I Am a Liar: a Song Elucidated

I've used the blog format to showcase my writing and my poetry, though I have yet to take advantage of the medium in unveiling my greatest passion, music. I see myself first and foremost as a musician and that is where my artistic energies are focussed. I also adore the art and trade of composition, so I would like to explain my thought process when penning and composing my humble musical creations. I suppose you can see me as the magician who unveils the tricks of his trade (though I assure you I am no magician). 

The song I will be unveiling tonight is, as the title suggests, I Am a Liar. I Am a Liar possesses numerous genesises, all of which would be exacting to express, but I would like to break down the logic of my recording process (as poor as it is). The initial guitar riff, originating in Dm, is the backbone of the piece. It is where the melodic lines, both vocally and instrumentally, grow. The riff is in-itself melodic, building upon the Dm and the Gm7th chord structure, but its potential I believe is unveiled within the lead guitar line, which is importantly incredibly repetitive, and the vocal melody, which, through its use of octavus jumps, adds depth to the piece. It allows the listener to be engaged. The engagement is incredibly important for the structure and the layers within the song are by design repetitive. The Song is built upon the classic verse-chorus-verse structure, allowing for a vocal coda built upon the layered verse. 

The lead guitar line, which slightly echoes the initial song riff, is as mentioned before repetitive by design. It is built to link the chorus to the verse, allowing the initial melodic tendencies of the song to still exist above the changed chordal structure of the chorus. The lead line does not change, chaining every aspect of the song within the confinements of the initial melody. The phrasing of the lead line is also important. It cannot be exact to the original riff or it will fail to bleed forth from the pack, difficult to do when dealing with the shoegaze esc rhythm guitar that is purposefully layered to muddle the first guitar. The rhythm guitar by all intents and purposes is meant to make everything sound muddy and hard to distinguish. Built upon three chords, mainly Cm, the rhythm is drenched with heavy reverb and layered with an exaggerated delay/echo, ensuring that one chord bleeds into another, making it messy and hard to distinguish, such adding another layer of sound vital to the width and depth of the song. The rhythm guitar is removed when the chorus is played, but the basic feedback remains, adding a slightly different soundscape and allowing the lead guitar to shimmer through. 

The bass line and the (fake) string section are intrinsically linked. They are separated by a fifth, building a basic (power) chord and driving the song forward, but also allowing the bass to fill out and appear less monotonous (which it is). The bass is simplified to allow the hip-hop influenced beat to sound un-alien (to mixed results I must admit). At the very least, it allows the poor hip-hop beat to feel less arduous, and drives the song forward. The drums are vital for the pacing of the song, driving the song and adding tension to the work (again with mixed results).

Lastly the guitar solo. In all honestly the solo is a work of repetitive improvisation. I improvised a guitar solo over the verse section over and over, slowly piecing together specific phrases and note clusters I enjoyed aesthetically. Once piecing together 3 or 4 parts, I than improvised those tools overtop until a satisfactory take was created. Possibly the quickest and enjoyable process of the song. 

If you are interested in hearing the song, just click on the link below to my personal Soundcloud, entitled Winged Flight. There you will find other songs, which I will hopefully explain in detail on another date. 

Cheers

https://soundcloud.com/winged-flight/i-am-a-liar

What Makes a Man?

Looking at Jason I feel out of place. He sits before me, tall, handsome, and painfully arrogant. His cowboy boots and his belt buckle hold together the rest of his cowboy attire well, while his well groomed hair and awkward piercings contrast with his image. He is a man of polarizing styles which oddly makes him irresistible to the young women he has learned to prey on. The Heineken he drinks conveys wealth. That it comes from the rigs means little to his one night acquaintances. Jason has that smile which make women blush and men sigh in defeat. 

"Hey man, how you doing?" He asks in his melodic and confident voice. The master of small talk. 

"Oh you know man, I can't complain haha." My reply is as he expected. I am a downtrodden pathetic man. The antithesis of Jason. I am far from a good looking man, and lord knows I lack confidence. My clothes would be an ode to film Noir if not for their bright colours, a vast difference to Jason's Spaghetti western influences. I am a sexually frustrated and inept young man with promise while Jason is a sexually successful and charming man facing a dead end.

"for sure man haha. What are you drinking?" I look down at the Heineken.

"Ill have a Heineken as well actually." Jason smiled "good man!" The waitress walked over with two Heineken's and a smirk in Jasons direction. I look across the small bar table which stands between me and Jason. 

"So hows life man? Still working on the rigs?" Jason smiles as he takes a swig from his bottle. "Ya man, same old same old." I nod as I always do when I see Jason. "Cool, so you got a lady?" I always ask. I know the answer. With Jason, there is no point in trying to bullshit and move around different conversations. He wants to talk about one thing, women. 

"Ya man! I think this is the one. You know me, I want to settle, and this girl is real special." This is the carbon copy of our last conversation. Every girl is "the one" and Jason still clings to his frail christian ideals. I know in time, he will change her name twice, and talk about two other young ladies he is ready to settle down with. As he sits across from me I feel contempt and jealously for him. Contempt because he is a lier, thief and manipulator. I feel jealously for him because in many respects he is a greater man than I am. His sexual prowess is frustrating and his masculine projection is hateful. 

"You seem to be doing well for yourself eh Jason haha." Jason gives me that smile I disgust, yet I wish I had. He could swoon almost any dimwitted woman in any bar. His deep green eyes and his thick brown hair bring out his nose and whitens his smile. He sits with a ease I can only perceive but never conceive. 

