...something I would have never done.

Why couldn’t you stand up for yourself?

You were too big, too strong, too loud, too much of a man....I was just a boy, always crying, I was always lost in your giant shadow.

Come on, you’re a man now. You’ve gotten so big, You’re so tall. I should be standing in your shadow. What are you comparing yourself to me for...I did my best Robby, but I wasn’t exactly an earth shattering success if you didn’t notice. I struggled, I grinded, I did everything but cry my eyes out and believe me I thought about it, constantly.

No, You were so fearless. You always worked so hard, you- 

I did what I had to to Survive.. Light a man on fire Robby, see if he sits still. If you’re not absolutely struggling Robby, maybe you’re doing something right. Maybe you had something I never had. If not the money, maybe just the peace of mind.

Maybe.

I'm proud of you. You’re a good boy. You’re a good man. You’ve got common sense. You’re handsome. You look just like me when I was your age.

*rolls eyes*

  Listen Schwartz...Don’t work too hard. For christ sake just enjoy yourself. enjoy your life.

ok.

And remember me as a good man...

You’re telling me how to remember you?

 Why, wasn’t I a good father?

I can’t say.

Why?

Because I’m a good son.

oy vey...I love you bigsy.

I love you dad.

goodnight.

*lights out*

[robertschwartz]

Irwin

Irwin sat in a stark white van coated in a thin sheet of desert dust. The heat outside of Needles, California, was some how sterile and impersonal. Practically nothing lived here, except the occasional pile of desert brush that speckled the endless beige horizon. Inside the van however, a deep rush of frigid air blew through the dashboard vents, keeping the cabin a crispy 69 degrees. Irwin looked down at a yellow legal pad, examining closely a new order he received for 2 boxes of Kit Kat candy bars, and a single jar of Andes mints from the St. Vincent Memorial Hospital Center Gift Shop. The order totaled $36 dollars. The drive alone would cost him $74 dollars in gas. He was losing money, but somehow it didn’t really matter. There was a simple and pleasant feeling that came with doing business. It was comforting, familiar, like visiting an old family home and fixing yourself a sandwich when no one’s around. Also, it was quiet here in the desert. Relaxing. Somehow a long drive was a little vacation in disguise. There was no big decisions to be made, no clients to cater to or entertain, no past due bills that need paying, no children crying or screaming, no ex wife here complaining. It was a cool place, safe and alone. And he sat there in stillness, with a pen and a giant yellow legal pad, and let a little bit of quiet enter his mind.

[robertschwartz]

April Fools

Today my car got broken into. The window was already broken so I had a layer of black duct tape covering it, which my thief made quick work of and torn into the “tape window” and stole:

-my props from my photobooth. Such things as a chicken hat. a lobster hat. An old man beard and some feather boa’s...and much much more.

-my favorite coat

-a hat rack

total estimated $500 stolen

I replaced the duct tape on the window with a sign that reads: “please stop stealing from my car. I’m just trying my best to make a living. Thank you. Also, you took my favorite coat. Please bring that back.”

