I fear it's been long enough.

Long enough since some remnants of my fleeting existence have found their way onto paper via pen wielded by an overworked hand -- OR perhaps just text -- an infinite number of ones and zeros arranged in such away that it might mean something to someone.

I find that it's easier to write when I am overwhelmed with an excess of emotional energy. Over the past few months, I've been juggling two jobs, a relationship, and a fairly regimented drinking schedule. I've learned I can't do anything in moderation. Since I moved back to this fair state of Deseret, I've lived about 20 lives. I've gone trail running, traveled 70 hours on a greyhound bus, dabbled in a few substances, learned how to play the melodica, perfected my dough-tossing skills, practiced my French and Spanish with native speakers, and made a heaping ton of mistakes. The question I get asked most frequently is this:
"Are you happy?"

I've come to realize that it's usually myself doing the asking.

I ask myself when I reach the bottom of those bottles, the taste of whiskey fighting with the question on the tip of my tongue. I ask myself when I walk through that looming shadow cast by the temple, when I'm faced every day with a macabre family history masked by a legacy. I ask myself on days like today, when it's overcast and the mountains roar as the thunder tears through the desert heat.

Time to get back to work.

hiatus

I'm going to be taking a wee break from blogging (note the keyword, BLOGGING, not WRITING).

I've discovered that the pressure of having a dedicated readership makes me less inclined to be honest and accepting of the imperfections in my ideas. Thank you all for your support over the last year or so.

Don't worry, I'll be around.

expect the unexpected.

Sixteen blocks to the liquor store, each way. It was strange that night. The air was still save a hint of wind spreading rumors of winter. I didn't feel cold. My landscape was decorated with flickering construction signs and chain link fences. Once manicured-turned-feral trees defiantly pushed up sections of the cracking sidewalk with their elephantine roots. Splintering mailboxes and tilted phone booths bowed in reverence as our royal procession moved past. I marched alongside of you -- the cadence of your cowboy boots hitting the concrete. Jokes flew back and forth between the three of us. We were soldiers, travelers, vagabonds. Nomads wandering through the urban desert. I felt simultaneously young and immortal.

You kept asking if I was cold,

The more you asked, the warmer I felt.

Before I knew it, we were sipping Bushmills out of red plastic cups and swigging Newcastles that had become almost sufficiently chilled just from the walk home. And I was singing with you as you strummed.

She lit a burner on the stove and offered me a pipe
"I thought you'd never say hello" she said --


I held the whiskey to your lips


"You look like the silent type"
Then she opened up a book of poems

I felt the corduroy hugging your legs between my fingers

And handed it to me
Written by an Italian poet
From the thirteenth century
And every one of them words rang true
And glowed like burning coal
Pouring off of every page
Like it was written in my soul from me to you
Tangled up in blue

And later those lyrics became promises as you curled around me like a treble clef --

It was two a.m. and you lit your cigarette while standing on the wraparound porch -- snow drifting through the air. Streetlights illuminated circles of air around them. Snowflakes made their brief debut in the spotlight before permanently settling on the ground. There they were, melting into the frozen asphalt. Icy particles fusing to one another for the chilly duration of their brief existence. I could barely make out your voice over the roar of my own heartbeat. We talked -- first it was "pick one: Arlo or Woodie Guthrie?" and a summer ahead of hitching and camping and train jumping and before I could finish my sentence --

Your lips tasted like Marlboro twenty sevens and familiar song lyrics and Irish whiskey.

It's like finding home
In an old folk song
That you've never ever heard
Still you know every word
And for sure you can sing along

My Future Ex Husband: Andy Hull

Instead of posting my usual "Critical Theory Tuesday" post, I denied myself the intellectual masturbation and settled for actual masturbation. I just rediscovered Right Away, Great Captain! in my music collection and I fell in love all over again. What is Right Away, Great Captain! you ask? Well, it is the folk side project of indie rock front-man Andy Hull. I had the fortunate pleasure of seeing him perform live last March with his main band, Manchester Orchestra. He is so damn talented, and when that man is on stage, he rocks like a god. Also, did I mention that I'm salivating just thinking about it? Musically gifted, an elegant wordsmith, beardy as all hell. I want to get lost in the mountains with him. And a guitar. And a bottle of whiskey. And hypothermia... so he is forced to keep me warm...