"You know me man, always got them by the string" as he makes a reeling motion. What makes Jason more of a man then me? I ask myself this question often. I can't help but feel morally superior, and I tell myself daily that kindness means more than charm and dashing good looks. Every time I see jason though, my thoughts seem weak and petty. Who am I compare to this man? I feel like a boy, a lost one at that. 

"Well, its getting late Jason, but it was good seeing ya take care. Cheers" I say. "Sure man, take care. Don't be a stranger." I walk away hating myself and hating him for being the reason.      

Party

The haze of the room distorted the lights. The energy in the room encompassed the fleshy matter that was confined in the small space of the basement dwelling. Sweat added to the humid environment of the enclosed area. The sexual, sensual, intellectual, and physical tension was heavy and felt heavier than air, as it hung like smog over a sinful city. Eyes locked in every direction, as hands rested in ideal places. The movement of people was in perfect unison with the reverb soaked music that glistened in the dense air. The tickling sensation of vibrations caused shivers as each resounding beat of a bass note broke through the treble. Hearts came into sync, as feet shuffled, slide, glided, and rose in army synchronization. Hands delved deeply into thick and young hair, as nostrils flared, capturing hormonic desires. 

Youth has always found a way to express itself. Suppression of unbridled desires, energy, and excitement has been meet with dangerous consequences. The war rampages of the past have shown history that only the death of youth can keep the outflow of vitality from consuming everything indefinitely. Each juxtaposition of movement holds a dissonant beauty as youthful bodies graze, and lights bring to light thinly veiled thoughts. As skin continues to glisten so does the floor and the air that remains interwoven with the vibrations within the tight compact space of the basement. Rebellion can be felt. It caresses indulgent souls into fiery ideals. 

Hesitation of the masses is the start. 

Within an instant a pause. The flow of interchangeable and overflowed limbs stop. The crackle of speakers and panted breaths act as the only sounds in the room. White masked faces hold tragic, comical, and fractured expressions. The timeless quality of emotion etched and moulded into the abysmal masks are laughable in their lack of creativity. Youth, in its very essence, is striving for creativity and uniqueness when faced with the harsh reality of a past life already lived.

The crackle is broken by a snare crack. With each beat the figures move a limb in perfect unison. What adds an odd sensation to the sight is that each figure does not move the same limb. Some move a leg, though which, does not matter. Others move their arms, heads, hands, fingers, or hips. Some simply blink. Sporadic but fitting, each snare hit inches towards a pattern. First it revolves around an 8/7 pattern. Than a 3/4 waltz. The snare hit than warps to a 4/5 pattern before settling on a 4/4 beat. The strain of remaining in the same place is evident on the bodies of all participating within the event of the party.

A drum roll begins. One falls. Than another. As people fall to the ground the drum roll begins to crescendo, each body hitting the ground accenting certain beats, which fall on the third of every beat. After 33 beats, the snare roll tempo increased. Than again, and again, Until at last 333 bodies laid upon the ground, in a perfect circle around one lone individual, who stood without a mask. His hands resting at his side, and his hair in his eyes.   

Regretful resentment

"I know you hate me" I typed. I sat and stopped. The blue "reply" button in the bottom right corner stared at me. The finality it represented should have scared me more. It was quick, easy, and un-repent-able. All I needed to do was work the trackpad of my computer to waver the hand over the "button." I than simply needed to tap the trackpad with one of my fingers and the words which stood lit on my computer screen would be sent to the other person. It would move unimaginably fast and would tear at her heart to see my clearly hurtful words. They where meant to sting. So easy. It should have scared me more. 

I wish I could say why I am capable of evil. It seems to delve deep within my chest. I can feel it grow when I grow angry, sad, alone, or disturbingly so, when I am bored. I think the latter is the rarest. I hope it is the rarest. It grows quickly, not slowly. I don't think evil just appears, it is always within me, but it is sometimes small and sometimes great. I try not to be swept away. 

It seems petty to say but I don't remember why I wanted to hurt her. She hurt me I think. No. I am sure she hurt me at some point and retribution is something I enjoy in the moment. It fills me with a hollow pleasure and slowly deflates upon itself. I think the guilt which weights within it is to great that it must collapse when unleashed. Unlike the evil within me guilt doesn't exist within my chest. It delves within the pit of my stomach. It is always very great but on lucky moments it shrinks. Those moments of guiltless and gutless evil are frightfully wonderful though sadly when it disappears the guilt that encompasses me is tenfold worse. 

"I know you hate me" is no longer on the screen. Only a flashing 90 degree bar remains upon the white surface that my computer attempts to create. It doesn't seem all that real does it? The glow hurts my eyes in time and the feeling within my cranium is that of unreleased pressure. I still don't know where the valve is. 

"I hate you" has now taken its form before me. I think I was here before wasn't I? No, I typed "I know you hate me." It doesn't seem to make much difference. Hate is hate. She hates me so I hate her in return. Or perhaps I hate her and want her to hate me for hating her. I think the later is true. It is hard to say. Either way I am back to a familiar place. The words of pain are before me and the button is once again so easily taken advantage of. I just need to tap my trackpad and I will have successfully sent my insubstantial dagger of pain. though it doesn't hang before as if in a daze I am still unable to grasp it. 

The screen blinks "message sent successfully" upon a white background that doesn't seem all that real. It only sends a pressure to my brain which doesn't appear ever to be realized. I know I will blame the computer. It is easier to blame the technology than the user. I don't mind. It is a wonderful scape goat. If I had been forced to write a letter she would never have been wounded. She would be happy that night. She would be alive and with her friends. To bad for that easy reply button.    

