Friends,
We live in a deceptive world. In the year 1837, you'd have seen the original title of this missive (Final Resolution) crossed out and replaced with the title above. Amidst the pen strokes you might even pick up on the sureness with which the original title was eschewed (a decisive eastward stroke). The keenest eye would detect the sense of hesitation furled up in the single downward line after "Part." Not a shaky line, but a curious one.
If we lived even further back in time, when parchment was a luxury and literacy was magic, you'd quickly realize you're reading a palimpsest. And that lurking behind the critical meta-analysis before you – in letters faded and forced out – was a letter of resignation. A suicide note. A quit.
But fortunately, thanks to electricity, the semi-conductor, and the backspace key, you are none the wiser. And the truth of this original post, this "final resolution," shall remain forever unresolved. You cannot seen the shiver of the cursive, nor the unnatural spaces between the diffident words. And moreover, instead of fear, you feel hope. Because part one promises a part two; and thus the careful reader will instead look forward to a final resolution, rather than the final resolution.
I need to stop posting sober. And exercising more.
Harvey
Showing posts with label resolutions. Show all posts
Showing posts with label resolutions. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 31
Monday, October 28
Words I hate
Why.
In the overflowing department store of human language, I imagine the Question words would be shelved alongside tools. Questions aren't merely ornate drapery like adjectives, or clunky dust-collecting detritus like nouns, or the pushy warehouse staff of verbs. They are rough and ready devices we use to scrape and screw and hammer at the world at large.
We might be tempted to compare "Where" to a map, but it's really just a long, stiff rod, used to point. "What" is more powerful. Like a flashlight, it illuminates so that we may understand those nouns and verbs better. Sometimes, like an X-ray, it penetrates the surface of objects in space, sometimes it acts like a magnifying glass, or a lens, but is is always a vision of our reality. "When" is of course a clock, or metronome, ticking away the moments that make up a dull day, and "How" is nothing more than reams of graph paper and a pen of bottomless ink: an ostensive system of symbolic language we use to diagram the "what" and the "when" and the "where" of the world.
And then there is "Why."
It's less a tool, than a tome-covered wall, a wing-back chair and a pipe reeking of tobacco. It's hunkering down with the a single thin leaf of "how" and trying to peel that page in two identically sized but thinner sheaths, and having succeeded, trying to divide them again. It is, in a sense, the conclusion that there are not enough books on the wall, and not enough hours in the wing-back chair and not enough tobacco nor pipes in the world to decide questions as resolutely solved.
While "what" may serve to illuminate the darkest room, and "where" might guide us to the place we never expected to find answers, and "when" might remind us of our place in the utter calamity of existence, "why" does quick and steady violence to what we think we know. It's more than a cascade of books' pages dividing in a reckless mitosis: it is an earthquake, destroying a mountain, in the depths of hell.
Like causation, free will, God, consciousness, and Harvey Kornbluth's sense of self worth, one has an urge to believe in "why" more than one can satisfy what it truly requires. Namely, an unblinking dissatisfaction with the way anything is. Imagine the arrogance to demand that we not only understand the present in toto, but the entirety of the past and the meaning of the future too. It is the question, "what came first" and thus shall never be answered; any more than one can address "what is what?" and "how does how?" and "when is when?" and when there is no more paper left to splice, Why will still hold aloft a scalpel and furrow its brow and cite its sources and sigh, bemused the the ground has not yet stopped shaking.
I often ruminate on why I write these words, but no more. Instead, I resolve to remember the angle of the sun or moon, the firmness of the chair upon which I sit, the temperature of the wind, and then use these words to assemble the what, the when, and the where to explain how -- whatever the how -- and leave the why untouched between the fibres of the versos and rectos of philosophy textbooks.
In the overflowing department store of human language, I imagine the Question words would be shelved alongside tools. Questions aren't merely ornate drapery like adjectives, or clunky dust-collecting detritus like nouns, or the pushy warehouse staff of verbs. They are rough and ready devices we use to scrape and screw and hammer at the world at large.
We might be tempted to compare "Where" to a map, but it's really just a long, stiff rod, used to point. "What" is more powerful. Like a flashlight, it illuminates so that we may understand those nouns and verbs better. Sometimes, like an X-ray, it penetrates the surface of objects in space, sometimes it acts like a magnifying glass, or a lens, but is is always a vision of our reality. "When" is of course a clock, or metronome, ticking away the moments that make up a dull day, and "How" is nothing more than reams of graph paper and a pen of bottomless ink: an ostensive system of symbolic language we use to diagram the "what" and the "when" and the "where" of the world.
