Should be

My whole life I've heard and been told what should be. What's expected. What's right. Which fulfills the standard of one particular set of ideologies. My conclusion? Should be is like an inanimate object. It does not move on it's own: it is an agent (in this case, of hope). It must be acted upon by another force in order to arc in a dark foreboding rainbow of coping judgment. As soon as abstraction is involved, in the case of divinity for example, the should be is weakened without a strong launching foundation. The process just squared its faith requirements. So, reduced, it becomes "this should be because god said so, and god should be because..." What is the acting force on this new should be? How can the acting force even be identified without complete faith? If god Is not, then what should be?
And I believe god could be. But I don't see how it should. I also don't see how it shouldn't.
A yes man is going to hit some double negatives once in a while. A no man is going to be safe from a lot of happiness. I prefer maybe. Not is, isn't, should or shouldn't be's.
Not to say I'm a flip flopper...
Do not think me lost or fallen, for my stride has purpose, even when I have no destination. I hold my naked, label-shy perspective with pride, because I am searching for contentment, and finding it every step of the way.
My name is Azriel Atlas.
Something in your voice tells me that you would understand what I'm looking for. Maybe you're a fellow seeker. Maybe you have some of the answers.
Maybe.
Perhaps, as a break from form, I will get a chance to speak to you. I'm not sure where you broadcast from...

State of the Josh

The theme of this address is transition, as that best describes the current period of my life. A state of transition is, by literal definition, self-contradictory. It implies both movement and stillness. And yet, it is the only fitting term for where I am today. It seems fitting that this state of transition coincides with my recent loss of temporal boyhood. Whether or not "I" will follow in that physical step forward has yet to be seen. And I am not ashamed to admit that I fear it with all that I am. Because it has been all that I am for my entire existence. Two decades may seem insignificant, and in terms of hours clocked in on the life time sheet, it relatively is. But I have used my shift so far to build a self that I am proud of, and I am in the process of continuing to do so. This is also a time of challenge. A challenge to remain myself, despite myself, and despite the many threats to my identity. A challenge to accept that it is not what I do that defines me, or even how I do it. I am the only one who can define me. The challenge is to do so honestly. And honesty is a difficult concept, especially in the many layered mind of a scared self-charmer. I've spent my life hidden behind my own potential, using all that I could be to avoid actually trying to reach it. I've lied, embellished, and played a role so convincing that I believed it myself. But the time for masks and falsehoods is over. Now is a time of transition, into a life that may or may not be "better", for I have no concept of such things, but for a life that for once, will be truly mine.

Half-Full

This time I lie still
my stolen heartbeat blasting
through my stolen eardrums
from sphere to sphere casting
the reflected shadows of suns
the light uneclipsed
piercing all that I'm missing
the fullness mocking my half-measure attempts to forget
that tonight it's your lips
that I long to be kissing
the music sparks my thoughts into burning ignition
words on lend from a muse
too unused
to recognition
overwhelmed by the mirror
that I hold to her face
and though heavy I won't drop it
I will Not change the pace
my love cannot stop it
I will Not slow the race
of my heart as it beats out the rhythm
of you
staining deep in my chest such a gorgeous
tattoo
the most beautiful thing that I've ever seen
the weathered brown of my eyes tinted
with a new bright hint of green
and since I can't help but to feel you
from every direction
I will never stop sending you back
my affection

Bright Eyes

The full moon has
a new face
tonight
something's different
the sky's filled
with light
the flames
that for years now
have kept me awake
have gone from
my veins
and left peace in their wake
on countless nights
I've watched it rise
now it gazes back
with such bright eyes

Voiceless

An ocean of
silence
has spilled through
my mind
No words can
rise up
to ripple
its surface
Through the storm of
my thoughts
it remains undefined.
There's no telling
the depths
my voice may have
sunk to
I can't see
at all
my inner eye's blind.

Song of the evening- Winter- Joshua Radin

All I've Got For Now

Song of the evening- Someone- Tammany Hall NYC

I Need Some Sleep

For the last few weeks I've been unconsciously avoiding unconsciousness. I don't want to be awake anymore.

Song of the evening- I Need Some Sleep- The Eels

Winter's Little Wonders

The street lamp drips light
when it rains.
Its cast hooded and distant,
but sparks scorch the night.
Fleeting, yellow,
and luminous
against the falling gray.
Their descent
is briefly lit up.
Their glow
is swiftly taken away.
The flow
catches them, snatches them
back into the fray.
Uniqueness lost,
forgotten,
they carry on the drop.
But the lightfall
continues,
the crying doesn't stop.

The street lamp weeps light
when it rains.
Its head bent with grief
as tears stain the night.
Small, bright,
and brimming
from its radiant
eye.
Its gaze downcast,
averted
from the overcast sky.
When it rains,
the street lamp drips light.
But its sorrow
is a beautiful sight.

Smiling Eyes

You told me I have eyes
that smile,
And I was surprised,
Because I never believed
that existed outside
of romantic minds.
Your words were like
prison cake,
concealing
a file.
Something to help me
break the bars
constraining me,
detaining me,
holding me down.
Took my view points,
sharpened them
and mixed them around.
the dirt of doubt
washed off,
sent back to the ground.
And I realized that
this time,
I wasn't pulling the strings
the events in my life
required no orchestration,
occupied none of my time,
effort or concentration.
and so I learned to sit back
relax,
and take it all in,
appreciate it,
have a seat,
take it out for a spin,
maybe that's why that by
the time I've died,
I'll say that I've
lived well,
held on,
and taken the ride.
watched the world teem
with brown humor tinting
my irises.
And so I stepped back,
I breathed in,
and I thought for a while,
the answer is simple;
You give my eyes a reason to smile.

