Wednesday
Monday
Disintegration (repost)
[I originally posted this back in 2006. I like it, though it makes me sound pretty depressed.]
“You haven’t washed your sheets since when?”
“November,” I tell my roommate. “So? They aren’t that dirty.”
“But all your skin comes off in your bed.”
I pause for a moment. That is kind of disgusting, when you think about it. It’s true. I am slowly flaking off, depositing bits of myself around the world as I live, replacing them with new bits. Someone once told me that you replace all of your cells every seven years. That means every seven years you are literally, physically, a different person.
I’m not sure what this means. This fact might explain why I am now allergic to cats, and don’t really like fruit snacks anymore. But it seems somehow deeper, but I am reluctant to start rambling about how every seven years we are new people, and oh, isn’t that just so refreshing and beautiful. It seems more like we are constantly decaying, each moment of our lives our body struggles to replace all that we are losing, and every moment, past a certain point in our 20s, it gets worse and worse at it. Our cheeks start to sag a little, our hair doesn’t come back in the same places. Each time I wash my sheets or clean my clothes, I am washing away my old cells, once young cells. I am, literally, washing away what I used to be.
Somewhere on the Great Salt Lake in Utah, there’s a large earthworks sculpture called Spiral Jetty. It is exactly what the name suggests, a large spiral jetty jutting out into the water. Slowly, it is being washed away, eroded over decades. There is now a debate over whether the late artist, Robert Smithson, would have wanted it rebuilt. Maybe replace those bits washed away once, or twice, but if I were him, I would let the thing erode away, become part of the sediment and rock sculptures at the bottom of lake. It’s more human that way, more compelling precisely because of it is temporary.
“…You should really wash your sheets.”
It’s not long after this conversation that I wash my sheets. It’s a small improvement. Dirty clothes wait to be dumped in the washing machine and boxes of junk that I mean to donate to goodwill sit in the living room. It’s difficult not to leave a mess in the place you live, easier just to deposit things as you go along, put them all away at once over a weekend. During my freshman year of college we threw our laundry behind the couch, and my desk was surrounded by a carpet of discarded papers. Eventually I would make my way down to laundry room, then throw out the papers, many of them covered with my notes and writing. I still have notebooks and folders filled with my writing, papers I wrote in high school and college, attempts at writing fiction. I will save these for a while, and I’ll throw them away when I am ready. Or dead.
That is why our cells come off when we are sleeping: because if we were awake, we would never get rid of them.
“People just throw away all that perfectly good furniture and buy new stuff without even trying to fix it.” My dad has brought home the shell of a dresser, a chair with no seat, and some wooden boards. “What?” he asks when I give him a funny look. He found these in a pile by someone’s trash, and has big plans for them. They will live behind our garage for a while until he refurbishes them or uses them in a project or he breaks them up for kindling. He has taken to driving the van instead of the car they bought for him because he can better fit the junk he finds along the road in the trunk. He bemoans old chairs, slightly broken vacuum cleaners, and tarnished scrap metal people toss away without a second thought.
My parents never throw anything away. The old newspapers are saved all year to start fires during the two weeks of Texas winter, every scarp of wood is piled in the shed for use with a future project, banana peels and grass clippings are dumped in the compost pile in the back corner of our little back yard. And I am the same. While I don’t pick up junk from the side of the road, I cannot get rid of anything without a fight. The uncomfortable shoes that cost ten bucks, the old X-men action figures, the cowboy shirt that doesn’t fit and I don’t like but I might one day change my mind about. It doesn’t help my problem that I one day used that shirt when we all went to see Brokeback Mountain dressed in boots and jeans and cowboy shirts and I had to dig it out of the box of clothes I was going to take to Goodwill someday. My closet is filled with all the junk that I should probably discard. But once I give those things up, I invariably think of something I wish you had saved, stories I wrote in the 4th grade, pictures of my friends from high school, my G.I. Joes.
Partially I, like my parents, hold on to things because it is wasteful to do otherwise. If I throw everything that begins to lose its shine away, I’ll end up throwing away my favorite books, and a nice old chair that just needs a little work. But maybe I also accumulate these things to compensate for the things I am losing. My oldest memories, friends I’ve lost touch with, certain opportunities. Getting rid of them means I’ve got to move on, make a decision about what I need, and don’t need, in my life. Discard a little of myself, or who I used to be, moving a little closer to my life, and, I guess, my death.
“You haven’t washed your sheets since when?”
“November,” I tell my roommate. “So? They aren’t that dirty.”
“But all your skin comes off in your bed.”
I pause for a moment. That is kind of disgusting, when you think about it. It’s true. I am slowly flaking off, depositing bits of myself around the world as I live, replacing them with new bits. Someone once told me that you replace all of your cells every seven years. That means every seven years you are literally, physically, a different person.
