Amore and the Time Angels Walked Around with Humans.

One thing about God is that he is the smartest thing in all of everywhere. Another thing about God is that since he is the smartest thing in all of everywhere, he likes to experiment. Today there are strict angel aptitude tests and rigid angel training and tact seminars. But that is only because of the time that God let angels walk around with humans.

It would have been a Tuesday (if Tuesdays had existed at the time), when God became strangely perplexed by the way things were.

He was in his glass bottom boat, looking down into the first village in the world when he saw Pantalones' wife's friends saying bad things about her (because she was the prettiest woman in the first village in the world). He saw jealousy and he saw the budding seeds of what would become hatred and he wondered where all of the bad things came from.

When you're the smartest thing in all of everywhere you have a lot on your mind. So, even though you could if you wanted to, you don't always think everything through. Such was the case when God created people. It was a beautiful idea, but it didn't take long before flaws were exposed.

Angels had been around for a long time, and they had never said bad things about each others wives. So God thought that maybe if he let the angels live with the humans the humans would learn how to be good. He called an Angel meeting and told them they were to move to Pangea for the time being. The angels were very excited because angels are very curious things.

It would have been a Wednesday (if Wednesday's had existed at the time), when God realized that sending the angels to live with the humans was a bad idea.

Even if you are the smartest thing in all of everywhere, you can still learn something new every day.

When the humans saw the angels (the most beautiful things they had ever seen), they fell into passionate, head-over-heels love with them. Which wouldn't have been a bad thing at all except that one thing about angels is that they don't fall in love, they only love. As you can imagine, this made for a sad state of affairs in Pangea. God quickly ordered the angels to return to their world.

A generation of people were sad because they had fallen in love with angels who couldn't love them back. Most of this sadness faded with time, but there is one lingering remnant of the time that God let angels walk around with humans. That remnant is a bloodline.

Even though they were only on the world for one night, there was one man who managed to make love with an angel and get her pregnant. His name was Amore (after all, it was a name first), and the angel's name was Haley. Amore fell into the deepest love with Haley, and because angels are curious, Haley tried to be in love with Amore. They did all the things that lovers do in a night, one of those things being making love.

Because angels can live in human world and humans cannot live in angel world, God permitted Haley to stay on earth for the remainder of Amore's life and raise their child.

Amore had the saddest life in the history of the world.

Amore was also more in love than anyone in the history of the world.

Haley loved Amore, and they were a happy couple to all outside observers, but Amore lived his life bearing the unbearably heavy weight of the truth. He had been in love since the day he saw Haley. And yet, no one had ever been in love with him. He began to attempt to put this feeling into words, for writing had already been invented by this time, but so far had only been used to label one's possessions. With knowledge of writing's capability of labeling things, Amore set out to label his feelings. Because there had not yet been a word invented to describe someone who was in love but was not loved back.

Amore shared his writing with many people in the first village in the world. His writing inspired many and gave a whole new application to the act of writing. Amore's writing was read at weddings, funerals, propositions, and for leisure.

And thus, poetry was born, along with the still inexplicable feeling of loving someone who doesn't love you back.

Amore and Haley named their daughter Sarah, and she went on to have the same traits as her mother (because the Angel gene is always the dominant one). Sarah was loved by many, many men with a deep insatiable love. She loved them all, but was not in love with any of them.

And so it continued throughout the rest of history, the angel bloodline and a string of women of inexplicable beauty who created poets and musicians and directors with their radiance and their incapability of being in love with these men.

Every now and then one of these angels becomes a prominent figure in history. Maud Gonne was one, William Yeats falling prey to the same sad predicament that found Amore in the first village in the world.

But for most, their encounter with the angel bloodline comes in elementary school classrooms, across school bus aisles, and on moonlit playgrounds. The girls that inspire entire lives and always seem just slightly out of reach. The girls that are always on your mind, no matter how far away they are in reality.

It all comes back to the short, but significant time that angels walked around with humans.

I Could Never Write A Stream of Consciousness

This is a stream of consciousness/monologue/character sketch I've been working on. I've been doing some experimentation with the way re-tooling punctuation changes the way ideas are presented. Hopefully it doesn't come off as awkward, or if it does, it comes off as a good kind of awkward. Anyway...