Some More, Even Older Poetry

Try and ignore the angst people, this is early work...

This Is Your Heart on Loss

Within burns a fire that grows but never dies
Pumped through the heart's furnace out the windows of the eyes
Projecting the soul to flicker on the skies
And it soars and it shouts its song as it flies
Its melody piercing the lip service and lies
Tearing through masks and all forms of disguise
Until it’s halted by one who echoes its cries

There is a soul within that drowns in its pain
The storm raging its way through the heart and the brain
Falling in torrents of unmerciful rain
Bone searing winds shepherd clouds of what’s sane
Emotion striking the mindscape, igniting a stain
A patch of darkness defying thought’s reign
Loss howling through treetops as hope circles the drain

Within broods a darkness that’s relieved by no light
Weighing down on the soul and stealing its flight
Its song warped and returned in mocking delight
Protests ignored as it’s wrapped up in night
The greenery of living overtaken by blight
Casting dimly about for a reason to fight
Searching blindly through blackness for what’s wrong and what’s right

There is scar tissue now where the pain used to be
The tempest moves on; calm returns to the sea
Leaving in its wake rebirth and debris
Fuel for the rekindling of a fire now free
To feel and and to live, now able to see
That in life both the light and the darkness agree
The storm of experience carves out the image of Me.


The Death of a Poet

Giving and sharing,
But always abuse.
Since when did “human” become an excuse?
Searching for light,
Their eyes never show it.
The dark shades today,
The death of a poet.

Silenced by sound
Voice lost in the crowd
Though somehow the lack, it screams just as loud
I can answer no why
I can give no because
As the proclaimed I am
Becomes a resounding I was.


Love Mercenary

To keep it from her hands,
He puts up his heart for hire.
Struggling to heal his burns
While he is still on fire.
The highest bidder takes his love,
His price is to forget.
But though he seldom sleeps alone,
His price is never met.

Broken hearts litter his wake,
As he sails his tortured course.
Running from his memories,
He storms on without remorse.
Her eyes gaze out from countless faces,
Their features fading into her.
Desperate, he tries to clear his vision,
But he can’t dispel the blur.

Weary now he scans the field,
Soil stained with love now dead.
Yearning deep within his soul,
That someone'd fight for him instead.

Life Is.

It is strange to me that people have a problem with feeling small. I guess it is not difficult to understand, on a psychological level, how the internal battle with insignificance can be exhausting, like an army of meaninglessness laying siege to the fortress of your mind, a war of attrition that can only last the length of your lifespan. If you wanna look at it negatively that is.
I realize that I am, relatively, immeasurably small. And I am fine with that. The only problem is that frankly, I'm bored. In the various stages of my growth in life I went through parallel perspectives on my fellow inhabitants. The progression is unimportant, as the point is in the variety. There was disgust, anger, shame, humor, hatred, love and a plethora (great word) of passionately reactionary sensations. But I took a minute to reflect, and I realized that the operative word was reactionary. With a more objective look, it became clear that what I was experiencing was passionate boredom. As horrendous the crimes, as despicable the acts, as violent and cruel and as hateful the people can be, as hard as love and kindness and creation and all the wonderful people can fight back, it all truncates at a certain part and just gets repetitive. So why was I still reacting?
The truth is, I'm tired. I'm tired of the bad, and I'm tired of the good. I'm weary of the need for these things. I want to reach up from my tiny speck in the universe with the arms of change and wrest this brilliant sphere from the monotonous tapestry of ancient clockwork, to prove with every step away from the familiar that time is merely a coincidence. That knowledge is inherently useless, as all things human are uselessly "inherent". We cast the matter of existence in the forge of our own perceptions, and when it cools it finds itself "defined", and thus a piece of itself is literally lost in translation. And with its new name, it is immediately a subject of our reality, an unwilling citizen of the Republic of Supposed Understanding. From there, we poke and prod and "learn" what we can about an object that we just tampered with, and deem that information "truth".
At the end of the day, it's just masturbation. Enjoyable, true. Convenient, natural, in some cases necessary; even healthy. But, it serves no purpose. Learning should be acquired in order to improve upon the quality of life, and for no other reason. And as soon as people realize that asking why is metaphorically allowing your mind to touch itself, I think they might relax a bit. And look around as the planet in my grasp drifts through "days" and "nights" of varying lengths, into the birthplace of creativity that is the unknown.
Because I don't care about your intelligence, or your logic, or your reason Spartan. I don't care about your synopsis upon reading my novel, I want to know how you felt while you were reading it. I don't want to listen as you list how life is beautiful, or miserable, or funny, or like a box of chocolates. All I want you to see is that Life Is, and that all attempts at description after that point should be done in private, during alone time (maybe with the radio or a loud fan on), and at a decent distance away from my bored tired ears.