And then there is "Why."
It's less a tool, than a tome-covered wall, a wing-back chair and a pipe reeking of tobacco. It's hunkering down with the a single thin leaf of "how" and trying to peel that page in two identically sized but thinner sheaths, and having succeeded, trying to divide them again. It is, in a sense, the conclusion that there are not enough books on the wall, and not enough hours in the wing-back chair and not enough tobacco nor pipes in the world to decide questions as resolutely solved.
While "what" may serve to illuminate the darkest room, and "where" might guide us to the place we never expected to find answers, and "when" might remind us of our place in the utter calamity of existence, "why" does quick and steady violence to what we think we know. It's more than a cascade of books' pages dividing in a reckless mitosis: it is an earthquake, destroying a mountain, in the depths of hell.
Like causation, free will, God, consciousness, and Harvey Kornbluth's sense of self worth, one has an urge to believe in "why" more than one can satisfy what it truly requires. Namely, an unblinking dissatisfaction with the way anything is. Imagine the arrogance to demand that we not only understand the present in toto, but the entirety of the past and the meaning of the future too. It is the question, "what came first" and thus shall never be answered; any more than one can address "what is what?" and "how does how?" and "when is when?" and when there is no more paper left to splice, Why will still hold aloft a scalpel and furrow its brow and cite its sources and sigh, bemused the the ground has not yet stopped shaking.
I often ruminate on why I write these words, but no more. Instead, I resolve to remember the angle of the sun or moon, the firmness of the chair upon which I sit, the temperature of the wind, and then use these words to assemble the what, the when, and the where to explain how -- whatever the how -- and leave the why untouched between the fibres of the versos and rectos of philosophy textbooks.
Monday, December 31
Bring on the terrible teens
And here we are.
We managed to survive the non-apocalypse and must face yet another tortured year on this botched science experiment. And what's more: that thing they wrote about in Popular Science ("The Future") is no longer a distant prospect like the barely perceptible whistle of a train; it surrounds us like rising floodwater, dampening our strides and threatening to void the air in our lungs. The train is in the station, and it's going to murder us all.
Clearly the wet and salty coast has permeated my bones and my brains. I am so close to the Pacific but ironically anything but clear. I am like a stranded man bobbing in a lifeboat holding a megaphone, watching the rippling waves and wondering precisely how long until I am rescued.
My resolution for next year is fairly simple. I have stolen it wholesale from the mouth of Alexandra Stoddard:
I will also try to eat less bread and dairy. That stuff will kill you.
We managed to survive the non-apocalypse and must face yet another tortured year on this botched science experiment. And what's more: that thing they wrote about in Popular Science ("The Future") is no longer a distant prospect like the barely perceptible whistle of a train; it surrounds us like rising floodwater, dampening our strides and threatening to void the air in our lungs. The train is in the station, and it's going to murder us all.
Clearly the wet and salty coast has permeated my bones and my brains. I am so close to the Pacific but ironically anything but clear. I am like a stranded man bobbing in a lifeboat holding a megaphone, watching the rippling waves and wondering precisely how long until I am rescued.
My resolution for next year is fairly simple. I have stolen it wholesale from the mouth of Alexandra Stoddard:
SlowI will pretend this weblog has relevance and I will write. I will pretend that I am cared for by people and I will take care myself. I will pretend that this ominous Future will succeed in forcing our mouths to the sky and gurgling us all into non-existence; and that I might as well have another cocktail. I will write, I will care, and I will pretend, though probably not in that order.
Down
Calm
Down
Don't
Worry
Don't
Hurry
Trust The
Process
I will also try to eat less bread and dairy. That stuff will kill you.
Saturday, December 31
This is how the world ends
With any luck, this new leader of North Korea will launch some nukes and initiate the destruction of the planet sometime next year. From what I understand Kim Jong Un is angsty and inexperienced, which I hope manifests itself as a penchant for nuclear holocaust. Push that button K-JU.
Because dammit, I tire of resolutions. I've done it a few times now, and I don't think I should face another year on this bumpy ride called Earth. And don't mistake this attitude as suicidal. Please. I don't think you should face another year on this watery top either. Let's call the whole thing off, and see if the birds can fare better. Twenty-eleven clinched something that we've all suspected deep down: humans have failed at life.
In 2011, I learned how to distill hate into enmity (metaphorically), and that dairy upsets me (digestively). Other than that, my annual report is thin, terse and tinged with loathing — and fabricated sales figures.
Like the underside of a barge, my spirits cannot be dampened; they are too soaked. I resolve to eat better and quietly hope that in the not-far-ahead future we all are positively drenched in radiation poisoning.