'Its amazing, the things you can trick yourself into. For years I tricked myself into thinking I was okay. I'm not okay, and that's a lot of what this is about. And it keeps you up at night at first. But one day you realize that its okay to not be okay. That's the day you become alive.'

It was the best paragraph I had ever written, or at least I thought so. A conclusion to a book with no beginning. The last thing inspired by her that came out well.

And I had no place to put it.

A novel was something I could never accomplish. As a wide-eyed collegiate I stroked my confidence. If Salinger and Woolf could create novels entirely about walking around, going to parties, and having streams of consciousness, so could I. But I could never write a stream of consciousness. For me it was more like a jagged rock slide of consciousness. The consciousness of my characters was like a neurotic robot performing tasks it wasn't built for.

For the longest time I wrote to escape. I wrote out the opposite of what was me. I wrote a book called 'Standing Still' about a man who stood on a street corner all his life. The setting never changed and his whole life came to him. He fell in love on the street corner. He got a job holding signs on the street corner. He had a child on the street corner (the creative process being done on a Christmas night when no one was driving). He got divorced on the street corner (for it's easy for a wife to love someone else when her husband doesn't even turn his head, also, it's easy for her to feel like he doesn't love her when he doesn't even turn his head). The man's friends gave up trying to get him to move and brought their cook-outs and parties to him. And when he got old an angel visited him on the street corner and took him away.

My life was the opposite. The setting always changed and the plot always stayed the same.

I was never good with conclusions, save for my favorite conclusion. My only conclusion. In 'Standing Still,' I completely blanked when I came to the conclusion. The last page stood blank for days until I couldn't take it anymore. I wrote the only sentence I could think of and shut the book. "Fuck you for not loving me back."

It did not get published.

I compromised my dreams a while ago.

I was thirty six when I realized I wasn't going to be a famous musician. After years of minor record deals and scraping by at a day job, I realized I couldn't do it. This isn't a sob story. I was at yet another music conference, shamelessly promoting my music to any sharp-dressed schmuck who would give me the time of day when I was passed by a group of nineteen and twenty year old's. They successfully looked like they had woken up in an alley. I saw the life on their faces. The dreams. The sheer confidence of kids who have never tasted defeat. It was swagger and it was arrogance. It was what you needed to survive here. These kids would have won a staring contest with Mussolini. No compromises. Ever.


And then I looked at myself.

I remembered those dreams. I remembered that arrogance. And yet, it had left me a long time ago.

I saw my pudgy midsection. I saw my receding hairline. I saw my dated sense of style. My friends had families and kids now, and here I was, fruitlessly chasing the dreams of my youth. I swore I wouldn't quit until they heard me on the radio. But I'd almost forgotten who they were, and I was young then.

And so I did something I never thought I'd do; I taught.

I taught because I'd become the musician I never though I'd be. I taught because it was the only thing I knew. Often I thought of what my teenage self would think of me.

And yet there was some fulfillment in teaching. It wasn't a big paycheck or a mass of screaming fans, but I wasn't sad. I remembered myself as a kid. All children are vessels of unblemished hope until they are broken. Some never get broken, but is that sad or happy? What does it mean to be a vessel of hope if you know nothing else? What does it mean to be an angel if you've never been alive?

Everyday I ponder.

What does it mean to be an angel if you've never been alive?

Pantalones and The Destruction of Pangaea

This is perhaps a chapter in a book I may try to write. Again, this is a draft. Let me know what you think!

In the early days before everyone had discovered the power and evil of the human mind, everyone stayed the same. Also, everyone always said what they meant, just as evolution had not been willed into existence yet, the 'secret' had not yet been invented. People even wrote what they felt on their naked bodies: "I feel sad," "I feel happy," "I love you, why don't you love me." Everything was transparent. Until one day a man named Pantalones (after all, it was a name first) heard his wife's friends saying bad things about his wife.

Pantalones could not bear to tell his wife, for he knew she would be hurt, however he could not confront his wife's friends for he knew he shouldn't have been eavesdropping on their conversation. So he kept it inside, something he didn't even know people could do. His suppression did not come without its consequences. It physically hurt him every day. It was so hard to keep inside that Pantalones began covering his legs and his privates with animal fur to give himself an extra layer to contain it all. This had never been done before.