An Evening

With an impending doom Jason laid upon his bed and stared at the ceiling. It was a friday evening in which he was shrouded by a darkness he had no control over. He was alone and as such delved into negative thoughts better not explored. Yet, as with many of his evenings, he had no way to stop them from clouding his mind and basking a darkness over his already fragile and sour mood. Jason thought of his countless flaws and his seemingly baseless qualities and toiled with self loathing and flirted with self hatred. With each passing week of loneliness and each passing failure Jason slowly closed his heart and suppressed his emotions hoping that someone would take the time and effort to break through. It occurred to him how doing so was in many respects selfish. He knew that those he loved, and those that loved him, had their own struggles and trepidation, and that "testing" them was in-itself a fruitless act for it did not truly express their love and feelings. As with all cycles of course, this was one he could not break. Yet Jason could not feel guilt free about telling how he was feeling to people who are both close and far in distance. He truly wanted them to ask, to delve, and to dig from him the many emotions and thoughts he was feeling, for that was the way in which he was able to express himself in a guilt free manner. 

Jason laid in bed. His phone by his side set to insure that if anyone contacted him he would be undeniably informed of the incoming form of menial human contact he so craved. He just wished for one text. One act of kindness in which a kind soul said "I know you aren't okay. Let's talk." It wasn't going to happen. Those forms of interactions, as he knows, only happens in movies, in which timing is impeccably set to create enough suspense and emotion to keep the viewer hooked, but not too much, for if they created to much it would be to painful and uncomfortable. Jason continued to lay silently in his bed, staring at the poorly painted ceiling. He tried he felt. He attempted to change things. At what point do you give up and accept the truth? At what point is trying no longer admirable but a tad pathetic and saddening? Weeks? Months? Years? Decades? He didn't have the answer. With all his evenings he never gains an answer. It was a vain act that never brought about any self-realization. Happiness, like all other human concepts Jason considered, maintained its transparent, translucent, and indescribable abstraction. 

He considered the term for hours, turning it in his mind to no avail. Always he came to a consensus that he seemed unlikely to be able to truly ever be as "happy" as everyone seemed to be. Jason was sure that everyone held a secret to life he did not know in which they had gained happiness and countless other idolized words and human concepts he could only thinly grasp. Jason looked at his open and cold computer and glanced at the time at the top of his laptop, it read 1:30 am. The night was still young and his mind was still restless. 

Jason died every night. No one knew it. They saw him smiling the next day, hiding a pain that he kept deep inside if only for societies sake, and maybe for himself. Some secrets, even the ones that ultimately destroy you, are kept for they give you a little more power. Knowledge is power they say. Jason would than rise the next day from his death, and look at the clock once again. He would scroll through Facebook and see his face on the screen, smiling. At that moment he was reborn, and he would walk out the door with a reborn demeanour that would last until the next evening, when he would face his death once more. 

A Letter

When I consider my predicament, I am filled with shallow sorrow. I lay night after night and consider my actions. I am never to sure of how I feel. During certain nights, I shed tears, for I am distraught with guilt and sadness. Other nights, when the moon is bright, and it glows into my room, I laugh, uncontrollably. When I was a child, I would read Shakespearean tragedies and laugh. I understand that my statement shall be perceived by some as melodramatic and maybe even petty. The thought of reading tragedies for comedic purposes is far from original, but my life is not original. I live within a box. I can feel the walls phasing closer and closer from me. The shifts act like the tides for I find they both correspond to the ebbs and flows of the moon. My first friend, and my last enemy, told me that she couldn't understand how the cosmos couldn't affect our lives and moods. I used to believe her, and in some respects I still do, yet, I feel deep within me that I am so distinctly small that the cosmos does not affect my life. I state this not because I disagree on our micro-finite importance; I state my position on the strength of that reality. We are so minute that the grotesque power and force of the universe do not have the time nor the reason to affect us. The statistical chance that we, being so small within a space practically infinite in size, would be directly, or even indirectly affected by the actions of the universe is highly unlikely. We might as well live within a vacuum within the universe itself. I still feel though, and I still live. 

Pondering on deep seeded philosophical issues does not tame my unabashed hunger for chasteness. Any action, when considered and analyzed on a macro-level of analysis, becomes morally and humanly inconsequential. I can redeem my actions through any number of logical paths, be it through religious, nihilistic, macro, and micro philosophical thought. Once I reach a logical end conclusion which absolves me of my "crime", I then add it to the concoction of salvations I have been brewing over the years. Wether I invoke Nietzsche, Kant, Hobbes, Plato, or Hegel, I have found my actions vindicated. 

Yet, I feel guilt. For although greater moral, amoral, and anti-moral thinkers than I have found a way to exonerate my conduct, I know what I did was wrong. I have a few theories. One is that despite my carefully considered and methodically researched absolutions, I cannot shed the truth that society, the very institution I committed my act against, is unwilling or unable to forgive me. It is a burden I must carry with me. Still, I find all my intellectualizing of the past has left a bitter taste in mouth. I have an instinctual, irrational, and tiresome irking that I am wrong. That I am evil. 

