Reverb 2

True Story – Part One – 7/27/2003

ìI want to hold the hand inside you…. I want to take the breath thatís true…î The soft words and slide guitar echoed around the quiet chambers of my mind. This god-damned weather always has a way of getting that stale old song stuck in my head like a migraine. There was a September when I could listen to that song and feel a great joy. One that, at the time, was a reality. In this September, however, only the memory of that joy remains, and the comparison between that and what I now call reality is nearly unbearable The wind blew in from the northeast that autumn evening, slowly bringing in the light and clean scent of the oncoming winter. September sun always shines so golden it seems, bathing everything in a dream tone. The skies and the wind are suddenly given depth by the falling leaves. A season of death and a season of birth, the age old paradox of the seasonsÖan eternal cycle. Soon the golden leaves will vanish under a blanket of heavy white, and people will no longer look up and take anything in when they walk the streets. Fall is a good time to find, and winter is a good time to hold on to it. The thought made me sad, though winter was still quite far off, and for the moment, the world was at its best. The earth exploded with color one last time before winter, the same way a candle flickers brightest before it burns out. I sat alone on a park bench watching the sun set over the city buildings. My arms were outstretched in opposite directions, and my elbows were resting on the back of the bench in a way that allowed my hands to hang suspended over the cold earth. The air was brisk, but I was wrapped in wool from neck to toe. A black hat that my grand-daddy gave me rested on my head, the bill pulled slightly over my eyes. I came to that bench that day to relax, to bathe in nostalgia and to remember another September long since past. One that seemed to mean a lot more than this one. I came to find something I had lost and to hold on to it a little while, and I knew the only way I could do that would be to use the nostalgic elements of fall to go back a year. I knew it would cause pain, but at least pain is feeling something, and something is better than nothing. A bit of a stronger breeze picked up and the sound of a million leaves crackling together filled my ears. I wondered if wind were actually completely inaudible, and that itís only the things that the wind touches that we hear. The final sound, the leaves crackling, is the only part of the wind that I care about. Only the dreamers and the fools try to hear the driving force of the wind behind it, but us rational people know that the only thing that matters and can be understood is the final product. The point. The crackling. I lit a cigarette, reached for my coffee, and took a glance down the path. For a moment I saw a figure in a fuzzy white winter coat coming towards me. I remember nothing of that day last year except parts of the small conversation we shared as we walked between this very spot and her house. I do remember that much however. That, and the CD she had for me. ìWhy, hello there,î I crooned as soon as she was within earshot. She said nothing, and put on a simple smile to tide her over until we were face to face. She came strolling up the path to where I was sitting, knit cap on her head and her own hand made oversized purse over her shoulder. At seventeen years old, she stood about five feet tall. She had a small and flexible dancerís body and a baby-young face. Thin golden hair poked out of the white brim of her cap and streamed down to lay on the soft collar of her winter coat. When she wasnít moving she looked extremely fragile, but there was something in her gestures that gave her a strength and firmness I can not really do justice describing. Her small figure stopped in front of me and I stood up. One of her mittened hands went to my shoulder, while the other went into her bag. She groped around her purse lightly, keeping her balance through her hand on my shoulder, and after a few moments she extracted a small rectangular object. ìHere,î she said quietly, ìthis is for you.î ìMazzy Star – So tonight that I may see.î The album cover was a dark purple painting that reminded me of the fall scene around us, only made slightly more sinister by the darker tones. ìThank you,î I said as I began walking, brushing the side of her arm with my elbow. She clutched on exactly as she was told by my brushing gesture, and we began a slow pace back to her house. We walked for a few minutes before one of us spoke. It wasnít awkwardness that kept us so quiet; we were both just busy taking in everything around us. I kept my head forward and let only my eyes look around, I wanted to keep her bobbing white cap in its proper place, the bottom right corner of my line of vision. ìHave you ever heard anything by the Red House Painters?î She turned her infant like eyes up towards me, waiting for a response. Her eyes had the same look after every question, important or unimportant. Innocent. Aware. Waiting. Absorbing. ìHer mind operates like a sponge just like mine does,î I thought as she looked up at me. It was what we didnít say that mattered. I felt that we connected on a level beyond words, that we shared an understanding and an identical perception of things, and the simple knowledge of that left our use for words slightly obsolete. I found my perfect companion at last. Her pretty little body stood as a beautiful anti-climax and exclamation point for everything that I thought I was alone in believing and seeing. Although she was nearly a stranger to me, I knew that it was right, and that all things would fall into place and be revealed eventually as I predicted. I knew that she would find the same completeness in me that I found in her, and that together we would build a future upon it, and live in the beautiful world that I saw until its end for both of us. I had faith in everything, everything made sense, and everything was perfect. ìNo dear, I havenít heard anything by the red house painters.î My eyes smiled, but it didnít break the composure of my face. She smiled too, and had I looked closely I would have seen that her smile rested only in her lips, and didnít make it up as far as her wide young eyes.

