8.3.15

10 Reasons Why List Posts Can S a D

Over the past few years, the prevalence of list posts across the internet has become troubling and provides definite proof that the written word is being replaced by something easier. While this isn't surprising (seeing the popularity of instagram, twitter, and pinterest) it is disheartening.

To make matters worse, List Posts, already the degraded bastard step-tard of writing, they are regressing further still. Originally, each numbered example of the list post would be a paragraph starting with a point and followed by an explanation or a defense of said point. Lately though, list posts are sloppily thrown together ideas followed by a couple of numbered GIFs taken from shitty movies accompanied by the word "This."

But in this sink or swim world, if my blog is to ever reach any semblance of notoriety, I feel it is time to get with the program. Sooooooo:

10 Reason Why List Posts Can Suck a Dick

1. When you're trying to accomplish some of the goals or at least just get off the fucking computer and do something with your life but then the internet happens.


2. Whether you are a intelligent cynic or an joyful airhead, you still just stilling here doing nothing.


3. This is you right now. Like right right now.



4. Seriously, go the fuck outside, or clean something, or fuck your significant other, or make some art, or do anything that requires your brain or your body before they go into entropy.


5. 8=====D (())


6. This.


7. And this.


8. I know I'm on a high horse right now. I'm not any better. I try to stay away from List Posts. I try to write or read literature with all my time but I end up getting caught up on the computer- this machine capable of relaying an endless supply of information and intelligence but I end up watching cat videos instead. 



9. But you know what, Fuck it.



10. We're all going to die anyway and anything that you accomplish in your lifetime will be forgotten. Your children and your children's children will destroy all your life's achievements. You persona, your soul, your identity, your love, and your entire life are all meaningless. 

You are smaller than a grain of salt in the infinite kitchen of the cosmos, not even the Cockroaches, as powerful as Gods, care for you. 

The air that you breathe, the air you take into your body at this very moment, is the exhale of Death. It is in your face. It will inevitable take you and much much sooner then you think. 

Nothing to say or do matters to anyone but you. No one cares if you skinny dip, or backpack around India, or watch a star shoot while holding hands with the person your soul mate. 

Even if you paint the greatest painting ever painted, you will die and all those people who study you and teach you in classrooms will have no idea who you really are and will judge your life choices negatively. Everything will be forgotten about you but your name.

Even if you cure cancer or AIDs, some other disease will be born and kill just as many, if not more, "innocent" people. 

So lets keep reading List Posts, because God has forgotten about you.


True Story

He walks into the shop like so many other salt-lifers. Short sleeve button up. Cargo shorts. Pressed down trucker hat hair. Flip flops. Says he needs to get this bitch off him. I give him a puzzled look but, having working for the last 3 years in tattoo shops, knew to some degree what he meant. He lifts his sleeve and reveals "Betty" written in Edwardian Script 36 pt font without a bend, just straight across the middle of his bicep.

I start going over his options. Roses. Wings. The hair of lady heads. A skull could work. No lettering. No tribal. No celtic armbands. No Browning or Ducks Limited logos. It has to be about the size of a baseball I tell him but before I can really get into it I notice the rather mangled scar above Betty. A scar with a couple dots of black (now green) around the edges and what looks like the remnants of a 7 round line.

What was that? I ask.

Tina, he responds.

 
"She can't hurt me now"

That is not a video of the gentleman I was speaking to but the stories are about the same. Electric Power Sander. Blood. Mountain Dew. Cargo shorts. Dry wiping. Life choices made well.

If I had to make a point here, if I had to think about this deeper, I would remark on how romantic is it. Not romantic in the Romeo and Juliet sense. Romantic in the Hamlet sense. Not in the Notebook sort of way. But in a Closer sort of way. Love had and love lost. But not lost and forgotten. Lost and lingering.