I can debate what "evil" is, and wether it is qualitative or the result of lacking virtue, or both, it is unimportant. I believe I am evil. My basic instincts, the very things that brought me to this place have not only enabled me to commit my acts of evil, but have confirmed what I feel deep inside. I continue to search for a rational conception that can override my instinctual beliefs of myself, for I feel that if I do not I shall die of laughter and of despair. I hope that you will not judge me harshly, for these walls are not meant to keep me from hurting you. They are meant to keep you at bay, and away from my mistakes. 

Sincerely yours,

Epimētheús

Two Art Forms (Thoughts)

The cathartic experience of writing stands counterintuitively to the cathartic experience of music. Both art forms represent a holistic role in my life, my psyche and my "happiness." They are, for lack of any originality, the Ying and Yang of my creative existence. Within the continuation of the previous well worn metaphor and reference, both music and writing exist within themselves, the two dots representing the connection between not just the two mediums of creation but all. Music drives my writing. When I write I put on an album and let the emotion funnel through me and unto the page while the well penned phrase of an engaging work of literature drives me to pick my my "Ax" and express the concrete ideals found on the page into a more than conceptual idea through music. Ying and Yang. 

Music is a rejuvenating force that exudes a raw reality that delves deep within my "soul." When I pick up my instrument of choice I am preparing to be struck by a force of electrical magic that brings me to an upright position. My back straightens and my legs feel firm upon the ground. I am encompassed by a confidence which I have been told changes my outward appearance to all around me. I am no longer the shy intellectual filled with assured uncertainty but I am more comfortable with the words I utter, the body I possess and the world I see before me. I know my place when I interact with the grounding power of metal and/or nylon strings strapped unto a wooden and metal musical contraption. It seems odd that such an obtuse and unimposing man-made object can morph a human being as it has morphed not only myself but many others. That transformation becomes an addiction that remains despite it being unveiled before a mirrored reflection in a room or a stadium filled with countless human interactions. It remains with you, and it becomes a part of you, it is not a persona but another truth that is found within, and a truth we have learned to love. 

Writing is a draining and evacuating experience for it leeches from me all the energy and emotion that I possess unto the page. I bleed upon the pages in which I unveil myself. When I hunch over my computer my body becomes frail and unnoticeable as my head slowly lowers closer to the screen of my emotional misfortunate and malignancy. The act of writings feels aligned to that of treating an illness through the metamorphic and semi-impermanent restructuring through destruction of ones body and mind. As the horrific transformation occurs I become witness to the pathetic-ness of my humanity, the wretchedness that delves inside my devilish exterior. The wretchedness fights for control of my nihilistic and feeble consciousness through the tools of depression and the voiding of hopefulness. The only way to set myself free from the pain is to splatter the bloody truths of this daily battle unto the fields of paper that align the cybernetic fabric of our modern 21st century society. The battle fields will almost undoubtedly be lost within the interminable cyber-universe, floating among countless expressive counterparts, a deafening call on the worthlessness of our emotional endeavours. Ones scars are unveiled for all to see and you unveil a horrendous truth that on the surface appears unsalvageable but in reality unveils the powerful ability for human change and growth. Hope and salvation becomes a part of you, and remains with you until the day you have succeeded, or even more likely failed. Either way the transformation is valuable and without it, I would not be the man I am today. 

Silence (Thoughts)

Today I want to write about silence, but as is often the case recently, I am wilfully and abjectly unable to focus coherently. My stream of consciousness flows from argument to counter argument constantly refining and redefining my stance and the nuance of my argument. My thesis statement is simple, that as a society we have less of an appreciation of silence, yet as I try to define silence be through action or lack thereof, I realize my stance is logically and perhaps even artistically inane. Despite the ramblings and twirling of my rational brain my instinctual and "gut" quadrant of my brain is telling me I am on to something. I will delve into my personal relationship with sound, an individually subjective but profound interaction which has had obtuse magnitude on my life. 

I am first and foremost a musician. I try to uncover a poignancy in my writing that rings with the power of a well place harmony. I try to study my fields of study with the concentration of a well versed musical piece and I try to converse in a rhythm pleasant to the ears. I attempt to link music into all facets of my life. I hold weakness in one manner, silence. Music and sound exist from absence,"silence," a term I am appropriating loosely for in reality silence is a concept and never a reality. As a musician they say music is as much about the notes you fail to play as the notes you do. Tempo, timing, and punctuation are the tools of any great musician, conversationist, and provocateur. As such you can see my fascination with our everyday interaction with silence and its impact on society and individual lives. 

Today, as with many days, I listen to podcasts, music, videos, language, conversation, traffic … the list is endless for even now I enjoy the sound of scraping shoes on a tile floor. We are bombarded by sound so we filter, re-filter, enhance, concentrate and consider. Yet I think we have too much sound in our lives, or more importantly, we bombarded ourselves with to much sound for the purposes of enjoyment and stimulation. I am very much guilty of that sin. I am constantly listening to some form of stimulation in hopes to uncover some nugget of enjoyment which can justify an exclamation of eureka.  By doing so I am ignoring the one principle of sound most important, the importance of silence. Indeed it is the lack of stimulation between the resounding stimulations I endure that are most important. The slow consideration of a well sounded point, note, word or phrase is as equally important as the the emitted sound itself. How often do we forget the basic principles that exist within all of our concepts, from the most minute to the largest. Sound and silence are intertwined within themselves as life and death. One does not exist without the other and more importantly one is not as profound and beautiful without the other. We neglect when we forget this relationship.