Now Pantalones was a very handsome man and his prowess with the women of the first village in the world was coveted by all. So naturally, it wasn't long before other men on Pangaea began to wear leg coverings. They called them Pantalones.
Pantalones continued to cover himself up until he could no longer breathe for fear of uttering his secret (of course he did not know what a secret was at the time).

One day, Pantalones collapsed dead. The first death ever in the first village in the world.

And thus, the secret was born, along with clothing, along with death.

Once somebody figures out how to do something, it isn't long before everyone knows how to do it.

Soon, people figured out how to keep secrets without suffocating themselves and dying (but the clothes stayed, for they rather liked the style). Boys began to keep their love for girls a secret all their lives. The secrets got so big and so difficult that these boys could not bear to look at these girls. For the first time in the first village in the world, people began to want to get away.

And thus, Pangaea was subconsciously willed apart, creating the continents.

The secrets got so unbearably big that these boys wanted to forget about these girls and they discovered, hidden deep within their minds, the idea of change.

And thus, evolution was willed into existence.

Plants and animals began to change, humans began to get bigger and lose body hair (for they were always self conscious about that). Soon the boys realized that not even change could conquer love, but it was too late. Secrets, clothing, death, continental drift, and evolution had been born. And you can never really take anything back entirely.

A Floating Monologue...

This is a monologue I'm working on that I haven't found a place for yet,the protagonist is a young boy. I realize it's quite long, but if you can get through it, I'd like to know what you think?

I heard once that every time you sneeze, your heart stops. So, at the end of life, if everyone added up all the time they had spent sneezing, and if the definition of dying is your heart stopping, I wonder how much of our lives we would actually spend being dead?

I asked my piano teacher that question one time. He thought it was depressing, that was before I thought things like that were depressing. he told me that it wasn't worth thinking about, that made me sad. People who think that there are things that aren't worth thinking about always make me sad.

I read a lot more than most kids I know. The most recent book I read was "The Old Man and The Sea" by Ernest Hemingway. When I took it back to the librarian, she asked me how I liked it.
"I liked it."
"And what did you get out of it?" She was always asking what people got out of things.
"I don't know."
"What do you mean you don't know?"
"I don't know, the old man defended the fish for two days straight and came home with a carcass, I don't know."
I couldn't decide if that made me sad or happy.

In the drawers of the desk that my keyboard is on, I keep my writing. I'm always writing. I try to write poetry, but it never turns out the way I want. I think I'm either too literal, too bland, or too dumb, maybe it's a little of all three.

Anyways, my spirals are all full of writings, most begin as poems but then transform into letters. I write letters to whoever the poem is about, I guess I'm not good at articulating my feelings. I keep drawers and drawers of unsent letters, all written on paper.

I feel guilty for using so much paper, just like I feel guilty for buying new sweaters at department stores, or like I feel guilty for eating at big restaurants and staying in hotels. Everything we build is built on areas that used to be nature, and as our cities get bigger, nature gets smaller. That is scary. Especially because of photosynthesis, which I learned about in biology. We need plants to turn our carbon dioxide into oxygen. The human population is growing, putting out more carbon dioxide, and the plant population is getting smaller, putting out less oxygen. Eventually, we are all just going to run out of breath. Running out of breath is definitely a problem for me, but so is figuring out what to spend my remaining breaths doing.

We live in a neighborhood in the hills above the city by a lake. Sometimes I go for walks late at night and stand at the top of the hill. I look out over the lake and towards the lights of the city. I like to pretend that the lake is the sound and that I am Jay Gatsby looking for a green light.

Light is another thing that pollutes. In the city, we only see the brightest stars, so I didn't realize how many stars there were until two summers ago in the mountains of New Mexico. I went camping with my Mom, Dad, and my brother. I had never seen so many stars, and now that I know they are up there, I miss them when I'm here. On the last night there was a meteor shower and my brother and I snuck out of the tent and down to a nearby clearing where we laid on our backs for hours watching the comets. Comets are strange because they can be so destructive, but are so beautiful. Comets show the fury and the beauty of the universe.

The Universe is another thing that confuses me. I think it's interesting how everything is shaped in circles: the planets the stars, the orbets, comets. A circle is the only shape with no beginning or end, and in order to find the circumference of a circle you have to multiply by pi, which is the only number that doesn't end. The fact that there are things that have no ends and that our universe is full of them makes me think that God exists.