I’m pretty disappointed but I’m not super stressed about it. Maybe I shouldn’t say I’m too apathetic about it. I thought about maybe setting up some booby traps ala Charles Bronson “Death Wish”, possibly a spring loaded particle board with a rusty nail in it. I also imagined sleeping underneath my car with a knife and wait to see if the thief returned, at which point I’d samurai incognito slice some achilles tendons. Yeah, I’m kinda fucking dark. But in a way I think I understand desperation. I think if youre out stealing shit, you’re definitely not in a good place. Hell, even I’ve thought about stealing stuff from cars when I wasn’t in a great place. (thought about it, crossed my mind, NEVER DID IT) But I’m willing to believe that perhaps someones shitty situation has driven them to do such a stupid thing. I could get mad, and hurt them but what would that do. I’m trying to appeal to the humanity in someone. So i left a sign. If they bring it back then great, but if they don’t then whatever. It wasn’t that much I guess, in the scheme of things.  I’m not really attached to too many physical things other than maybe my camera and my computers. My camera is probably the most important thing I have right now. I’ve been taking pictures now for 12 years. In 2006 my first girlfriend Jessie had a dslr camera and I remember looking at it and wanting to give it a try. I had been snapping pictures on point and shoot cameras a bit I think at that point but I’d never come close to professional camera. I think I remember the first picture I took. It was off my shadow, I think over some red bricks. Jessie set the camera. I remember her telling me about some basic camera settings and it was all over my head, and felt a little intimidating at that time. I took the picture and looked at the back of the camera and I remember it being a little under exposed. But I felt pretty dazzled by it. It had depth, and saturated color, and it was abstract, and I took it. I was hooked. In many ways I think she was pretty excited that I was into taking pictures because I ended up taking a shit ton of pictures of her. Ha. She was pretty photogenic and liked having her picture taken. I remember I took a picture of her in front of my old house on Houston St. in Valley Village and I had no understanding of lenses of focal length. I must have had a pretty decent telephoto lens on like maybe a 100mm plus and I grab this shot of her and the green hedge behind her explodes into soft scattered bokeh and in my brain im like “ahhhhhhhh” what the fuck just happened, this looks freaking amazing. Photography was something that kept me excited for a really really long time. Which is saying alot for someone like me because I pick up and drop hobbies or “passions” like a dog going from room to room find scattered chewed up squeak toys. I dont think i get bored easily per se, I think I just find things fascinating and then lose attention when a new shiny thing arrives. I just like to learn new things. My most recent thing is cooking, I just bought a pressure cooker and have been trying to get a good recipe on a beef short rib. (I wanted to maybe cook a really good one because my very sweet very old Chinese American landlady said she loves short rib, and I thought it would be a nice gesture to make her one.) that sounds overly sweet but she’s really good people and makes me think about my grandmothers and what kind of relationship I would have with them today if they were still alive. I think I would’ve really liked to have had them in my life at this point. I think I could use the wisdom and console of an old person whose had thorough experience with this new thing I’m dealing with called adulthood. She lives in the hills of Silver Lake in a spacey green and grey house on Lyric Ave. Her house is decorated in true grandma fashion with useless knick knacks, a shit ton of family pictures, stacks of mail, and a computer that sits like a cold plastic stranger in the middle of house. Her name is Edie, she has put me to work on a couple of photography projects. I’ve taken pictures of a lot her her properties, on many occasions, I’ve edited them and posted them on craigslist for her. I haven’t charged her for a single picture. I think I will but i haven’t really prioritized it. Partly me being nice I guess, partly me being lazy. Also, I told her about this dream of me making really good pork buns and creating a business. Its called a Siao Pao. Its a little Chinese soft bun with pork in it that I grew up eating. I’m thinking about calling my business. Siao Nuff’

[robertschwartz]

Crusher

They called her the “Crusher”. Becky Harris. Built like a concrete slab, Becky who patrolled the Sandusky’s Community skating rink with the cold conviction of a runaway freight train. Never would one suspect the freckled red headed behemoth that stood a stratospheric 6′2″ could be called “Becky”. Do Becky’s come in that size? Sunny thought, as she felt the skating rink’s giant metal fan chill the sweat beading down the small of her back.

“When she looks at me, I start to think about murder...Maybe more specifically my murder.” Janette whispered as if she believed Becky could hear her from 40 feet across the rink. Becky seemingly caught Janettes fear scent and sharply craned her neck to glare at her. Janette and Sunny swiftly averted eyes and simultaneously chose to gaze deeply at invisible watches as a ploy to seem casual. "I knew it” Janette whispered, this time even softer than before.

[robertschwartz]

in the works

To you 

my future love,

whomever 

you may be,

know that I 

will work, 

my very best,

to earn your 

symmetry.

[robertschwartz]

a drop of water

dear,  

tiny desk plant

i celebrate you,

small hero,

courageous 

in the face of 

almost infinite neglect,

you survivor,

blissful,

alive,

outstretched 

little green spines,

you vibrant mini party

in a plastic maroon pot,

you hum microscopic tunes, 

songs just for you,

hymns for the sun,

and love poems

for every drop of water 

you ever got,

grounded

and wise beyond your roots,

i see you.

today

I water you.

I’ve got a lot of growing up to do.

[robertschwartz]

h.b.

Hollywood boulevard has the worst people

and 

....some good people too

an orange glossy tungsten glow bounding

off a vomit peep show

a thrift store window

a mummified sleeping hobo dreaming

sweetly into a nippy cold night

and a flight of pointed clicks and clops

dazed young lambs, and the gaze of old wolves

hunched in thick purple pin stripe wool

painted in the velvet shadows under bare bulbs

in cracked concrete corners

nursing brown cartoon cigars

licking their false teeth in the dark

at children and their circus of half parked cars

chasing music playing far

in soft neon candy colored rooms

Hollywood boulevard has the worst people

and

... some good people too

[robertschwartz]

balloon my belly

I feel the balloon

my belly

I feel the air go in

I am resenting

I feel the air go in

I am expanding

pants tightening

rubber stretching

surface area increasing

self conscious

self esteem decreasing

not floating

i am falling

altitude shrinking

stretching

screeching

pulling

hiding

crying 

bleeting

I feel the balloon

my belly

exhale

and for a moment ,

panic ceasing,

I hate the fakeness of weight

each hateful breath

a small death 

repeating.