I cannot say that I will be able to use this line of thinking to introduce greater "silence" into my life for it is difficult. We are wired to search, interact, and explore. Our curiosity has driven our species to some incredible heights yet I fear not our progression but out litter. We will continue down the road towards progress and continue to attain amazing feats of ingenuity along the way, but with a lack of silence we shall also litter the roads with unrealized potential and realizations. Epiphanies shall lay dormant upon the rails of yesterdays experiences and that to me is a tragedy of silent and un-echoed proportions.  

The Changing Nature Of Social Media (Thoughts)

Social media has changed how we, as a society, interact with each other. There are numerous debates on how social media should be used properly, safely, and in a manner which would insure that our lives are enriched. In a perfect world the above goals would be easily attainable and more importantly be implement quickly and efficiently. Sadly our utopian goals are rarely the reality. What makes social media so difficult to adapt to is its ability and necessity to mutate exponentially. For every new tool that is created and appropriated by the social consciousness of the online society there appears to be two similar tools with slight differing nuances, for every Instragram there is a Pinterest and Snapchat, social platforms that hold similar ideas but offer nuanced specifications that allow the app, website, or idea to live within its own cybernetic niche. Everyday the push for greater individualization is driving the software market and changing the face of social media and the online experience. The market is changing faster than we can adapt. 

I will outline my own recent personal experience with the changing phenomenon that is social media. A few weeks ago a personally close friend was jumped and physically beaten for reasons that remain unimportant. My friend was forced to go to the hospital and had to receive numerous stitches to close a substantial gash that existed above his right eyebrow. On the funnier side he now looks a little more like Harry Potter (perhaps it will help him in his romantic endeavours). This is similar to what occurred to myself a handful of years ago (three years ago to be exact) in which I was also beaten up and was forced to receive stitched for a major wound to my bottom lip. There seems to exist only minimal differences between our nefarious experiences, except how we unveiled our wounds to our immediate peers and counterparts. I used to medium of texting and Facebook to inform my immediate social group of what had occurred to me while my friend used the medium of Snapchat, in which one sends a purposefully fleeting and ephemeral picture which than disappears after a set time and can never be seen again. 

So why is this important? Because how we communicated a similar experience was vitally different within a short period of time. Just as importantly we both exist within the same age bracket and social environment. We are both tackling the same major in political science, we both come from middle class families and are both similar in personality and passions. We are a perfect example of a most similar case study, two similar people who have a similar experience but react differently. 

So why did we react differently? clearly it is because we had access to different tools. That is obvious, but what makes it even more interesting is that in a very short period of time, barely 3 years, we had access to intrinsically unique tools. It is undeniable that the landscape of social media has mutated, has adapted, and has modified to changing needs. I received the Snapchat from my friend at 4 in the morning, allowing me to give him sympathetic immediacy that I was unable to enjoy. I had to wait hours before being gifted with the gift of comfortable reassurance from a respected peer or authority figure. My friend was able to access such needs, and with greater visual context, quicker and more frequently. Yet, does that mean we should have such social accessibility? The problem is that when we are tackling with the above issue the technology will become socially obsolete and replaced. Welcome to the twenty first century. 

A Discussion Of the Short Narrative (Thoughts)

What can be said about the short narrative, no matter the form? As a writer I live within the confinements of the short narrative, be it poetry, short stories, short essays, or even my to-often Facebook status updates. Indeed the world I am confined within, the world I have grown in many respects to abhor, has given rise to my own appreciation of the short narrative form. I am a creation of my environment no matter how hard I attempt to fight it. I live my literary potential within the power of two doubled spaced pages.  

Recently Alice Munro won the Nobel Prize in Literature, cited as a "master of the contemporary short story." The short narrative form, through never maligned and highly respected, rarely gets the respect it deserves. It doesn't hold the magical artistic appeal of the "Great" all encompassing novel. Such novels, be it War and Peace or the the more modern Infinite Jest, hold a grandeur on the minds of writers and readers alike. Lovers of literature wish to delve and tackle the magnum opus for it promises greatness, perhaps a shrivel of truth that we can keep warm under our pillows and hold till we breath our last breath and utter our last unmemorable utterance. Yet the short narrative form has proven to become increasingly useful and meaningful, holding as many "truths" as the magnum opus we all wish to read and/or write. 

The power and struggle of the short narrative is the need to speak with as little as possible, to say great things with the minimalism of a deep seeded epiphany. The world has began to ask for this tiny miracle more often than ever before. With a world of information, I site exhibit A the internet, there seems to be a greater need for a reductionist soul, someone able to encompass an entire thought in a sentence; some are more than able to expound upon such wit. The comedians that control and bring insight to Twitter, the world of 140 characters (what an absurd length for such as myself), have shown they can bring forth and encapsulate the absurdities and fallacious elements of humanity with the freedom and bravery (perhaps stupidity) of an iconoclastic Jester. So why are we still clinging to that magnum opus, does it hang upon our neck like an albatross cursing us as it did the ancient mariner?

Perhaps not. I cannot say that I have the focus of my predecessors, lord knows I am unable to focus on my own writing past two pages, as I have mentioned before, but does that mean that my entire generation is cursed as I? With the attention and memory span of a goldfish but the intelligence and material resources of all past generations combined? When the "written word" was first invented the Greeks debated on the price of such a tool, as simple as it may seem to us, and they worried that memory, a tool used to tell great and all encompassing stories such as the Iliad, would be lost and what would that mean for humanity? The debaters and maligners of writing proved prophetic for we do not possess such memorial powers but we have gained the ability to understand and comprehend more conceptual realities than ever before, drowning in our present digital sea while often ignoring the perils of "surfing" the network of seemingly infinite websites overflowing with information and opinions at our fingertips. 