Because dammit, I tire of resolutions. I've done it a few times now, and I don't think I should face another year on this bumpy ride called Earth. And don't mistake this attitude as suicidal. Please. I don't think you should face another year on this watery top either. Let's call the whole thing off, and see if the birds can fare better. Twenty-eleven clinched something that we've all suspected deep down: humans have failed at life.
In 2011, I learned how to distill hate into enmity (metaphorically), and that dairy upsets me (digestively). Other than that, my annual report is thin, terse and tinged with loathing — and fabricated sales figures.
Like the underside of a barge, my spirits cannot be dampened; they are too soaked. I resolve to eat better and quietly hope that in the not-far-ahead future we all are positively drenched in radiation poisoning.
Thursday, December 31
Capital O change
I don't expect much from twenty-ten. It's just another sequel after all. Besides, I've heard rumours that it went way over budget and there were a lot of post-production issues. (I mean, I'll see it, but I'm keeping my expectations low.)
That said, I'm happy to see this year go. Twenty-oh-niner was a bully. He pressed my face into the mud and dotted me with spitballs. He pantsed me oh-so-many times and worst of all, he asked me questions I couldn't answer: Where do you come from? Who are you? Where are you going?
Hardly Guantanamo-esque interrogatives, I know. But when you're grinding coffee beans at noon with your eyes barely open, existential queries like these threaten your ability to survive breakfast.
Cue the fanfare. Next year will be different. I will embrace capital O (for Obama) change, and raise a standard of almost theatrical confidence. And I'll wave the damn thing too. I will shout platitudes. I will traverse latitudes. I will change my attitude, and I will wield my resolve to capital O change with both hands, like a sword. And I will swing this sword wildly at the naysaying tagalongs whose faces so closely resemble mine. And I will do more pushups.
* * *
No, fuck this -- cut the music -- this isn't new thinking. This is capital O optimism of the worst kind. The Optimism that mistakes genuine hope for reform itself. As though adjusting your sentiments is sufficient for true change.
If I really want next year to be different, I must skip the resolutions. Let's have fewer resolutions and more revelations. And here's a good one to start: the dawn of a new year (or decade) isn't a turning point. It is no desert oasis, nor the starting line to a marathon, nor a warm gun in my hand. It's just a mile marker on a really long road. It's possible to be inspired by a signpost without having to pretend that tomorrow I will set forth on hallowed pavement. If I figure out the answers to last year's questions let it be by accident, or luck, or Because.
Next year will be different. I will set down the flag, and endeavour merely to try a little bit harder, and not be ashamed by the effort.
That said, I'm happy to see this year go. Twenty-oh-niner was a bully. He pressed my face into the mud and dotted me with spitballs. He pantsed me oh-so-many times and worst of all, he asked me questions I couldn't answer: Where do you come from? Who are you? Where are you going?
Hardly Guantanamo-esque interrogatives, I know. But when you're grinding coffee beans at noon with your eyes barely open, existential queries like these threaten your ability to survive breakfast.
Cue the fanfare. Next year will be different. I will embrace capital O (for Obama) change, and raise a standard of almost theatrical confidence. And I'll wave the damn thing too. I will shout platitudes. I will traverse latitudes. I will change my attitude, and I will wield my resolve to capital O change with both hands, like a sword. And I will swing this sword wildly at the naysaying tagalongs whose faces so closely resemble mine. And I will do more pushups.
* * *
No, fuck this -- cut the music -- this isn't new thinking. This is capital O optimism of the worst kind. The Optimism that mistakes genuine hope for reform itself. As though adjusting your sentiments is sufficient for true change.
If I really want next year to be different, I must skip the resolutions. Let's have fewer resolutions and more revelations. And here's a good one to start: the dawn of a new year (or decade) isn't a turning point. It is no desert oasis, nor the starting line to a marathon, nor a warm gun in my hand. It's just a mile marker on a really long road. It's possible to be inspired by a signpost without having to pretend that tomorrow I will set forth on hallowed pavement. If I figure out the answers to last year's questions let it be by accident, or luck, or Because.
Next year will be different. I will set down the flag, and endeavour merely to try a little bit harder, and not be ashamed by the effort.
Monday, March 16
Out like a lamp
I've had an absolute shamu of a time trying to dredge up some fresh, exciting, vital content for this site. Recent history has found me knee deep in nude male ass (not literally, I'm learning to life draw), and ass nude in male knee deeps (not literally (obvs), I'm learning to mix syntax -- and prescriptions).