Living in the city, my ears are constantly full of the sound of traffic. I have gotten to the point where I just tune it out. Traffic has become the soundtrack of my life. At night its OK because I just pretend that the sound of traffic is really the ocean outside my window. Then I dream of whales and I fall asleep.

I once read a book about humpback whales and their mating rituals. When a male humpback is looking for a female humpback he begins to sing a song as he swims, and he sings and sings and sings, not stopping until he finds a mate. I like that he sings, I like that he finds a mate, but most of all I like that he continues to swim while he looks for his mate instead of giving up, or stopping and waiting for his mate to come to him. Maybe its a bit sad that most of my romantic inspiration is drawn from the mating ritual of the humpback whale.

I like girls and I like the idea of a girlfriend, but I wind up spending most of my time alone. Sarah told me once that my ultimate goal should be to be comfortable being alone. A life spent being permanently comfortable is one of the saddest things I've ever thought about.

An Evening on My Bicycle

Yesterday, having the day off and being without obligations for the evening, something unusual for me, I decided to take a bike ride. I have had a lot on my mind lately and had woken up that morning thinking of my boyhood home, my day beginning with a desire to return to that hill of faded footprints of my youth. Where this desire came from is unbeknownst to me. I began to pedal and within half an hour was out of the city and into those rolling hills of my past. The power of the mind is an incredible thing; what is oceans away in memory can be but miles away on your bicycle. Though I have not set foot on the property since the summer of 1998, there was a sense of comfort that came over me as the valleys unfolded and that brick house of my childhood became visible at the top of the hill ahead. When I got closer and the hill was in full view, I stopped at the bottom and gazed upward.

I remembered eating vegetables straight out of my dad’s garden, I remember my mom pushing me on the swings. I remember 4th of Julys spent catching fireflies on the wooden deck my dad built by hand, staring down into the city below, the reflection of fireworks rising and falling in my thick glasses. That was before I knew there was any real hurt in this place, before I knew relationships fell apart, before I knew death, before I knew what it was to fall in love with a girl, to be broken, to be elated, to be overcome, overwhelmed. I remembered when it was enough to take walks with my dad, go swimming with my mom, and build forts with my brother until our parents read us to sleep.

I’m a man now, house, and I have been a lot of places since I left you. I’ve traveled oceans, climbed mountains, seen foreign lands. I’ve even started bands and played for lots of people. Mom and Dad split up a while ago, but you should see them now, they’re both doing so well. My little brother is bigger than me now, and he’s smart and handsome and he has so many friends, I’m so proud of him. I’ve fallen in love with girls since I left you, house, and it hurts sometimes and it aches right now but it makes me feel alive. I’ll be honest house; I’ve had some bad times since I’ve left you. I’ve cried and sulked, I’ve had days when I didn’t want to get out of bed, had times when I felt like my friends left me and I felt like I had no control over anything. Sometimes I feel lonely, house, but I’m doing OK, no, I’m doing great. It’s been a good life so far and when I feel bad I know it will always get better because I never, ever give up. I’m grown up now house, I’m alive and ready for the future. Maybe I’m not ready just yet but I’m getting closer. I’m going to be OK, house. I will see a lot more things before I’m done here, but I will never forget you. You were the setting of the first chapters in the book that is my life. I’m still writing that book and there have been some sad and scary parts, but it’s a good book and it’s going to have a happy ending and it couldn’t have happened the way it did without you. Your view helped me become an artist, your wide open spaces taught me to run, your bright stars and distant coyote howls taught me how to dream. Thank you, house on the hill.

I took in the view of the sun setting over the distant city where I wander alone daily, turned around, and rode out of those hills pregnant with memory and back into the city, back to my doorstep, back to my room. Sometimes I want to be a boy again, want to know what it is to be simple, but there is no retreating now. For now we push onward, onward through the breaking waves and the unforgiving storm, onward through the sleepless nights and the relentless days. The tranquil sea of childhood memory is behind us, and the future is ours.