Yet our humanity has not changed, the great magnum opus was respected (though for them it was the epic poem), and the short narrative form was left at the wayside, known to be beautiful, profound, and sadly un-idealized and under utilized. That doesn't change though that to say so much without seeming cumbersome or to say so little without seemings uninspired are the struggles that every writer, musician, poet, painter, artist and conveyer of reality share. They share in the struggle if not in the majesty. 

What Path Would You Choose?

White noise. All I hear is white noise from white voices who wear white shirts and shoes and who drink white wine from white chalices. White. Its post-translucent qualities add a cold nuance to the perpetually disinfected and hygienic lives I am caught in. White. All my friends are white and all my enemies are white. Everything is write, monochromatic. When I wake and open my eyes from the only darkness I am able to envision I feel the sharp pain of sharpness behind my eyeballs when gazing upon the clearness of white that perpetually surounds me. How long have I been here? How long will I stay? Did I come here on my accord? All unanswerable questions. I know we could find some form of unit to expound on the idea of time but when units can be infinitely divided or expanded it doesn't mean a fucking thing, I don't know how to answer any of my questions. 

Today is like any other day. I wake and remove myself from clean and crisp bed sheets which are barely tussled by my pre-comatose sleep. I wear equally clean and crisp bed attire, looking as if I am another piece of matching furniture in my room. If I stood infinitely still I would slowly meld into the background. I could picture a family walking through my home, seeing if they wished to purchase the medium sized condo, and failing to notice the young man standing perfectly still. Perhaps a lamp shade on my head would help complete the scene. 

I would carefully walk to my bathroom and turn on the tap and wash my face with the translucent water which escapes in a less than impressive torrent of streaming sound. From there I would leave my room into my kitchen and ingest my white plain eggs on white bread toast and perhaps, if I am feeling adventurous and in need of some stimulation, watch some television. Perhaps I would watch the news in order to remind myself how un-terrible my life was. The perpetual boredom was a firm and strong ideal compared to the terribleness of war, famine and disease. 

My mouth would move mechanically as I ate my barely organic food. The crunch of bread unsurprisingly acted as the soul human sound in the home, emitting a sadness which can only be possible when human actions are done robotically. Then a break would emerge from the pathetic existence when I would take part in the only pleasure of the morning, the yolk of my egg. The yellowness which emitted my light would break from its thin and frail mould and spill forth. I would greedily suck on the edge of the egg making sure every aspect of that yellow orgasm enters my oral cavity and allows a shiver of palette encompassing joy leak through my frigid and calculated body. The warmth of it would set me free for a few moments and I would close my eyes, once again incapsulated by the beautiful colourlessness of darkness and let the only instance of joy cling for as long as is humanly needed. Than the moment would end and I would clean my single plate, wipe down the counter, and clean myself in white, brush my teeth in white and lick my lips to whiteness. 

I am a 20 to 30 white male, I am intelligent and I am socially awkward. I am the most monstrous demographic in the world, the most likely to be a serial killer and numerous other horrifying characters in the world. I am also incredibly pathetic and meticulously structured in my existence. I have two paths laid before me, the coldness of my white existence or the path towards monstrous anonymity. What path would you ultimately choose?  

The Place I call Home (A Poem)

The Place I call Home 

Neon glow of a street lamp reflecting on the damp pavement 

Cars driving by late at night breaking the silent restless air 

Clicking heels exasperating the emptiness and darkness

Windows lit by dull florescent bulbs hanging aimlessly 

This is where I call home and this is where I find my life 

dawn hints on the horizon a future date filled with hopes 

Only to be regained by the grips of dusk once again 

The cold rain falls upon the faces of sinned and sinner

Transgressions meaning little to ridged and stoned lives 

The paint peeling off age worn walls covered in scratches 

Sparse furniture dotting a glowing coffin of an apartment

Cold wooden floors covered in splintered ragged flaws 

They seem to symbolize my simplistically docile existence   

Loud appliances initiate a space of sound among shy reality 

Humming angrily as if to protest the squalor that permeates

Each corner a home for shadows and other vague concepts 

A dripping sink adding rhythm among a patternless orchestra 

Raise ones head and you can see the spotted stains above 

telling a story willing to evoke bitter and mirthless laughter  

Cracks spidering across an endless sea of greying white paint

Reminiscent of the worn and aged skin of a toiling farmer 

The window glares as light slowly scatters through stained glass

Images of cultists taking their lives within such light reels  

Slightly blurred images and a rocking unsteady camcorder

Catching the final moments of mentally deranged beings 

The moon shines mercilessly upon the reflective street below 

Its not that I think I can escape the reality I have set upon 

Its all about perspective and deeply intwined imagination 

Within a shadowy and ghostly place I still call my home 

  

  

     

Words (Thoughts)

The power and the meaninglessness of words perfectly epitomizes the contradictory nature of all human constructs. I attempt to use my knowledge and artistic sensibilities to build a structure of words which can convey abstract ideals into concrete creations within you. I have a friend who is struggling with internal and external misfortunes and I try desperately to use my words to help ease her struggle. The poor truth of geography we share has forced me to hold unto the power of my words to affect her life in a positive manner ya bish? But no, she doesn't understand for the power I am trying to convey through the wonders of a shrinking and continuously globalized world lies within herself and not within myself. I am attempting to pro-ject words that bring forth great emotions within me to repeat the feat within her, I am attempting to universalize a subjective truth through the hope of convincing her that her subjective truth is also my own, such minimizing and retracting the power of our individuality.