Now for some gratuitously irrelevant photos. Oh and maybe an obligatory embedded youtube video.

Please note the range. He can go from being heartbreaking and improvising lines about BEING A SHIP CAPTAIN to rocking my fucking ass off. Thank you, Andy Hull, for making me all hot and bothered. 

sigh.

and now, a little bit of fiction.

falling in love with strangers

There should be four feet -- bumping and sliding around each other like smooth stones in a river bed -- under the blanket of cotton rubbing atop one another warmed by the friction

My mind won’t stay empty and my heart won’t stay full. 

I imagine that I know you and that I would pretend I didn’t like your facial expressions, especially the one that precludes those crumpled wads of bills left on chipped Formica countertops after hours of inhaling burnt diner coffee and then I’m driving through the desert and your skin is between my fingers as I traipse across the scaly sea of Joshua trees as my hands reach lower than Jericho I can decipher the message in your pores like Braille with my pillowed fingerprints and your back is like a novel I’ve read one hundred times before where my heart stops when I digest my favorite lines and when I remember the punctuation of a freckle or the narrative of a scar now I can feel each ridge built into your hands from the hours of wood chopping and guitar playing and your skin has the same clear, crisp, and daunting audacity of my favorite song on vinyl and I want to lay here forever even though nothing could trick me into staying still it’s funny, facing the sky, confirming my worst suspicions to an audience of stars:

I’m better off this way. 

But suddenly, I don’t know you and I imagine that I do-- I can anticipate that you like the smell of fresh guitar strings and that you know how to play the mandolin. You like your eggs not unlike your women -- over easy and properly dressed -- and you prefer Jameson to Johnny Walker but you won’t say no to the latter. You pretend not to be chivalrous but you can't not open a door for any woman and you never drop hints about how you'd like to undress and ravage all those desperate girls and you say you gave it up but you can roll a joint with one hand while your strong hands dance across your worn-out frets and you let a Nat Sherman hang from your cracked lips. The melody of your breathing hangs with a sweet twang like major chords from Arlo or maybe Woodie Guthrie and you don’t speak Spanish but you can sing along to the Gipsy Kings and you laugh when words you shouldn’t understand reach your eager ears and you’d never admit that you cried when you watched Once alone and realized that all ships are built for sinking --

I drank too much and wore a party dress. You looked at me twice and that was all it took for my awkward knees to be sprawling and adjacent like leafless tree branches in the midst of winter but I’d like to know you better, maybe a picnic or an illicit outing or a late-night serenade you whisper to me as I smell milk and honey on your breath You’re the kind of girl I’d want to marry as you kiss me on the forehead and leave me with my dress rolled down and my collar bones and pale skin and breasts exposed and tears roll down my cheeks like molasses or maple syrup or something else slow and sickly sticky sweet just like a riff from Hendrix if only I’d known better. 

The Misanthrope's Guide to Being a Gentleman

How to keep chivalry alive in the gilded age of meaty bros and skanky hos. 

Let me preface this by saying that I consider myself somewhat of a “forward” thinker. I’m not a militant feminist, because let’s face it, that sort of mentality just encourages reverse discrimination and hate-speech against men. I happen to like men; so much in fact that I’ll sleep with them on occasion. I may not be a feminist, however, I do believe in the equal intellectual capacity of both genders. I’d like to make as much as my opposite-gendered counterpart whether I wear a suit and tie or show off my fantastic gams in a fitted pencil skirt. Anyway, back on point. Chivalry may not be dead, but it’s damn near extinct. I can’t remember the last time a guy opened the door for me. Now, I’m not talking about significant others, or those I’m courting either. I’m talking about those guys who aren’t bound by the obligation of exclusivity (and the promise of blow jobs if they behave). I’m talking about the average man. These simian creatures who parade under the guise of humans nowadays are completely devoid of manners (this goes for many women as well!). Seriously, what happened to social etiquette? I don’t recall riding an elevator in the recent past where any man has let me step in before them instead of pushing me to the side. Holding the elevator for a woman in a hurry? Forget it… unless I’m running toward it in a low cut shirt. In this circumstance, I immediately see six cuff-linked hands fly up to the door jamb. That’s right. I swear, to get anything done around here…