And speaking of prescriptions, I think it's time I made some decrees with regard to the content, that you, dear reader, rely upon to prevent the plunging of Katana into your chests through vicious acts of self-hatred and/or boredom.
I vow:
And speaking of prescriptions, I think it's time I made some decrees with regard to the content, that you, dear reader, rely upon to prevent the plunging of Katana into your chests through vicious acts of self-hatred and/or boredom.
I vow:
- To produce something -- God-damnit-anything -- worthy of publish by the thirty-seventh minute of the twenty-third hour of the fourth day, starting from Sunday (the Lord's day, obvs) every week. Every. Single. Week.
- To never again use the shitty rhetorical device of, "Word. Period. Word." Except for demonstrative purposes, as just shown.
- To produce, at the request of omnipresent, illiterate, imbeciles, "more pics (sic)".
- To make fuller use of the blog medium by waxing introspective, posting song lyrics, and whining about "the holidays".
- To reduce the prevalence of AIDS by 15% by the year 2030.
- And, related to 5) To stop making promises I can't keep.
- And, related to 1) To lower my personal standards regarding "worthy of publish".
Wednesday, December 31
Twenty oscar niner
The new year is upon us like a fat lover. Unlike most years, I actually enjoyed (didn't hate) this past one, so I embrace this upcoming year with a bit of ambivalence. In fact, I'm going to resist it as long as possible. This protest will take the form of writing stale-dated cheques and constantly referring to the Vancouver Olympics as "two years away".
It's not that I fear the future, but more specifically: events in the future. In fact, my prediction is that 2009 is going to suck. Mark my words, this will be a year full of:
Happy new year!
It's not that I fear the future, but more specifically: events in the future. In fact, my prediction is that 2009 is going to suck. Mark my words, this will be a year full of:
- Terrorist or terrorist-related news stories
- An unpredictable financial market
- Deaths of noteworthy people (both expected and unexpected)
- A medium-sized disaster of some kind
- Car accidents
- Lists
- Et cetera
- Make the content on this blog interesting for a change (maybe?)
- Replace my skepticism with a combination of asceticism and mysticism
- Refer to myself in the fourth person (whenever it figures out what that is)
- (Finally) sign up for those Esperanto classes
- Start smoking (so I have a resolution for next year. In billiards this is called "setting up your next shot".)
- Get a girl preggers then 'bort that shit/Then I'm a write it all down and rap 'bout it
- Start a drunken fight in a bar but get out of it using a cockney accent and a lead pipe
- Grow my religion; apply for tax credits
- Run (the interesting part of) a marathon
- Perfect the omelette
Happy new year!
Sunday, January 13
On dilly-dallying and procrastination
Let's face it, I'm presently blocked like a bran-less uncle. Instead of writing, I've squandered the past few weeks straightening out my trinkets, drinking, recovering from drinking, finding and using opportunities to play Guitar Hero, and not-vomiting. There is also some casual drug use thrown in there. But no writing.
And almost as though with purpose, I have snatched each free moment from the task of writing and doled it carelessly to some other lesser duty --like the aforementioned drinking and trinket-straightening. I face the blank page like an erstwhile lover and think to myself: I never really loved you, did I? Damnit, how am I gonna get back my stuff?
Well, enough is enough. Here are some of the ideas percolating in my head, that we can expect to see in the near future:
And almost as though with purpose, I have snatched each free moment from the task of writing and doled it carelessly to some other lesser duty --like the aforementioned drinking and trinket-straightening. I face the blank page like an erstwhile lover and think to myself: I never really loved you, did I? Damnit, how am I gonna get back my stuff?
Well, enough is enough. Here are some of the ideas percolating in my head, that we can expect to see in the near future:
- Definitive recipe(s) for general success at everything
- Autobiographical rap
- Libretto to comic opera: "The Vainglorious Defeats of Freddie Fred Frederickson, Champion Bowler."
- Rant equating Steven Malkmus to the Devil
- Short story about a dwarf entitled "Short Story"
- Listery and other compilification
- Theory of everything
- Libel
Monday, December 31
At the buzzer
I'm going to squeeze in a couple of quick resolutions before this year skids away like a garbage truck on an icy cul-de-sac. I've already made a few public resolutions (learn to swim, lower my sugar intake, curb my enthusiasm, etc.) that basically pay lip service to that hackneyed idea of self improvement. But that's not what resolutions are about. They're about damming the floodgates; a new year's resolution that works Slams On The Brakes more than it Gently Accelerates to a better you.