Landslide

It appears my inspiration to blog has formed a bittersweet union with my inability to sleep. As a creature of habit with an emphasis on addiction, I'm sensing a certain permanence in this new alliance, and I am unsure whether to be worried or relieved. Truthfully (and fortunately), the urge to blog has never been the cause for sleeplessness: more of an answer to it. The problem is as such- of late, I only write when I blog, and I only blog when I can’t get the rest my body craves so. Excited as I am about the future of my writing career/health? Boy I hope so. Good thing I’ve always been slightly annoyed by excitement.
Lying in my bed tonight, happily enjoying the soft caress of a 62 degree breeze from Stu’s greatest physical contribution to my life, I found that the world of unconscious adventure that I have been enjoying so thoroughly these past few weeks was inexplicably out of reach. Hidden away somewhere deep below my mattress, my mind’s outstretched arms failed to grasp the ethereal stuff of dream firmly enough, and thus I lay on the cusp of unwanted awareness until a glimmer of something in the back of mind attracted my wandering attention. Preemptively forfeiting the hope that I could ever convey what the inside of my mind looks like, (it took me long enough just to learn how to navigate it), I’ll suffice to say that somewhere in the quicksilver flashes projected onto the dark screens of my closed eyelids I came face to face with…me. A nearly subjective glimpse at my own reflection, smiling crookedly back at me from wind, water, and snow covered hills.
Maybe I needed a break after all the pondering I had been doing what now seems like ages ago. It is suspicious that my recent contentment has so perfectly coincided with my lack of ink and font. Not that there is anything wrong with contentment. I just need to be careful to draw the line before apathy. With that said, I think I caught myself with plenty of time to spare. And looking around now, I’ve been thoroughly enjoying a favorite Josh Bassian pastime- introspection. From a sociological perspective, now that I’ve emerged from the fiery chaos of creation and begun to settle in a more solid form, the activity that has occupied so much of my time has lost its temporary sympathetic prefix. I know that was obscure, but it was just too fun to write. And though explaining it will only detract from it, I feel bad. Sympathetic introspection is where the observer places him/herself in another’s position so as to better understand said person’s behavior. During the storm of a few weeks past, I was so successfully shaken from my identity that I could actually put myself in my own shoes (but I still couldn’t walk a mile. Damn you Panda Express). Now that I am once again at the helm, this captain is enjoying his reunion with the wheel. It seems that I have much to explore. Farewell, landlubbers.

Embrace Your Inner Nightmare; It's The Best Way To Sleep

It's funny shit, the way a cigarette can find its way into your hand, eager to feed its master whom I willingly invited with my first --inhale, cough, cough, cough...--my body already instinctually resisting my destructive resolve in the summoning of this cunning demon. A part of me now, the demon speaks to me with my voice, whispering "the windows are open and the driver doesn't care. What are your hands doing empty?" And I'll actually laugh to myself as I reach for one, mocking my own silly absent-mindedness. Now you don't need to be a professional to see that that's fucked up.
Every person is flawed. By definition, a perfect being could not be considered a person, because every single living, breathing, eating, fucking, sleeping, thinking person has something wrong with them. And these are the flaws we, as individuals, are forced to endure, to bear, and to learn to live with. Some are better at it than others, but it's the same game everyone's playing. But if all your good traits directly represent your personality, then your "bad" traits are forced to take shelter with only one who understands them; your id. For some people, stuffing the id into the subconscious prison of forgetfulness works, and they can live lives unhaunted. For most people though, they keep feeding their id more scraps of themselves, choosing to turn a blind eye as they are consumed from within. For me, it's satisfying to turn my conscious mind to focus on the dark shadows in the back of my head, and say hey buddy, want a cigarette?

Happiness Is A Warm Gun

But sadness is a cold bullet, and no matter how hard you hold on, it's going to end up in your chest. With that said, I feel like I should disclaim by pointing out that I am in fact in a great mood. Just felt like sharing a recent observation. Because the truth of it is, from a realistic perspective, all happiness is relatively short lived, even when it is ongoing. Basically that means that all the positives of life are speckled with their own specific negatives, and it is through those that the whole concept of appreciation arises. I really only meant this to be a short thought, because I'm just not in the mood to give this topic proper justice. Call it a fleeting glimpse into my mind. Welcome, and sorry about the mess.

The Midnight Pedestrian

Where are you going? Does it matter? Too much of life is spent aimed at a destination, when actual living, in the verb sense of the word, is done along the way. With the occasional car speeding by I'm reminded that speed is relative, and that my comparatively slow pace is simply another perspective, one fraught with potential. In possession of a car or lacking one, I have always been a midnight pedestrian. Hedged in by the slumbering (and probably alarmed) homes and businesses of the world, the only limits I encounter are those borders, those quiet, unquestioning representatives of monotony in its purest form. But within that wall of numbered concrete, shadowed by street lamps and porch lights, lies the land of dark promise. My personal atmosphere widens and absorbs, without those daylight presences who stain my canvas with the blinding light of consciousness and the deafening roar of communication. Here, now, the internal processes of society's mind, intricately fragmented and thus monolithically unified, quite literally sleep, and in the night that's left when day shuts off is another world entirely. My world. Movement bound by no law and no restriction, I operate the brilliant machinery that is in itself my only possession, placing my feet where I choose in the direction of my whim. This is the only way to really see your world: you need to move through it. All it really takes to broaden your perspective is a step. Walk through this territory of relativity, where ownership is only equivalent to force, and where force spends such little time. Open your eyes every once in a while, at those times when they'd most like to close, and look out on a world defined by its lack of definition, shaped by diverted attention and a lack of presence, and yet carries with it an identity entirely its own. Join it. Add to it. Become for a short while the shadow version of your self, that entity that is cast on your unconscious by the light of your goals and hopes and dreams. Understand what it means to be entirely Present, in a place where no one is awake to remember or predict. If time is a construct of the human mind, then essentially the night is timeless. Or not. Sleep is pretty enjoyable too.