Anyway, gentlemen-to-be, here are some pointers to keep you from being annoying assholes. I’ve broken them into sections. Read, learn, and enjoy! And, if you’re already a gentleman (e.g., David Hall) feel free to bask in your own glory.

CLOTHING::
When it comes to pants, baggier is not better. Be careful, though – you don’t want to find yourself wandering into nut-hugger territory. Too loose? Wear a belt. It’s called underwear for a reason. Revealing your buttocks and boxers is not appealing in any setting. T-shirts are acceptable, however, they should fall just below your waist. The seam of the shoulder should always be parallel with your shoulders. For your nicer clothes, find a good tailor. When dressing up, always leave the bottom button of your vest undone. Own at least one pair of black lace-up dress shoes. Nothing beats a good hat, so long as it is removed when indoors. Ties are meant to complement a wardrobe, but they should never be a main focal point. Cufflinks when appropriate are never optional. Watches always belong on the left wrist.

SMARTS::
If reading books the size of War & Peace seems daunting, peruse different types of magazines. In addition to more “bookish” publications, find issues that cover art, architecture, design or photography. Try not to go straight to the sports section of the newspaper. Being open-minded and aware of the world around you shows class and sophistication, but avoid seeming pretentious. Be modest instead of showing off what you know. Don’t spend hours looking at pornography and trolling facebook. Spend a little while each day making yourself smarter. Learn about things out of your comfort zone. Don’t forget to remain humble about this newfound intelligence.

SOCIAL INTERACTION::
When meeting new people, always look them in the eyes and shake their hand. Don’t ever hold conversations at the same time someone else is speaking. Don't ever talk over people. Let the person finish his or her point before giving yours. In social settings, be prepared to ask questions or make statements of courtesy, like "may I help you?" or "let me get that for you" or "I'll take care of that". There are several things that should never occur in public: farting, belching, speaking too loudly, being overly demanding/offensive, or drinking heavily (well, I could never be a gentleman…). A gentleman is always in control of himself, body and mind. In conversation, don't talk about yourself at length. You have two ears and one mouth for a reason. Get a basic idea of what's going on in music, sports, and politics. Study at least one piece of art extensively. In meeting new people, learn to avoid politics and religion until you know the person better. Learn how to be neutral if someone else brings it up. A simple shrug will do wonders. I cannot stress the next point enough: a gentleman never makes other people uncomfortable. Always provide correction/criticism in private and praise in public. There is a fine line between confidence and arrogance, and the latter is not attractive in the least.

DATING::
If you initiate a dinner date or meeting, then you should expect to pay. This rule works both ways. Avoid unnecessary use of expletives in public, especially in the presence of a woman you’re seeing. Always put your napkin in your lap at dinner. Stuffing it in your shirt is grounds for getting slapped. When eating, avoid looking like a caveman. Use utensils, avoid chewing with your mouth open, and don’t leave a messy plate. When at a restaurant, always tip more than 20 percent. You never want to make other people at your table reach into their pocket to cover your cheapness. When walking, always have a woman stay on the inside of the sidewalk and on the side of parked cars in a parking lot. This protects us from harm and makes us feel safe.

