Friendly Cement

I recently had the pleasure of speaking with a supremely interesting young man, young by what an old person’s standards would provide, over a casual cigarette and homemade cider. We sat there, with a tape recorder alternating between old blues and contemporary alternative. My buttocks was firmly planted in a soft cushion of half-dead grass, still fighting the urge to pop out before summer. My feet played with a pail, suburban cement tinged with coffee stains and still echoing the acoustics of the day. I was on the outskirts of a coffee shop habitat, a bank habitat, a residential habitat and, first and foremost, a parking habitat.

We were discussing something grand, some aloof scheme of rhetoric concerning the nature of life, when I couldn’t help but look at the cement and realize the triviality of it. Not the Naturalist triviality of it nor the Pollan triviality of it but the ideological triviality of the space. It occurred to me that it was altogether pompous to not consider this parking lot nature. To ever believe that my peers could conceive of something unnatural in a world which is only natural is the most troublesome of ideas. It occurred to me that the only reason we consider a parking spot unnatural is because of our own selfish need to be able to create something unworldly. We are essentially formulating something inorganic, that never had life nor could lose life, and immortal. Through the perceived constancy of this space we ourselves took some idea of immortality from it.

If this view sounds illogical and coy it’s because it is entirely illogical and coy. Logic has been made readily to serve just as cement or modern architecture or ceiling fans have. Why would man ever dream up, for logic is truly such a dream, a frame of thought that would belittle his utterly unfathomable importance to the Universe? We are rude to our other mammalian counter parts to think them not capable of the same dramatic feats of “manipulation” that we have achieved had we not evolved to be the lesser evil instead of the greater (evil existing for a moment under the dim witted pretense that this essay seeks to debase). Perhaps all of mankind is not centered around the need for survival but instead the need for power. Power is a much more give-take proposition that life or death and would allow for the desegregation of man from nature. Environmental racism is probably the most untreated atrocity on the planet. Heaven forbid the ceiling would ever shatter and nature given it’s rightly place; we would all be ought of a job.

I said some of this, to my well-traveled friend, and he nodded his head and for a moment raised his cider. Such a worthy statement had I made, so drenched with the smell of burnt cocoa beans and hand-rolled cigarettes, as to merit the highest of coffee shops honors; agreement.

Horney Toads

When I first moved to Texas and had begun to replenish my collection of Bonsai trees, I started noticing lizards that would crawl up the branches of my larger trees and camp in the hollows of their trunks. To an inexperienced gardener the response may have been “ what are you doing?! Get off my tree! Shoo, shoo!” However, to a hardened Bonsai enthusiast of four years of experience, the lizards were a joyous sight and for some time my desktop was decorated by images like the following:

I have come to learn, as of late, that my shy little friends were, what is commonly known as, “horney toads.” This fact, unfortunately, I have learned too late. Within the six years I have been in Texas I have, each year, seen progressively less of these beautiful creatures and, at the present time, there are no known horney toads calling my trees home. They say the disappearance is because of the rise in fire ants but that doesn’t negate the fact that many people would kill a lizard on site. When the horney toads were around my plants had almost no pest problems at all, but lately, because the lizards are not there to eat them, red spider mites, scale and other heinous insects have begun infecting a good portion of my stock. I feel like Michael Pollan when I say that I wish people had taken time to understand them before killing all of my lizard friends. He struggles with the ideas of weeds, plants that are perceived to be grotesque and, in a way, must be controlled yet can also be beautiful at times. The horney toad population was a population of unsuspecting, local fauna that has been annihilated by the invading weeds of suburbia and humanity. It’s not that suburbia or humanity are bad things, on the contrary they can be quite pleasing, but they must be thought about and contemplated.

Now that my natural pest control friends have all died off, I go through Safer pesticide/fungicide spray like Grant went through Vicksburg. Safer is an amazing product, and I have been using it since I first started Bonsai in Ohio, before it was sold at major chains like Lowes and Home Depot. It’s a delicate spray in that its only ever intended to be used for vegetables, rose bushes and the like. Safer is also organic and supposedly not that bad for the environment. However, Safer costs around $7 a bottle; the lizards were free. All I had to do was supply the bugs. Safer also is said kill mycorrhizae in the soil (a fungus beneficial to the breakdown of organic matter by roots); lizards at most would only fertilize the soil with their droppings.