The Weary Visions

Often I find myself wondering what those thoughts and visions are that come to your head just before you sleep. Every night when I’m lying in a state of drowsiness and semi-consciousness I picture something each time I close my eyes, something totally unrelated to anything I have done or seen over the course of the day. Last night I closed my eyes in an attempt to give in to sleep, that lackadaisical predator that eludes me so, and I saw a great chocolate cake. I opened my eyes again, then closed them and saw a black two dimensional figure being electrocuted under a hanging lamp. I saw more, but I could not remember the rest. I want to know what everyone in the world thinks about just before they go to sleep, and then create an all-encompassing piece of artwork inspired entirely by those weary visions, I could call the art piece ‘The Weary Visions‘, and it would include a painting, a song, a movie, and a book if an author greater than myself could find a plot.

ACL Day 3

Day 3: Rodeo Day
Three days, two ruined pairs of shoes, two boxes of film, hours of back pain, and a load of mud-drenched laundry later: worth it. I arrived a little after noon today to find a thick layer of mud covering every square inch of Zilker Park. The entire festival smelled like a rodeo, this impression was furthered as I watched festival staff literally spreading hay out over the mud in hopes of making it more manageable; no such luck. I accepted that this was the last day my shoes would see and headed to the AMD stage to catch the remainder of local favorites Black Joe Lewis and the Honey Bears.

Though I am an Austinite and it is perhaps sacrilegious, blues is not my forte. That being said, I thoroughly enjoyed Black Joe and the Honey Bears. In the spirit of James Brown, they played an energetic and very accessible brand of blues and R&B and delivered it with an authenticity that few can. I am a sucker for horns and harmonica, and both run aplenty in the bands gritty tunes. It was a nice way to start my day, and after a few minutes I got used to the rodeo stench and forgot that the park smelled at all.

Black Joe was followed by the much anticipated B-52’s. From the first note of the first song, it was apparent that age had not slowed the group a step. The band gave everyone what they wanted to see, playing their most popular songs and donning their colorful retro garb. “Hello Austin, here’s a lesson in ancient history’ front man Fred Schneider informed the audience before erupting into ‘Mesopotamia.’ Yes, the song is about history, but one could not help but think that Schneider’s comment had a double meaning. The set was enjoyed by young and old alike, dancing to every song. Yet you could almost see the thought bubbles hanging among the rising clouds of smoke over the audience: ‘Rock Lobster…Rock Lobster…’ and then it happened. The song was greeted with a roar from the crowd and a mass shouting of the lyrics. With their performance, the B-52’s solidified my vote for band of the day.

That is not to say that the rest of the day was a letdown, quite the contrary in fact. The Arctic Monkeys took the stage next, and while the group’s new long hairstyles may not be their best yet, the new album is. The band played an energetic set, complete with everyone’s favorite songs and Alex Turner’s wry social commentary. It’s hard to believe these gentlemen are only 23.

Passion Pit (the band that started as a Valentine’s Day present), may very well be the best Valentines day present ever. This band is just fun, and Michael Angelekos’s playful falsetto prompted the crowd surfing of a fan dressed in a green spandex suit, like Charlie from ‘It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia.’ Seeing green man crowd surfing made the show all the more entertaining. My best ACL costume award goes to green man, congratulations green man.

Everyone wants to know what Jack White is going to do next, which is why I weaved my way through groups of mud-caked dancers (kind of creepy) and to Livestrong stage to see the latest of White’s wildly successful side projects. The Dead Weather delivered an hour of unrelenting southern psychedelia with White keeping the beat on drums. It did look like four very, very, very confident rock stars but this is neither surprising nor offensive when you consider who is in the super group. The Dead Weather closed their set with Jack White giving the audience what they’d all been hoping for and coming out from behind the drum set to shred on the guitar. Of course the guitar playing was fantastic, but did anyone see Jack White’s white pointed toe leather boots? This man has the best taste in footwear. Best ACL footwear goes to Jack White.

Girl Talk was essentially a party. Being as how Greg Gillis writes no songs and plays no instruments, it’s interesting that he’s achieved this level of success. I think it’s probably because he does it the best. He does a good job of picking samples everyone knows and making the show very participatory, almost a sing-a-long. Though I had trouble shaking the feeling that I was at a Frat party, which is uncomfortable for me, I saw what was enjoyable about Girl Talk. More importantly, I saw someone in the crowd flying the Texas ‘Come and Take It’ flag. To this person, I give the award of best ACL flag.

I left after Girl Talk. I’ll leave Pearl Jam to the other 40,000 of you to tell people about. While the stink may fade, the mud may wash away, and the newly sodded grass probably got trampled to death, the memories of ACL 2009 will live forever.