Some Old Poetry In Lieu of New Writing

Good, Night

A thousand winds have stirred
my clothes, my heart, my eyes
have seen a thousand sunsets
paint one sky
one moon
has shown a thousand faces
they beam
down on
one earth
in deepest blue and richest
green, the trees
reach with a thousand hands,
to grasp,
a thousand stars
shine through darkest black
the night, my steps..
O, but I know the night
and it knows I
through windows, my ears
it sings to me
Come forth, the cry,
the call of life
O flesh and blood
come meet and laugh and
love
a thousand hearts beat
a chorus, irresistible
one voice, it sings
a thousand songs


Such Filthy Pleasure

Unholy trees, a forest in a box
Dark branches, their tips bearing fire
red fruit
my breath, it fogs
in wreaths and rings
swirling in the exhaled breeze
Those branches embrace
My will
Is weak
resolve burned through
with round holes
The grey, it falls
a carpet of such deadly snow
my footsteps leave
a path
traced back to who i am
I want it to stop
I don't want it to ever
End.

An American Werewolf In America

Rather than waste my time trying to explain to you sane people what it's like to have your sleep stolen by the full moon, that beautiful bane of my monthly existence, I've decided to share my inner experiences and pre-dawn adventures with the unfortunate diurnals. The feeling doesn't always start at the same time, sometimes creeping in quietly as the moon waxes closer, or sometimes, like today (or technically yesterday), that deep-chested feeling of restlessness ignites, and I feel an energy rush through me that I affectionately describe as my veins boiling. I pace and move around as I start to feel that pull, that need to move, like from a high pressure area to a low pressure area, the world pushing in while my feet pace me forward while that pull grabs my chest and tugs hard. It's hard to stay in touch with certain restraints, and fear is long gone: it has no place in the mind of a monster. Imaginary characters have nothing to fear. Otherwise how would Monsters Inc. work? Self-depricating maybe? If you understood that, you know me far too well. Anyway, I begin my night getting payed for spending time in exquisite company, which continues for a nice stretch after clocking out. As all good things must come to an end, or at least a pause, I took my jaunty, high-topped step to the streets of our fair Los Angeles, hiking back from Troy East of Eden on my usual stroll, excitement and resentment clenching my hands reflexively in expectation of the sleepless night to come. Some time spent with an old french buddy, and I find myself in the passenger seat on the way to Northridge, having layed to rest my previous unwillingess for the potential gleam of adventure and relief from the feeling. My purist friend Michael (for the sake of my imaginary new readership, I've decided to introduce everyone in my life on occassion. Since I know my entire readership, I've decided to introduce you people to yourselves. Check your reflections in my irises people, it's a rare opportunity) turns to me, cigarette in his hand at the wheel, sleeves rolled up in a typical flannel shirt and wildly large hair dancing in the wind from the open window, and tells me that he's started to see police as sharks, swimming through the freeway ocean like predators through schools of trembling Volvos and Hondas, seeking out the unruly few, laughing at their pitiful struggle to escape (I'm sorry hammerhead, I didn't know I couldn't do that...) and feasting on green cotton flesh. I, in my usual military/traveler/bum attire, responded that I had had the same vision, and remembered an old conversation I'd had with my dad, when I told him I felt like life was a river, and humanity flowed through it like fish. And that I had begun to realize that, possessing a detachedly passionate, passionately detached duality, I was amphibious and thus able to both swim in the water of life and watch safely from the shore, observing the eddies and flows and appreciating their intricacy. We came to rest in an old friend's apartment, there to "crash" for a few hours before heading to the pound to save a reportedly adorable puppy from the clutching hands of probably far more worthy owners and play with the lucky little biatch before our friend's test is over and she gets to spend the rest of her draggingly slow doggy years in similar company (The severity of the situation and the horrible meaness were added for poops and giggles, and should not be considered strictly non-fiction). Anyway, I'd say tonight was more of a mental adventure than an eventful adventure (slant rhyme), but it was a pleasant enough distraction for this servant to nocturnal shenanigans. That regretfully relieved, relievedly regretful (those are fun) sensation is a-rolling in with the onset of morning, and that grey light is silhouetting the last dregs of my darkness as it illuminates the safe side of the globe. Too bad sleep is a bad idea, I think it might actually be achievable now. I guess I'll just go apologize for being the pretentious bastard who blogged while his co-adventurer napped, even though nobody cares. I had a very fitting poem for this, but as my computer has been out of commission and doesn't seem to be planning on returning any time soon (and by that I mean I'm too lazy to call Dell), I guess it is perhaps fortuitous that I avoid that particular cliche', mmm quite. Cheerio my esteemed chaps and chappesses.

Misconceptions

I've been thinking a lot lately about my identity as a writer, and what that means exactly. At the present I've finally been able to communicate (at least to myself) why I find it to be so frustrating. As a self-described purveyor of words, articulation is where my talent lies. I am capable of using the free floating elements of human communication to describe. But description is the root of the problem. There is more to imagination and life than can ever be described accurately, and as a uniquely imaginative person who feels that life is intrinsically artistic, there is always more that I want to convey. And so I've realized that my internal self and my ability to communicate, that connection that forges my very writerhood, is entirely coincidental. When I decide to transform the transient and shapeless stuff of thought into concrete language, the ensuing prose, poetry or even speech bears a strong resemblance to its source, but does not capture it entirely. Regardless of whether or not I am satisfied with the product, or if resonates with people, I am still looking at something that is essentially different from what I intended. And so it's always with something of a stranger's eye that I look on my own work, an alien creation that came from me, but as with all creation now stands as an entity unto itself. And so I've decided that the best writers are not the ones who can lay out a scene in perfect detail, transferring the images they see directly into the minds of their readers. Not to say that they are not incredibly talented. I think the true beauty in writing is the ability to use language to convey precisely how impossible it is to articulate abstractness. To remind the reader that there is far, far more than what he/she is actually looking at, and hope that the strength of your inability to convey creates the result you intended. It's a pretty paradox, and I think its reconciliation is the key to my writer's block. Huzzah.