CASUAL ROMANCE::
Yes, casual sex is allowed if you're a gentleman. After all, why wouldn't you want to use some of your new-found swagger to charm the ladies? Always make sure to brush your teeth, gargle, or have a breath mint before getting up close and personal. If the opportunity presents itself on the first night, don’t excitedly pull a condom out of your wallet. She’ll get the impression that you’re premeditated and will be turned off. Even if you’re having a one-night stand with a woman, be respectful. Jay-Z might brag about kicking women out five minutes after having sex with them, but he’s not having sex with your date. You are. Casual sex doesn’t have to be disrespectful. In fact, it’s more fun when it’s not.

RELATIONSHIPS::
Are things getting serious? Remember to keep doing nice things for your girlfriend when you're around her. If she's carrying something, pick it up when she puts it down and always kindly let her know by saying "oh, let me get that for you." Remember, being selfish is never attractive. There are some things you shouldn't rush to bring up in conversation. These include how hot other girls are, or anything at all of that nature. It's fine to talk about that stuff with your guy friends, but a gentleman doesn't do that. Do not talk down to women ever. It's acceptable to engage in friendly or flirtatious teasing but cruelty is not the way to go. Teasing does not mean calling them vulgar words, however. No matter how joking your tone is, it hurts a woman when a so-called "gentleman" calls them a dirty word. This rule has one exception: in the sack. Make sure she’s okay with dirty talk, though, before you start busting out the four letter words.

LAST WORDS::
A gentleman can recognize when he loses a fight. Know the difference between standing up for yourself and being a fool. In the words of the immortal Kenny Rogers, “You really do need to know when to hold ‘em and when to fold ‘em.”

Critical Theory Tuesdays: In Between Two Deaths with Lacan, Zizek, and Zombies

As humans, we are defined by our end. Every breath is drawn in the face of that daunting ubiquity of flesh sinking back into the earth. Each heartbeat echoes the inevitability that our remains will become the fodder for an orchestral chaos of decomposition. Every day, we are faced with the unavoidable dissipation of our bodies – our permanent expulsion from the Eden of the Real. In accordance with Lacanian psychoanalysis, however, death is far more complex than just a finite biological timeline. Lacan’s conception of life and death extends beyond the dominion of physical mortality. We die once, at the end of life, when our years have dwindled and our faculties have fallen into ruin. We die again, emblematically, in the face of our imploding Symbolic universe. It is here that ourselves, as subjects, face extermination and extinction. A living death occurs when we become excluded – ostracized – from the symbolic order. Without the property of a subject, without an identity, we can no longer exist for the Other. The recognition of this symbolic death has manifested itself through our obsession with the undead.

In the abyss between symbolic death and actual death, a space emerges. This space consists of pure death drive – a paradoxical drive without desire. The primary disparity between desire and drive is that, while both remain insatiable, desire remains as such because that persistent lack acts as a catalyst. Desire is defined by that very lack. Desire emerges obsessively in search of an object to fill the absence. This is an object that, by nature, cannot and does not exist. Conversely, drive understands the prevalence of this lack and is pleasured by the act of attempting to fill it. In the symbolic realm, the insatiable cannibalism of Zombies represents the death drive as incessant consumption without satisfaction. Drive is about the Sisyphean motions, not the false ideal of ultimate fulfillment. In Lacanian terms, the death drive is defined as the innate impulse to return to the immaculate state of quiescence that precedes birth. According to Zizek, this cavernous void between the two deaths is filled by manifestations of the monstrous, the beautiful, and the grotesque.

This death-driven compulsion is blatantly cannibalistic. Freud argues in his later writings (Beyond the Pleasure Principle) that humans are drawn to repeat painful or traumatic events, despite an apparent contradiction to the human pleasure instinct. The traumatized individual, like a zombie devouring flesh, attempts to consume the trauma. This allows the subject to return into a state of quiescence – a limbo between the finality of death and the reality life. In this “undead” state, the binary opposition between dead and alive is undone. Zombies are symbolically representational of humans existing in the space of the death drive – they are neither dead nor alive, and they are simultaneously both dead and alive. In this fashion, zombies reject all meaning. Zombies represent precisely what is impossible to represent within the complex sphere of human nature: they resist any stable signification through paradoxically signifying too much.

-- J. Henry, Feb 2011