There is undoubtedly overlap that will occur. The power of art is its ability to burrow deep within its receiver, unearthing great truths that we had not realized existed. At the moment I am listening to a piece by Kendrick Lamar called Money Trees, a song that takes a hard and constructive look at the gang banging culture that exists within L.A. and other major North American metropolises, truths that occur because of racist economics and "the weight of history"; the term has just procured a few chuckles from myself, the context for which is completely subjective and plagiaristic in nature. What I am trying to say is that I am a white middle class male who by the very essence of his birthing was given a life in which I am free of all the turmoil that a black North American man such as kendrick has faced. Yet, despite the vast chasm between our social, economic, and racial differences I can relate to him. I can take in the power of his words and find a deep seeded emotion which we both share and I am able to let the flow of his ebonic lyrics flow through my soul and conscious mind. We share a basic humanity and a basic language (to an extent).

So I hope, beg, and perhaps pray that the power that kendrick has with words can also be the power I have with words, that I am able to dig deep within the mind and feelings of my friend(s) with the words I am unleashing through the unsubstantiated energies of my mind, fingers, and the social media we have all been dissolved within; that I am able to connect rather than redirect, that I am able to convey rather than refrain and that I am gifted enough to define rather than remind the realities we hold inside ourselves.

 

Vegetating (A Poem)

Vegetating

A pair of too high to fuck lovers 

Caught in the review mirror 

Star crossed and mind warped 

To the visual sensation of imagination 

Immobilized by societies expectations

Vegetating, basement infused existence

spider in the corner seemingly dazed   

Room illuminated by neon television glow 

"go fuck yourself" resonates within paper walls

Slamming doors, carbon escaping click snap

resounding feet ring poignantly to muttering 

"Asshole" screamed to deaf ears just below

A pair of too high to fuck lovers 

Caught in the review mirror 

Star crossed and mind warped 

To the visual sensation of imagination 

Flashing images invoking minimal response 

Sound receiving no attention of the mind 

Eyes filmed over, absent of emotional regret

"Fuck boy, get off that fucking couch, you shit!" 

A pair of too high to fuck lovers 

Caught in the review mirror 

Star crossed and mind warped 

To the visual sensation of imagination 

Untitled #2 (A Poem)

Untitled # 2

Home alone, no where to go 

surrounded by, I don't even know 

I can't help think, I will fade 

enjoyment of life, oddly frayed 

I like to read, bout coming of age 

It reminds me, I turn the page 

if I fail, I'll survive my cage 

I'll glance to my gas gauge 

my car will run out of gas 

 between god, going to mass 

 the feeling of human beings 

I hate sensation, always fleeing 

how scary can death really be 

when you live, without seeing 

people you love, those that weep 

 your soul, not meant to keep

walk on down, the city streets 

find a coin, a couple of seats 

it won't take long, before you find 

everything ends, before your time  

that funny show and that great cd 

filled with scenes on that fav dvd 

I pack my bags to go to the bar 

I find her with another pair of arms 

Its funny, we love organic things 

we want something we can cling 

a way to kill time, before it kills us 

a way of saying, that life is a fuss 

So here I am, alone and sad 

 tragic ideas, life can go bad 

 I realized that it was a dream 

living within popular themes 

I existed inside another play 

a work of Shakespearean dismay 

 inside a mans simple mind 

its funny how I can't control rewind  

Seducing Sleep (A Poem)

Seducing Sleep 

Time slows down, if for a moment

I now know what you had meant

(When you said take me)

Locked inside our loving embrace 

Focused only on one another

(Eyes widen with movement)  

Each breath rasps in perfect unison

Each muscle works for one intent 

Our souls intwine our bodies 

We become joined in those minutes

Forgetting that the world exists 

(My point becomes your eyes)

Our skin seems to melts to become one

Our souls seem to morph into our love

(I need you as much as you need me) 

It all ends in a climatic understanding

Time stops and then moves faster

(Our energy seeps away with the night)

We will never be able to turn back

The connection has been created

(Its time to rest and let sleep seduce) 

Ode To That Beyond Beauty (A Poem)

Ode To That Beyond Beauty

The beautiful

I ask this of thee

What shall you get as time passes?

I will kneel to you in our youthful intrigue

but I expect a bow in our ancient reprieve

For as things change so will you

Your beauty will pass quickly 

along with your arrogance brought by birth

For though you flash in exquisite fashion 

My elegant words remain undeniably immortal 

As the erosion of time wears you down 

I shall be sculpted by the weathered winds of wisdom 

for you beauty will never bring respect nor validation

Your beauty shall never endow you with status

your allure shall bring you lust, till age morphs desire into contempt 

When your time has passed you will die yearning the past

Unable to look at yourself through the eyes of the old

I though, shall age with weathered eyes full of passion

I will gain that which shall never be yours

be it esteem, or comfort of what cannot be seen

I will hold death telling him of what I saw today

you shall beg death to remember of what you once where

So enjoy your time youthful beauty, for it is very short

It is but a flash

Indeed, just a flicker of what the talented will enjoy

Never Hide (A Poem)

Never hide

Im not just angry at you

Im angry at myself

Im not just alone inside

Im scared of the taboo

Of being in love with you

Im not just a white man

Im also a devastated minority

I see you and crave you

I would rock your sedan 

But how can we make a plan?