So Let It Out And Let It In

I don't know anything anymore. The melodrama continues. But honestly I've recently been forced to come to terms with my complete lack of knowledge when it comes to life, people, and myself. I guess it would be hard to understand a world that doesn't get itself, but for an introspective thinker such as myself deficiency in the realm of understanding is a shortcoming indeed. Or at least that was how I felt when I first realized my navigation system was broken. But I've been working on a new perspective. The temptation to run is still strong in this one, my dark side stoking my pain and anger into a burning need that's hard to ignore. But at the same time, I'm learning something new about myself on a daily basis. Self-worth is no longer a lofty, ambiguous concept to me, and with that revelation I realize I can't really complain. Not to mention the humor in all of this. Turns out I don't like pain- big fucking realization there jackass. Really? But honestly, looking out the rear window of my lifelong road trip I can see the person I used to be, hurtling forward at undoubtedly illegal speeds, convincing myself that because I'm strong, I could fearlessly dive into situations knowing that I could handle the consequences. My strength was never in question though, at least not in the sense of my pain threshold, which, thanks to my uniquely ridiculous personality and experiences in my life, is considerably high. But there's another kind of strength that I never acknowledged, and thus never allowed myself to have. And that's the strength to do what I want. And I mean really do what I want, instead of resting comfortably in the padded armchair of my capability. And so the passionate procrastinator in me is dying, and I'm finding that beyond the edges of my expanding universe there lies an "otherness", destroying my concept of Everything while offering me the hope of unexplored territory. And so the infinity of my potential that has always stretched out ahead of me like a highway that I just couldn't get on is revealed to be far more limiting than I had imagined, and that my true potential lies in the unpaved chaos of true Everything. I may have been on cruise control my whole life, but that doesn't mean that there's only one road to follow. At the wheel now, with the wind rushing through my 90's throwback pile of hair, I can finally see beyond the concrete boundaries on either side to the scenery flashing by, at the night sky and the few stars who've managed to keep their light from the hands of this thieving city, and the mountains in the distance and the waves beckoning my wandering soul, and I can't help but laugh at how blind I've been. For well I know that it's a fool, who plays it cool, by making his world, a little colder.

That Is I Think I Disagree...

They say you learn something new every day. Like the difference between a grant and a scholarship, for example. Or learning that because there is a difference between a grant and a scholarship all the stress and fear that you may have been enduring for the past four days, more stress than you've actually ever felt in your life, was all for naught. So it goes. Pooteeweet.
Turns out that the train had never left the track. So why do I still feel derailed?
Maybe it's because of an entirely unexpected emotion, given the supposedly relieving news that my tenure at this fine university is not and never was in jeopardy: disappointment. That's right. My first instinctual reaction upon receiving the email from my adviser assuring me that there is no mention of a "scholarship" in my records and that grant money is completely untouched by recent events was bitter, resentful disappointment. The storm disappeared and I found myself back on solid ground, in sunny Southern California with long-board gangs and cruiser bicycles whizzing by over pathways inexplicably inlaid with brick and surrounded by flowers in ridiculous cardinal and gold arrangements, with fountains trickling peacefully and identical backpacked students chattering nonsense. I looked up at that florescent sun and that white-washed sky, at the trees planted at careful intervals, at the nameless statues and the scattered, retarded modern art, and all I could think was "This? You fought for this? To stay here? Here? Really?" And that one word has been repeating in my head like the sardonic ringing of a self-deprecating clock tower, it's hands somehow casting a shadow of delightful contempt on its features as it turns its face to me. Mocking. "Really?"
And so the choiceless choice is made. Fortunately or unfortunately, it's not the one I had been recently preparing for. I guess I'm still a USC student. Yes, really.

Adrift In A Pool Of My Own Academia

But where the fuck is my paddle? O yeah. That's right. In accordance with Josh Bass impulsiveness standards I didn't bring one. I looked out across the florescent sea of classrooms and captivity and launched my crappy rowboat out into the waves. I just couldn't stay where I was, and so, as per usual, I took off without the slightest idea of where I was going. Forget the fact that my ability for cognitive thought has been severely impaired these last few weeks. And so for the last three days I've struggled to reach the water with my hands, hoping to gain some kind of control. As of right now, it's possible that I'll stay afloat, though I'm still at the mercy of a storm of my creation. I didn't even consider the far reaching consequences of casting out at the last possible minute, and now I'm coming to terms with the possibility that I could end up in an entirely new part of the world. The ridiculous irony of it all is that this New World has always been the greener grass for me, the life I wish I had the courage to lead. And so with one seemingly small decision, one blind stab at an unmarked button, I set a machine in motion that I might not be able to stop, (especially considering my technological ineptitude), and which could make that New World my only option. Another particularly amusing irony is my recent discovery that I like to be in control. So what happens right after this newfound realization? Control is wrested from my clutching fingers and I'm thrown into a bureaucratic game of chess, where I am just a pawn. The last and greatest irony of it all is that when I was in the system, I passionately longed to escape. Now this cog is dangerously close to breaking loose, and here I am scrambling to get back in. I guess it's easier to be on the outside looking in if you were the one who chose to leave. Being on the outside because I'm incapable of getting in is an entirely different feeling, one that I never considered as a possibility before. It doesn't help that less worthy sailors are enjoying a pleasant journey aboard their pleasure yachts and cruise liners. I guess I'll have to make do with my hands. But I only doggy paddle. Obey the giant.