I’m not sure what this means. This fact might explain why I am now allergic to cats, and don’t really like fruit snacks anymore. But it seems somehow deeper, but I am reluctant to start rambling about how every seven years we are new people, and oh, isn’t that just so refreshing and beautiful. It seems more like we are constantly decaying, each moment of our lives our body struggles to replace all that we are losing, and every moment, past a certain point in our 20s, it gets worse and worse at it. Our cheeks start to sag a little, our hair doesn’t come back in the same places. Each time I wash my sheets or clean my clothes, I am washing away my old cells, once young cells. I am, literally, washing away what I used to be.
Somewhere on the Great Salt Lake in Utah, there’s a large earthworks sculpture called Spiral Jetty. It is exactly what the name suggests, a large spiral jetty jutting out into the water. Slowly, it is being washed away, eroded over decades. There is now a debate over whether the late artist, Robert Smithson, would have wanted it rebuilt. Maybe replace those bits washed away once, or twice, but if I were him, I would let the thing erode away, become part of the sediment and rock sculptures at the bottom of lake. It’s more human that way, more compelling precisely because of it is temporary.
“…You should really wash your sheets.”
It’s not long after this conversation that I wash my sheets. It’s a small improvement. Dirty clothes wait to be dumped in the washing machine and boxes of junk that I mean to donate to goodwill sit in the living room. It’s difficult not to leave a mess in the place you live, easier just to deposit things as you go along, put them all away at once over a weekend. During my freshman year of college we threw our laundry behind the couch, and my desk was surrounded by a carpet of discarded papers. Eventually I would make my way down to laundry room, then throw out the papers, many of them covered with my notes and writing. I still have notebooks and folders filled with my writing, papers I wrote in high school and college, attempts at writing fiction. I will save these for a while, and I’ll throw them away when I am ready. Or dead.
That is why our cells come off when we are sleeping: because if we were awake, we would never get rid of them.
“People just throw away all that perfectly good furniture and buy new stuff without even trying to fix it.” My dad has brought home the shell of a dresser, a chair with no seat, and some wooden boards. “What?” he asks when I give him a funny look. He found these in a pile by someone’s trash, and has big plans for them. They will live behind our garage for a while until he refurbishes them or uses them in a project or he breaks them up for kindling. He has taken to driving the van instead of the car they bought for him because he can better fit the junk he finds along the road in the trunk. He bemoans old chairs, slightly broken vacuum cleaners, and tarnished scrap metal people toss away without a second thought.
My parents never throw anything away. The old newspapers are saved all year to start fires during the two weeks of Texas winter, every scarp of wood is piled in the shed for use with a future project, banana peels and grass clippings are dumped in the compost pile in the back corner of our little back yard. And I am the same. While I don’t pick up junk from the side of the road, I cannot get rid of anything without a fight. The uncomfortable shoes that cost ten bucks, the old X-men action figures, the cowboy shirt that doesn’t fit and I don’t like but I might one day change my mind about. It doesn’t help my problem that I one day used that shirt when we all went to see Brokeback Mountain dressed in boots and jeans and cowboy shirts and I had to dig it out of the box of clothes I was going to take to Goodwill someday. My closet is filled with all the junk that I should probably discard. But once I give those things up, I invariably think of something I wish you had saved, stories I wrote in the 4th grade, pictures of my friends from high school, my G.I. Joes.
Partially I, like my parents, hold on to things because it is wasteful to do otherwise. If I throw everything that begins to lose its shine away, I’ll end up throwing away my favorite books, and a nice old chair that just needs a little work. But maybe I also accumulate these things to compensate for the things I am losing. My oldest memories, friends I’ve lost touch with, certain opportunities. Getting rid of them means I’ve got to move on, make a decision about what I need, and don’t need, in my life. Discard a little of myself, or who I used to be, moving a little closer to my life, and, I guess, my death.
Friday
A Balanced Evening
Went to see This American Life broadcast live at the Edwards MarqE Theater this evening. I know what you're thinking. That's a stupid way to spell "marquee." Well, I agree.
Or maybe you are wondering: why would you spend twenty bucks (yes, it was twenty dollars) to see a radio show.
The answer is: because Ira Glass is a handsome man.
Ok, that's not the reason. But, it was worth the twenty bucks. They showed cartoons and clips of Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along-Blog, and of course we heard some excellent story tellers speak.
Maybe twenty bucks was a little expensive, but it's hard not to love This American Life. It's so often funny and moving, and sometimes ground breaking.
I have more thoughts on the show, but it's kinda late now. When I got back, I ended up watching Speed. It was free of course, but I'm not sure it was worth it. Sure there are some exciting moments, but I could have done without the, you know, talking. Dennis Hopper and Keanu Reeves are a definitely a match made in the depths of cinematic hell.
At least lots of things exploded and cars and buses and subway trains flew threw the air. I mean, not once while I was watching This American Life did anyone say "shoot the hostage."
Or maybe you are wondering: why would you spend twenty bucks (yes, it was twenty dollars) to see a radio show.