What I really want to accomplish this year:
And what I quietly resolve every year: turn down some road not yet taken, with eyes wide open, and make it though the bumps and slapping of splintering branches with my wits and spirit intact.
Maybe that last one is a bit of the old gas pedal. Sue me.
What I really want to accomplish this year:
- Stop (that is, cease) fucking 20 year olds, if only for the dearth of post-coital conversation.
- Abandon the idea of becoming a modern (pronounced in that fey, British way) renaissance man. Pick a lane and drive in it.
- Make the effort to let people know that my air of callous indifference is the product of laziness and not malevolence.
- Stop scowling. It does not make me look (that) sexy.
- Stop complaining and start com-play-ning! (I don't know what this means.)
- Seriously, for the last time: lose the parentheses.
And what I quietly resolve every year: turn down some road not yet taken, with eyes wide open, and make it though the bumps and slapping of splintering branches with my wits and spirit intact.
Maybe that last one is a bit of the old gas pedal. Sue me.
Friday, October 19
Baby, it's cold inside
I didn't always fear winter. When I was young, I looked forward to the snow, and long icicles and the look of naked trees. I even embraced the opportunity to wear snow pants. Trudging through thick piles of powder was a luxury, not a chore, and the frosty air was bearable given the simple promise of hot chocolate and marshmallows.
But now, in the winter of my life [nice --ed.], the change of seasons is like a turning screw against my spinal cord. The cold is like being waterboarded for an entire season. And then sodomized with a icy sponge. Followed by a sack beating with ice cubes in a freezer bag.
Winter, thou art the uphill of my Sisyphean existence; it's enough to make me yearn for the instant explosion of the world's refrigerant manufacturers (innocent lives be damned), if only for the promise of unloosed CFCs and a one degree increase in average temperatures next year.But this winter, I think I'm going to play it cool -- pun intended. I resolve to no longer use winter as an excuse to be miserable for eight months, or to emotionally hibernate, or to cry myself to sleep in flannel sheets. In short, this holiday season, I'm getting laid. (Ladies?)
Fuck you, Jack Frost. (Maybe he has a sister?)
But now, in the winter of my life [nice --ed.], the change of seasons is like a turning screw against my spinal cord. The cold is like being waterboarded for an entire season. And then sodomized with a icy sponge. Followed by a sack beating with ice cubes in a freezer bag.
Winter, thou art the uphill of my Sisyphean existence; it's enough to make me yearn for the instant explosion of the world's refrigerant manufacturers (innocent lives be damned), if only for the promise of unloosed CFCs and a one degree increase in average temperatures next year.But this winter, I think I'm going to play it cool -- pun intended. I resolve to no longer use winter as an excuse to be miserable for eight months, or to emotionally hibernate, or to cry myself to sleep in flannel sheets. In short, this holiday season, I'm getting laid. (Ladies?)
Fuck you, Jack Frost. (Maybe he has a sister?)
Sunday, January 7
Viva la resolution!
So I finally got around to making a list of new year's resolutions. (I know it's late, but seriously, step off, I've been busy.) Having endured almost a quarter century of trite, unbelievably-predictable, and totally-unfair bull-shit, I've come up with a few whammies to really make 2007 shine. (Like a 2007 quarter, for example.) Here are the maxims by which I will live this year:
Twenty-oh-sev's lookin' alllll right.
- Scotch is not for breakfast.
- Women do not want to be my "partner in crime". So stop asking.
- Reading Utne impresses no one.
- Homeless people ARE people, in spite of their smell, demeanour, shoutings, etc.
- Nothing tastes as good as thin FEELS.
- Apathy is not my way of "keeping it real".
- I will not deny the holocaust on my birthday.
- Ain't no party like a west coast party.
- I'll stop stalking (all of) you on Facebook.
- Enough with the lists already, God-damnit.
Twenty-oh-sev's lookin' alllll right.
Sunday, December 10
Can't bother with post titles
It has been awhile. My attempts to post everyday actually turned into me not posting anything, ever, at all. Lameness is the only way to describe it. There are probably other words, but I lack a thesaurus or the motivation to find a thesaurus at present. Don't try to tell me about dictionary.com; I don't give a fuck.
But I'm putting this up to make a point: come hell or high water, I am going to type something on here even -- and especially -- if it sucks, is uninteresting, boring, racist, etc.
Oh, came up with a good idea for a rock opera today. We'll see what develops.
But I'm putting this up to make a point: come hell or high water, I am going to type something on here even -- and especially -- if it sucks, is uninteresting, boring, racist, etc.
Oh, came up with a good idea for a rock opera today. We'll see what develops.
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