That a tattoo of a lover's name is a darling testament to new love. That overwhelming feeling of youthful innocence no matter what the age. The invincibility. The beautiful bewitching. The fresh doe-eyed lovers say to themselves: Sure there have been relationships that haven't worked before. Sure I've been in some of them. Sure 50% of marriages end in divorce. Sure the human psyche is a consistently growing and changing thing and there is no guarantee that we, even at our age, will be the same people in two years. BUT YOU AND I ARE DIFFERENT. Our love will last and endure because this universe isn't such a cold and chaotic place. We'll show them. We'll show them all how this love shit is done. We'll continue to love each other like this and fuck two times a day and we'll never build resentment and we'll die holding hands.

Tattoos are gotten of a lover's name because, at that moment, we believe in forever. Because at that moment they are everything. And I think that is awesome.

Of course, love is a very fickle and fragile thing. Much more so then tattoos at least.

The decline of love is romantic, as romantic, to me, as the start. The acts of desperation. The moments of dramatic rolling around the floor pain. The hopelessness. The dreariness. Breaking bottles under interstate I-95 and trying to fight bums. Being woken up by a roommate from the stairs on the stoop. The self-induced torture.

Whatever.

The point is this: Home Boy had a machinist grinder to his bare skin tearing away layer upon layer of skin in the most traumatic of ways, blood bubbled up from him but wasn't running down his arm like Amazonian menstruation because of the cauterization (the searing friction) caused be the speed of the grinder, then he was dry wiped by a strong arm mechanic with a crunchy as fuck paper towel (that was not Select-A-Size Bounty), and he says:

"She can't hurt me now."

Straight poetry, son.



6.3.15


Miserable Failure


I don't have too many regrets in life. Not because of some Pinterest bullshit like, "regrets lead me to become the person I am" written over a blurry picture of a shooting star. In this multiverse of infinite parallels there are innumerable realities where I am a way way weigh whey wei better versions of myself.


I don't have many regrets because I don't generally look back. I have this sincere ability (or ineptitude) to think critically about my life choices. Like driving a car without mirrors (which is actually how I drive my powder blue Saturn). Or living like a poker player, I don't look at the hands I've won or lost, but surmise my prosperity by my karma chips.


I do, however, regret quitting music.

Sure I had the stage presence of a fitting epileptic. Sure I had absolutely no rhythm and my concept of time randomly swapped between a sperm whale and hummingbird. But god damn is it cool to be in a band.

I suppose all this comes from going to see Incendiary in Baltimore. These totally completely normal people (ish) who all work respectable jobs and lead decent lives. But when they get on stage they become something wholly different. They become this towering monolith. A capital t Truth spewing Moloch, sirening lost children from across the land to come and worship in the altar of the pit, offering their sweat and blood. "I know your pain," It says, "I know your suffering. I know that you feel inside a fullness so great that no parent or predecessor could possibly comprehend the depth that is you. You feel misunderstood because you are misunderstood. Come. I am here. Come suckle from the distorted man-tit that is hardcore."

Something like that.

I want that power. I want that magnetism, that magnanimity, that magisterial compassion through anger. Or maybe I just want to be cool too for the art I make.

I quit music because my heart wasn't in it. I quit without looking back because I found something so much more encompassing for me: poetry. BUT!

Poetry isn't cool. Poetry is the turd of artistic disciplines. The herb at the bar downing a glass of water after every mojito because they don't want to wake up with a hangover. Have you ever been to a poetry reading? It's the lamest shit imaginable. A hand full of old people, sitting in the most uncomfortable folding chairs, cackling at unfunny jokes told in monotone voices, exhaling 'hmmmm' just loud enough to piss off their immediate neighbors. Gooooooooooooo fuck yourself. A poetry reading is the exact opposite of the raw intensity and barbaric emotion that is hardcore. Hardcore inherently is what poetry imitates.

Now writing this I am reminded of opening of Iron Reagan's video for Miserable Failure. This is the juxtaposition, I suppose, expressed. How many poets try (and fail) to express under the guise of elegance what this song does simplistically and brutally. Some times a chugging guitar just makes everything better.