Horney toads may be gone already, so there’s no use complaining, but I will sincerely miss my friends. If only people had given them a chance to explain themselves before deciding they were a pest in need-of-eradication.

It's like there's a wave,

growing higher and higher.

And it's coming toward

in patient, hesitant steps.

Then it stops

for a moment,

with its arms outstretched

over my head.

Then it crashes down on me,

and my eyes go black

and my mind

and my body go limp.

Then the water swishes

around my skull,

and I turned about

and about

and about.

And I see people

and sticks

and stones

flying by.

Swimming through the soot

thats a grey with

red

and silver.

Then the sea slows a bit

and drags me by

my hair.

And I lean over to see,

a great cement wall,

in front of me.

Upside down,

on my back

like that.

I see the highway truss

grow larger

and larger still.

A message in a bottle:

"I'm stranded in

Manhattan.

Tell Celia Choffer, San Franciso, Cali.

That I love her."

Been Crazy!

To: my digital muse.
From: Yours truly.

I just realized that I havent updated my blog for very long time. I appologize but, as you can probably tell, its been crazy! I have filled my time with a psychology society fundraiser, Vegan meeting, and walking around southlake town square when everyone is already asleep.

I have to write a paper for my english composition class about habitats of people and the inetraction with people and the natural habitats that they live in. I will reference the experience in Southlake in the paper.

Among other recent occurrences I went to the midnight showing of Alice in Wonderland and also went to Oklahoma for the weekend with some friends. We got there without much food, without a complete tent and a camp sight bordered on either side by drunk frat boys with guns and a party that played the same songs over and over again all night long. I loved it. It was like Survivorman with pre-cooked bacon and more than one person. I quoted him during the trip so much that my companions almost left me behind when we left. Needless to say, it was one of my rougher excursions but helped to clarify my life in the suburbs and give me a very necessary perspective and repose from the week.

The week ahead holds more tests and preparations for the crazy time that is going to be spring break. Though my Blog is overdue and my mind is constantly buzzing with what I have to do next, I can honestly say that I have loved life lately and I am grateful for it.

As always, I do have something interesting for you to ponder:

So I walked out

Onto the road,

And I

Walked.

And I looked up,

At the sky,

With the sun

And the clouds.

The sky was,

White,

Like your

Face.

With hints of

Grey,

Like my

eyes.

And the people all,

Stared,

At the man,

That was me.

Because I was walking,

Alone,

Through the ocean

And the sea.

Then I found a

Courtyard,

With green grass and

Stone.

But the grass turned,

Brown,

And the sky

Darkened.

Then bits of passion,

Fell down,

With fire and death

All round.

So I started

To run,

To find your

Shape.

Amidst the fire and

Ash,

And deaths great

Face.

But I could not,

Find you,

With the bombs

Bursting high.

I could not

find you,

I decided it better

To die.

So I stretched out my arms

along an iron cross,

And I lay there

Dieing.

At first it was flame,

Then amber

Then flat black,

Then white.

One more week down, who knows how many left to go.

Last week held three tests and so I was only able to scavenge a few interesting occurrences to tell you about. One in particular was my meeting a young chechen. I had never met a chechen before and took it upon myself to remember all facets of the expereince. Her appearance was a mix of arabic influence and Eastern European features. She was quiet, with a sincere appreciation of the kind of small talk one makes with strangers. She grew up in Jordan in a Chechen community there. This tension that occurred, with growing up in Jordan but being raised as a Chechen was extremely interesting to me. I guess, though I am German and Dutch, I consider myself foremost American and do not long for ancestral countries that I barely know. Hazdo( my spelling is probably horrible) means interesting in Chechen.

I just recently finished a short story, for a friend of mine, that detailed a recurring dream of being in love with a deaf woman (he's a musician). He very much enjoyed the story and I was glad for it. My current attempt at a long story/ novel has been coming along lately. I have based some of the images on photos taken by Allison Zarrow in Abandoned Tulsa. Her photos of an abandoned school building is the setting for one of the main character's most poignant interactions.