Its terrify to feel like Im sick

I just can't fight the urges 

they represent my humanity

As odd as they are cryptic 

As scary as society is phobic

So let me put on my lipstick

Let me slip into this gown 

I can't hide beneath this facade  

a women inside, not actually sick

Just burdened by gods cruel trick

So hold me tight and love me

touch me and show me tonight

What it means to be accepted

I wish we could find a way to flee

My male body, this genetic Plea

To be attracted to the wrong side

Is not just a burden but a fear

Just accept me for how I am

I was made this way, I have pride

So know that I shall never Hide 

I will never hide. 

Lucid retreat (A Poem)

Lucid retreat

Burying the vivid moments in my sub conscious

I thought you would be my last Adrenaline rush  

Everything I do is inexplicably linked to this feeling

I make sure to lay you face up towards the ceiling

Watching your eyes is like watching the end of a movie

The colors fade and the screen turns into a rich black

Usually I see myself walking away into the darkness 

Wishing I was like you, full of beauty and harmless 

They say every man has a talent he cannot escape 

He become a mannequin to that of which he does

I would like to believe that I didn't have a choice 

That I learned to handle myself with a stark poise

I do feel some hint of guilt and regret somewhere

I wouldn't be pondering my existence if I couldn't

I glance at the mirror and stare at my callused eyes

We all have our goals and fight for a certain prize 

I glance at you, laying there in an infinite stillness  

I had no reason to choose you over anyone else

There was something though that made me know

That today you where linked to my life's inane flow

Im just like everyone else, I wonder why I am like I am

I don't know If I was born this way or if It was parenting

sadly though, pondering such things are meaningless

I can't change who I am, Ill act with optimistic vigilance 

There is no such thing as the sweetest kill in life 

Only those that we remember with lucid abandonment 

They are not something to be enjoyed or rejoiced 

I wish more than anything else that I had a real choice. 

So I live my life encompassed in a lucid retreat of defeat 

Caught living in past moments and future regressions 

Striking at just more than the humanity I attempt to create

I want an existence in which I have no need to self sedate

It's Just a Little Thing (A Poem)

It's Just a Little Thing 

She stood by the door leg bent 

Her hair was let down loose 

Her morals where locked up 

and her smile was evilly divine 

She took out a silvery blade

Lit a cigarette and laughed

A highball at the bedside table 

and a little gasoline on the bed 

The fire it roared and crackled 

as did the whiskey inside me 

and her body across my side 

and the knife inside my hand 

The red warmth invigorated 

As she lay in my steady hands 

and she closed her lovely eyes 

to take tomorrows nap everyday 

The scoundrels die most beautifully 

and revenge is a dish best served 

with a slice of meat and fire water

to keep ones stomach steady and full 

and so I killed my whorish woman 

and dumped her body in his bed 

I lit a smoke and sparkled some gas

and burned her corpse in his home 

So let us take a drink and celebrate 

the deaths foretold by the scholars 

and the lives forgotten by the public 

and the stories remember by the old 

  

In Love Wtih Another Mistress (A Poem)

In Love with Another Mistress 

Ive been on the move so long, I don't know what rest means 

My jeans are so worn, that my knees remain bear for all to see

The steps to my home are faded from the winter months as I remember 

It is odd feeling this nervousness before my own abode 

I held you on those steps, hands clasped tightly together 

Do you remember that nervous kiss before those timeless stars

I can remember wondering how many lovers have stared at those same stars

Feeling comfortably mortal and understandably transient before them 

Still

I ran away that october day scared of what you would think when you found out

Fire running through my veins, in love with another mistress of destruction 

Her name was cocaine, her name was addiction

I had your photo in my frayed wallet, held it every single day praying 

Even though I didn't believe in god, I still believed in you 

Gazing out that window, waiting for me to come and save us 

from the loneliness of our own broken hearted ways 

It had been so long since I looked you in those brisk blue eyes 

Your pain etched around your eyes and anger clenched between your fits 

My frail body swaying in the wind on top those fading concrete steps 

My hand Stretched out in desperate condolence for your lost years 

I trembled like I did before, all those years ago, ailing in body and soul 

Head bowed in defeat, life weighting on feeble shoulders 

Hands in my hair, firm and loving, holding me up before the strengths of time

Love never died between those years of trying to run from evanesce

Still

I ran away that october day scared of what you would think when you found out

Fire running through my veins, in love with another mistress of destruction 

Her name was cocaine, her name was addiction

Salvation I found in those arms, forgiveness in those stern bright eyes

You picked me up that day, feed me, and reminded me why I came back

But I will never become clean and I will never stay for too long 

I will break you heart again when I once again run for you 

I ran away that october day scared of what you would think when you found out

Fire running through my veins, in love with another mistress of destruction 

Her name was cocaine, her name was addiction

I returned a torn and broken man, only to rejoin the long road, back to her

In love with another mistress. Her name was cocaine. Her name was addiction. 

  

I Never Existed (A Poem)

I Never Existed

I walked home to something new

under my floor

was my only friend

She fell asleep to something old

how she cried 

to find my only friend 

I didn't mind being to near 

Though she tried 

To remind me why 

I used to hide under my floor 

to stay away 

From my fears deep inside

and Although I didn't know this

I was running from my very existence

So I told you I was fine today 

I would call

On another later date 

I hope you don't mind collect

I will be far 

From this very sad place 

So keep my lonely bed warm 

Under that floor

So that I may sleep again 

I just want you to know

Im am fine 

In this place I call home

And although I didn't know this

I was running from the truth 

Underneath your floorboards 

Underneath your floorboards 

I never existed