I've always been warned of the supposed dangers of changing between extreme temperatures at a rapid pace, that it strains the heart. Now ignoring the obvious and somewhat anxsty symbolism in the last few words of that disclaimer, I've been wondering lately if that same fact can be applied to mood swings. Especially considering the hot and cold characterstics we place on our varying states of mind. It's not a question I often ask myself, as I consider myself and my mood to be fairly consistent. But there are times when underneath all of my patience, my balance, and my humor, I feel something stir. Luckily, I always get warning enough to remove myself from anything that I might find negatively provocative in my altered state. Little wisps of white hot steam on the insides of my nostrils, sent up from what will soon be a raging inferno, watering my eyes on its way to grip my brain. As soon as I feel it, those first sparks striking the walls of my lungs and that black smoke that I could swear spills from my eyes, I head for peaceful seclusion. Safe from the world and myself. I've never attempted to wrestle emotions with writing before, surprisingly, and I'm not sure if I'm actually managing to hold it off or if it's just taking longer than usual this time. I just keep feeling these burning letters, lighting the inside of my head like a neon sign outside a bedroom window, silently shouting "get out!" "Get out before the flames come..." And here I am, sitting in my kitchen at home blogging about my rage, listening to Chevelle, laughing at the melodrama of it all. I guess it's just not possible to be contradictory person without moments of clash. I just didn't realize the softer, calmer aspects of my personality would withstand the first charge. They always prove themselves to be the superior fighters, as I'm rarely angry, but I guess it's no surprise that they do so slowly and calmly. I might always win the war, but each battle takes a little more, a few more casualties, a few smaller aspects of me lying amongst the wreckage. I think I feel that stirring again. Until next time readers.

Discovering the Me in I

Though there are no rules in the world of stream of conscious blogging or writing of any kind for that matter, I can't help but feel reticent in using my second post after a year of silence to take things down a notch and unleash some of the things I've been going through of late. I emphasize both the "some" part of that statement, as there are some things that are not only hard to talk about but are also inappropriate in so public a forum, and the "going through". I've never dealt with reality before. In fact, I've never had to "deal" with anything in my life. I was lucky enough to float through my childhood in a spaced-out daze, and when I first realized that I was a real person (sometime around the age of 12) I immediately stopped trying. My teachers noticed it from the get-go, and shared their new, disturbing discovery that the bright little kid in their classes stopped giving a shit with the last people who wanted to hear something like that- my parents. As this new outlook on academia began to really solidify in my growing mind, it became what I believed to be my greatest struggle with life. If I could only put some effort in and achieve this wonderful and wonderfully abstract "potential" I kept hearing about then I would have it all. But even then I didn't realize that I was romanticizing my flaws, slowly allowing my inner-writer to turn me into a character- a tragically flawed hero. And so the inspiration to change myself, aside from random short-lived bursts of epiphany, never arrived. Especially when I waltzed passed my toiling and arguably better qualified peers and classmates into the University of Southern California. I use the term waltz because of its colloquial use in denoting ease, not to imply that I'm one of those kids who dances everywhere. The word stroll would work interchangeably. And still I wasn't struggling with anything, especially when it comes to the concrete barriers that can always be found on the path of life. I guess there is one rule in stream of conscious, and it's obvious considering its name. I can't help holding some information back, and I'm definitely avoiding the word pain and everything it entails because of the particular nature of this pain, the fact that I'm still figuring stuff out and my intense fear of being emo. The whole concept of writing my feelings as apposed to my philosophical outlooks and, dare I say it, witty prose, is new to me. And loathe as I am to use the term considering its many connotations, I'm in a dark place right now. For the first time in my life I've come up against the cold hard truth of reality, and this time there is no poetic tint to cast on it. There is just no way I can convince myself that this is an epic struggle, or that I'm that aforementioned tragically flawed hero. This is not character writing, this is not even something unique to the world Josh Bass. It's entirely human. And I'm beginning to realize that I've never felt human before. Not in the "I don't belong" sense but in the daily struggle, I can't believe this is happening to ME sense of being human. I keep trying to disassociate from myself in the subconscious way that I have not only been able to do for as long as I can remember, but couldn't help doing. Now whenever I try, I'm brought back down to myself with an immensely unpleasant jolt. Hello me. I just tried to get away from you but it seems like that's not quite possible at the moment. Sorry I've been ignoring you for the past nineteen years of my life, but in my defense I didn't know you existed. Promise. If it helps, I am planning on getting to know you a lot better over the next few days, weeks, months, and if necessary, years.

Humble New Beginnings

I know it's been a while since we first consummated our blogger/bloggee relationship...and that while the precious memory of that first meeting of eye and sizzling prose may be burned forever into your retinas, over time (though we never talked about it) I found it more and more difficult to perform, though not for lack of motivation. The mind was sharp and willing, but the flesh...lazy and uninspired...
But there was a reason for my literary impotence, I assure you, and I am happy to say that through sheer force of will and the support of my "Remaining Writers Together" weekly meetings some fresh blood will be flowing to parts long flaccid and unused.

And so with a fresher voice and a smaller ego I return to the glorious world of blogging, though it does feel like quietly whispering at a heavy metal concert. But I'm tired of doing things for the little people. Sometimes the merit of speaking is found not in being heard but in the speaking itself. 