This last weekend was amazingly exciting. The boys and I decided to drive out to Denton. A charity event led us through a glass door into a game of underground dodge-ball. It was awesome. It was a half hour filled with sun tzu and balls flying quickly by the face. Afterwards I leaped into the back of a persons truck bed and enjoyed some 7-eleven delicacies with my new found friends. I wish all my life were so beautifully random. The next morning I met with my mentor at Cafe Brazil for breakfast. He convicted me as he always does and I was glad for the constructive criticism. Life is often critical yet rarely constructive. I spent the rest of the day reconnecting with an old friend and connecting with a new one.

This week was filled with smiles and laughs. Everyone was happy that testing week was over. I rode the honors college golf cart in the homecoming parade and threw candy at people. I also was able to take pictures of Ransom Hall before it was completely renovated. Abandoned Tulsa, though lacking in a few ways has really opened my eyes to the concept of industrial decay. To the idea of the rotting of something previously considered permanent and immovable.

Amidst all of this chaos I have come out with a piece that peaked my interest:

You stared into my eyes

and

smiled

And then

Looked away.

I looked at you

and

smiled

And then

Looked away.

I looked out the window

At the

Street.

It was all

Silvery glass.

You looked at

the

uncovered wall and

your breath

in the wind.

The brick

And the

White shadows.

You lit your cigarette and

I breathed in

The smoke.

An orange light on

And

Off.

Then you got up

And

Left.

I sat there

Smoking your

Cigarette.

As the time

passed me

by.

Another

Day in

Paradise.

How the Day sounds- Greg Laswell

Time continues to fly by at a psychedelic speed of light. Colors abound and set my mind to writing. To absorb the lights and sound before the eye's focus begins righting.

It has been a severely interesting week. The Vegan Club had their first official bake sale! I helped make lemon cupcakes. The bake sale took place in one of the college's prominent buildings, driven inward by the snow, and was characterized by hard sales of heart shaped chocolates, small yet tasty cupcakes and chocolate truffles. We sold out and the event ended with an aire of general feelings of accomplishment and random exultations of dance.

Thursday night I slept on the floor of a rehearsal studio curled up under a black winter-coat with a buffalo exchange hoodie as a pillow. I was in the company of supremely exceptional persons of class. People that smile much and frown little and watch as life worries itself. It was a night of creative offerings to the muse and, though it hampered the preceding day with sleepiness and confused thoughts, was well worth it.

Wolf Man was an interesting movie. The plot was superbly twisted and confusing; no doubt expounding upon ones feelings if one were to become a werewolf. If not for this reason alone it is on the recommends list. The performance of Anthony Hopkins was superior and Benicio Del Toro did not peak his career but gave a tasteful ode to the beast.

Among other miscellaneous events of the week: I made french toast, mush, and lemon cupcakes this week. I released a friends car from the snow with the help of a few blessed men. I got in contact with an old friend and a close yet distant mentor. I fed a person beautifully sad metaphors about life, love and philosophy and they gave me a 4-star rating (critics our easier to please when you smile alot). I also sent out the first Psych Society meeting email of the semester. I made a new friend over facebook. Last and definitely not least, I danced out all of my heart and let my friends, family and righteous passerby's put it back together.

Amidst all of this pandemonium, I have a piece to share with you:

It was as though a squirrel had burrowed a hole in my heart and set its stuffs in it. And the stuffs added to the general flavor of life. And the general flavor of life transcended the loads of grief upon my heart.

A heating pad shaken passionately and then set under the dermis, warming the edges of the mind first then moving inward. Forever inward, never ceasing, only smiling benevolently up to me.

Someone opened up the clouds and let the sun bleed through. Drops of the Goddesses nectar, dripping upon my lips and tingling sweetly in the ventromedial hypothalamic nucleus of my mind.

A person, quiet and still, smiled at me with a smirk undefined. Not clear nor altogether whole, yet leaving a sense of peace in its wake. A small sailboat upon a calm sea, patiently driving its way into eternity.

The page tan and young yet aged by the better qualities of the furies. The best letter I had ever received; in its tact and simplicity. A picture of a little girl smirking and blushing and letting the whole world seep in.

Johnny

Johnny took a ride on

the midnight train.

Johnny pulled the trigger

life was never humane.