The answer is: because Ira Glass is a handsome man.
Ok, that's not the reason. But, it was worth the twenty bucks. They showed cartoons and clips of Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along-Blog, and of course we heard some excellent story tellers speak.
Maybe twenty bucks was a little expensive, but it's hard not to love This American Life. It's so often funny and moving, and sometimes ground breaking.
I have more thoughts on the show, but it's kinda late now. When I got back, I ended up watching Speed. It was free of course, but I'm not sure it was worth it. Sure there are some exciting moments, but I could have done without the, you know, talking. Dennis Hopper and Keanu Reeves are a definitely a match made in the depths of cinematic hell.
At least lots of things exploded and cars and buses and subway trains flew threw the air. I mean, not once while I was watching This American Life did anyone say "shoot the hostage."
Thursday
Tuesday
Bono
Oh, Bono. He is nothing if not earnest.
I like the music of U2. I wouldn't say it's ground breaking, life changing stuff. But it's a good listen, and I like the they are trying to say something. In a recent op-ed in the New York Times, Bono once again uses his celebrity to say something. "Where is your soul?" he asks.
His op-ed meanders through his Easter experience, reflects on Jesus, and considers the charity work of Bill Gates, Warren Buffet, and Nelson Mandela, and concludes, "Not all soul music comes from the church."
No deep theological insight, I guess, but I can't help but agree.
Over the past eight years or so, I've thought frequently about becoming an Episcopal priest. I thought about starting the discernment process that Episcopalians have to go through to become a priest, and considered going off to study theology. Ultimately, I've decided I'd rather go be a writer. So I'm moving to New York in the fall to study writing at The New School. Maybe I'll run into Bono.
I'll be around for a few more months, but I'm looking forward to a new life. And I'm looking forward to the freedom that gives me to think and question without any pressure and make big, somewhat cheesy statements like "Not all soul music comes from the church."
I like the music of U2. I wouldn't say it's ground breaking, life changing stuff. But it's a good listen, and I like the they are trying to say something. In a recent op-ed in the New York Times, Bono once again uses his celebrity to say something. "Where is your soul?" he asks.
His op-ed meanders through his Easter experience, reflects on Jesus, and considers the charity work of Bill Gates, Warren Buffet, and Nelson Mandela, and concludes, "Not all soul music comes from the church."
No deep theological insight, I guess, but I can't help but agree.
Over the past eight years or so, I've thought frequently about becoming an Episcopal priest. I thought about starting the discernment process that Episcopalians have to go through to become a priest, and considered going off to study theology. Ultimately, I've decided I'd rather go be a writer. So I'm moving to New York in the fall to study writing at The New School. Maybe I'll run into Bono.
I'll be around for a few more months, but I'm looking forward to a new life. And I'm looking forward to the freedom that gives me to think and question without any pressure and make big, somewhat cheesy statements like "Not all soul music comes from the church."
Monday
Maybe That's Why I've Never Been Into Anime
There's something perverse about are a cartoon character dying. Perhaps I feel this way because I cannot divorce animation from the Disney films I grew up on. In Disney films, the villain rarely dies. Usually he or she just kinda disappears or is banished or turned into something unpleasant. I like it better that way.
Perhaps the most disturbing scene I've ever seen in a movie is when Judge Doom dips that cartoon shoe into the dip. The part at the end where his eyes bulge out and he makes all those freaky laughing/dying sounds is a close second.
Cartoon death has been around for awhile, I guess. There's all that Anime after all. There's plenty of disturbing animation out there now. The pointlessly violent Happy Tree Friends, for example.
Most recently, I came across this animation by Ben Meinhardt. It's got kind of a heavy handed environmental message, but I do like Dancing Animals In Love. Lots of cute creatures die in these things, especially in Perfectland.
I tell my friend about it, and that I'm not sure what to make of Perfectland. She explains it to me: "I will tell you what to make of it. People are strange. Crazy shit goes through our heads. Even the normal heads."
Clearly.
Perhaps the most disturbing scene I've ever seen in a movie is when Judge Doom dips that cartoon shoe into the dip. The part at the end where his eyes bulge out and he makes all those freaky laughing/dying sounds is a close second.
Cartoon death has been around for awhile, I guess. There's all that Anime after all. There's plenty of disturbing animation out there now. The pointlessly violent Happy Tree Friends, for example.
Most recently, I came across this animation by Ben Meinhardt. It's got kind of a heavy handed environmental message, but I do like Dancing Animals In Love. Lots of cute creatures die in these things, especially in Perfectland.
I tell my friend about it, and that I'm not sure what to make of Perfectland. She explains it to me: "I will tell you what to make of it. People are strange. Crazy shit goes through our heads. Even the normal heads."
Clearly.
Friday
Tuesday
A Prayer for "Helping" Hands
Oh God,
Please save my mouth from my foot, and my friends from my clumsy helping hands. Again.
Amen.
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