Anyway, with all that heavy handed ambiguous platitudinization out of the way...

Spontaneous decisions don't always pay off, but when they do, the success just adds to the experience. Like choosing to jump in a car with some friends before they head up the coast for Seattle. I won't go into exact details, but suffice to say the drive entailed two sunsets, one over the ocean and one over the mountains, a chill night in Berkeley, a ridiculous encounter with the self-proclaimed "liberal" Oregon highway patrol in the form of an undercover cop and a lady cop who felt that my good looks were going to waste in the dim evening light, and who therefore spent the duration of our time pulled over shining her flashlight directly on to me, and most importantly, diving headfirst into the pasts and home lives of close friends. Due to some as yet unexplained twist of fate, I actually meshed really well with the Northwesterners, and of course my friend's families were easy to get along with. Portland and Seattle themselves are incredible cities, and are, despite what I have been told by natives of both, distinctly unique and independently worthy of my affection.  The concept of a city built in AMONG trees and lakes and mountains has always been a favorite of mine. Call me a hippie but I think that there's something to be said for living in harmony with what was there before you, especially when it's so easy on the eyes. 

As always, there is nothing better than looking at a city through a native's eye, and I had that in abundance for my entire journey. The end of the trip saw me in Las Vegas for a 4 hour layover. Small price to pay considering what I had just put behind me. I also had the help of a certain new friend, and I'm happy to say there were hours of lip contact... I think the bonding time was really beneficial to our budding relationship. Wow sometimes I curse my genetic disposition to awful corniness. Thanks a lot dad...I'm talking about my harmonica people. I think I'll end on that note. Someone stop me...

Its On Like Donkey Kong

Ladies, Gentlemen, and Israelis,
Unlikely though it sounds, it seems that I owe a debt of graditude to an individual who has had no part in the honorable task of feeding me, nor provided me with any form of entertainment worthy of my gratitude. The individual in question is a newcomer to the timeless art of blogging, a would-be peer if you will. I will take a moment to applaud him on his clear hero-worship of me and my prose, though his attempts at emulation are much like a parapalegic attempting kama sutra- its just out of his league. Bless his little heart...
Im sure that most of you with half a brain have realized who it is im referring to. I am not ignorant of the fact that I share my readers. It doesnt bother me. In fact, I encourage it. It'll just help you all appreciate how good I am by comparison...This individual goes by the name Real Jew, which I find to be incredibly amusing and strangely familiar...talk about creativity huh....
In his blundering, childlike attempts to insult me, Real Jew merely admitted to his own glaring ineptitude and confusion and added to my own already impressive notoriety. You see, I will happily agree with nearly every statement made by this supposed Real Jew, and cheerfully stand by his description of me and my effect on the world. It gladdens me to see that someone appreciates my work enough to try and fight back. So, as they say to a player who has accidentally made a shot on the wrong side of the court, thanks Real Jew, for being the best player on my team.

Dude, Where's My Blog?

Once upon a ML dreary, while I stumbled hungover, weary,
worn out from all the inebriation of the wild night before.
While I panted, my lungs huffing, suddenly i heard a puffing,
As of someone eagerly stuffing, stuffing full a hookah bowl.
"Tis' some student" I thought "getting high in the room next door
I think Ill join him and smoke some more..."

Ah so vaguely I remember, it was sometime in November,
And the glow of the coal's ember, burned each time I breathed in more.
Happily I freed my brain, let the smoke ease all my strain,
This is so chill it cant be sane, god I love my Mary Jane.
That sweet and herbal maiden who always lets me score,
My best friend forevermore.

P.S. hookah hookah hookah hookah ml 06 hookah hookah hookah Read My Blog!!!!!!!!!!!

Updates

Judging by the amount of people asking me to post a new blog, it has come to my attention that some of you may have in fact become dependent on a regular intake of bemusedness. Though I am not one to support unhealthy addictions, I have realized after much consideration that it would be callous and insensitive of me to blame you for so tempting a practice. So, for all of you die hards who have endured back alleys and shady dealers of second-hand prose in the absence of my more refined brand of intoxicating reading, here is an update on Life, the Universe, and Everything. (Beg your pardon my dear Douglas, may I call you Dougy? If I were you, and if the me that was you were alive, I would be flattered...)
The opening scene of the riveting drama that is my life reveals a young, dashingly handsome man struggling (quite dashingly) to maintain his sanity in the midst of a world of appearances and superficiality.
Enter: roommate (he's baaaack yknow you missed him). Armed with a deadly arsenal of delightfully hideous yellow-orange hair, a blow dryer from hell and a loud guttural foreign language, the roommate, forthwith to be known as Josh'sBane, steadily and successfully manages to drive our protagonist to (dashingly) contemplate homicide in a plethora of creative and somewhat comical ways.
The very first method in which I considered taking up the beetlejuicien profession of bio-exorcism was in regards to Josh'sBane's hair. I can only attribute the fact that I have not considered it to be an independant, self-sustaining entity to the unashamed terror of the significance of that reality and the consequential existence of such a repulsive creature. It is quite petrifying enough that anyone would do such a thing to innocent hair...
Anyway the first and most cherished implementation of my newfound violent disposition would be quite obvious indeed. I would simply light his hair on fire (in quite a dashing manner). This act would not only be an act of justified self defense in terms of avoiding an early stroke, it would in my opinion be doing dear Josh'sBane a favor. After all, dyeing one's hair the color of flames must be a subtle cry for help, and sensitive person that I am, I would take pity on my roommate and his inability to act himself and finish what he so clearly started. Please hold your applause at my kindness, I fear it may inflate my ego and shatter the humility I so tenaciously cling to...
(Disclaimer- We do not in fact have any desire whatsoever to light Josh'sBane, We mean our roommate's, hair on fire or cause him any kind of bodily harm. Any threats on his person made by us should be taken as the bizarre and twisted ravings of a frustrated yet dashing genius and not sincere plans for murder (or arson), despite their obvious cleverness. Thank you for your understanding, and for allowing our use of the royal we.)

A Road Less Traveled

Sometimes I sit to write and find that I just dont have any stories, nothing that amuses me so much at the moment. You could say that these are inopportune times to express myself, after all, it is not called the philisophical ranting freshman. If you did say that, and you know who you are...feel free to write a comment to me so I can ridicule your inarticulacy. Burn. Welcome to my blog.
I guess its time to reveal the side of me I keep so cunningly hidden behind my exquisite choice of words and my sensational gift for language. That's right, within this bitingly masculine powerhouse of an individual lies a deep thinker. I mean I try to keep it hidden; if you had even a moment of doubt after witnessing my displays of dizzying intellect and perceptiveness then you are lacking in more ways then even I can make fun of. Ready yourselves my lost children, for it is time to lead you to Neverland. (And yes I do mean that in the Michael Jackson sense of the word. Call me).
It seems that in my skillful renditions of my escapades at this fine institution, I had overlooked a description of the institution itself, an action in which I am extremely remiss given the ripe material practically begging for my professional commentary. In my defense, I was distracted by the sounds of certain aforementioned electronic producer of heated air. For those of you waiting with bated breath for that incomparable moment where I paint a beautiful yet accurate picture of my environment, never fear, I will do it in the next blog. It appears that I have grown bored. I could do it now, but I wont. No, that would be predictable. Somebody play lowrider...

An Ode to Hope

Ive never been much of a whiner, though im not sure thats exactly a virtue as the only thing preventing me from connecting more fully to my Jewish stereotypical heritage is laziness in its purest form. To my credit, I am good natured enough to put up with the large amounts of lemons that life throws at me, and the subsequent bruises. (You try escaping unscathed from a barrage of lemons). However, there are some things in life that perturb me, to say the least, and after all, I have yet to tap into the "rant" segment of my presentation...If there is one thing I cannot stand, it is hope. Hope is in fact my nemesis in life. (Coming from a self proclaimed and publicy validated hopeless romantic, my previous statement may have come as a surprise to some of you. If it did, you obviously havnt read any of my other posts, 'cause I am easily one of the most jaded people you will ever encounter). Anyway (a thousand apologies, I am a parenthetical writer if nothing else), hope is one of the few things that truly gets under my proverbial skin. Before the optimists and other obnoxious people of the world unite and rise up against the bergouisse of my controversial yet delightfully witty prose, let me explain. Hope, in an incredibly cynical and fatalistic though unfortunately true light, leads invariably to dissapointment. Shut up optimists and let me finish. Dont misinterpret this post as gloomy. On the contrary, I assure you there is quite a cheerful, devilish grin on my bemusedly ranting face, and a merry twinkle in my bemusedly ranting eyes. What im trying to say is that hope is an exercise in futility. For example, I had hoped for a roommate who would be like a brother to me, a best friend who steered clear of metrosexuality with the same vehimence as myself, and who did not make strange high pitched noises in his sleep. I was let down. My hopes were shattered again and again with each unearthly squeak that escaped that blowdried head of his, the jagged pieces cutting deep into my heart. Needless to say, I found it difficult to sleep. Touche, hope...

Inescapable Femininity

Preparing in my head for all eventualities of living on an all guys floor, I had assumed that plans for sleeping late would be ruined on occasion by the manifold audio and visual performances specific to my gender. However, of all the things I expected to accompany my return to collegiate consciousness, or, to be more exact, rip me unhappily from slumber, was the sound a hair dryer. Of course, growing up in a house with three women had instilled in me certain sleep-defense mechanisms, given I understood the nature of my environment. So, with my extensive background in unpleasant beauty-machine wake ups, it may seem strange that the sound of so staple a tool in a woman's repertoire would cause me any form of surprise. In my defense, I was not expecting any tool bearing any remote resemblance to anything in a woman's repertoire to find its way into my dormroom. It seems that hard as I try, I will never escape femininity.

Welcome to Life

I figure an introduction is erroneous, as the only person reading this is lisa. Anyway, my roommate showed up today, back from his three day long absence in Disneyland or taking pictures of the Hollywood sign or whatever it is Korean tourists do upon arrival in this fine city of ours. I have already come to the conclusion that he and I were destined to be roommates, as I experienced some uncanny prophetic visions when I first came to campus on move-in day. After I glimpsed my first cluster of Asian students bebackpacked (this is before class has started mind you) and belabeled on their shirt fronts with hard to pronounce name tags I knew in the very core of my being that my roommate would be of the eastern persuasion. Lo and behold, the name so cheerfully filled out on the paper badge on our dorm door read Terry Kim, business major, Korea. The vindication of the moment was somewhat spoiled by a sense of foreboding, as images of pokemon and pocket protectors crept unbidden into my mind. Now, as a point of clarity, I am not racist, and I harbor no ill will towards our immensely populous friends. On the very heels of my new conspirator in dormroom adventuredom swept a wave of his brethren, as if they had all just stepped of a London style double decker bus directly onto the second floor of Marks Tower Residence Hall. Its going to be an interesting year...