True Story – Part Two – 7/27/2003

ìWhat are you thinking?î Her small voice whispered behind me. The room was dark and cold air blew in through the cracked window on the other side of her bedroom. I was in the habit of spending my evenings in her bed, and slipping back to my apartment in the morning without waking her mother. I was laying awake on my side, staring out her window at the silent falling snow under a street light. Her room was lit by that street light and her little clock on the bedside table. Fourteen minutes past the two oíclock hour. ìNothing,î I whispered as I rolled back over into her warm spot. ìNothing?î I could barely see her wide eyes blinking at me in the dark. ìI was just admiring the snow falling under the street light… thinking to myself how lovely the world is and how so few people can see it.î ìBut

you see it?î Her words were short and muffled in the darkness. ìYes of course and so do you.î ìI think you see it better than me.î She rolled over on her back for a moment and ran her fingers through her hair. ìWhat do you mean?î ìNothing, I just get distracted, thatís all… I just get wondering what the point of it all is.î ìBut thatís the thing, it doesnít need a point. If everything is good, who cares if thereís a point or not?î ìI know, but what if everything wasnít good?î ìWhat?î This was a question that I had never, until this point, thought to ask myself. It seemed foolish. What could happen? Everything is perfect, and everything will continue to be perfect. I know nothing of hate and have only love in my heart, what is there to fear? What could go wrong? She sighed and rolled over to face the wall. ìNever mind. Iím tired. Please donít leave until I’m asleep…goodnight.î Bang, bang, bang. Nothing. The wood door stood blankly before me, the low bass bump of some indiscernible rap was all that returned my banging. Again. Bang, bang, bang. Still nothing. I felt sick. Dizzy. My knuckles were white and my arms felt like Jell-O when I hit the door. The entryway I stood in was a shit hole. It smelled like stale cigarettes and wet wood, and was lit by a moth infested, spider covered light bulb that hung from the ceiling. A big number three hung on the door. About a month before this, in late July, she started acting funny. I asked a mutual friend of ours, Wesley, if he would talk to her for me and maybe try to help us out. I was afraid that I was losing her. I didnít know at the time that I had never actually found her in the first place. All I knew was that if I didnít have her, the beautiful reality that I had would be destroyed. However, I knew already that it was gone. She had gone to see Wesley and had not come back. She took what she used to give me, and instead gave it to him now, with or without my consent. Leaving me feeling cheated and alone, unstable for the first time in my life. The door opened. My best old ex-friend Wes stood, one hand on the door knob, one on the door frame, blocking my path and view. I could see people behind him, but at the time, anybody that was awake and conscience was of no concern to me. I had gotten a call ten minutes prior from one of her friends saying that Wesley fed her way to much alcohol, and that she was really sick. She had called me because nobody there was sober enough to take her home. ìWhere is she?î If it werenít for my shaking I could have played the entire scene very coolly. My urge to bash him in the face immediately when he opened the door ended before it was opened. I was on emotional auto-pilot, but the effort required to run that completely drained the rest of my body. My motor skills were malfunctioning and I felt like I was going to collapse. ìSheís in the bathroom.î Wesley turned around and led the way through a hallway of unwanton filth and garbage into the bathroom. There, the person I cherished above all other people lay broken and unconscious, curled around a waste basket in her underwear. Another girl was crouched down next to her talking to Wes and me, but I couldnít hear her. The shock of seeing the creature most dear to me in such a pitiful condition took away, for a moment, my ability to hear. My ears were filled with liquid like I was underwater, and my eyes would not deviate from the sight before me. Eventually I started hearing parts of the conversation. ìIs she keeping down water?î Wes asked the girl. ìShe wasÖthen she wasnít…I got some in her about twenty minutes ago and sheís kept that down…î I swallowed hard and began forming words in my brain. I had to concentrate on being calm. ìHelp me carry her,î I finally managed to get out. I bent over her one hundred pound body and picked her up under her arms. Wesley grabbed her ankles and we toted her out of the apartment like a sack of potatoes, and put her in the back seat of my car. I didnít want to take her back to her house for fear of the wrath of her mother, so I instead took her back to my apartment. She was conscience enough to walk up the stairs and through the door with my help when we got there, quickly plopping down on my bed and falling back asleep. I opened the windows, turned on the fan, and kept watch over herÖslumping down in my computer chair across from the bed. I enjoyed having her to myself one last time. And I knew that it would be the last. We were not so much alike as I had thought, the things we wanted to do with our lives were on completely different paths, and I knew it. I was in love with the person I thought she was, and that person didnít exist. I donít remember when I fell asleep that sticky summer morning, but when I awoke in my chair she was gone. A note that said ìthank youî and a ruffled bed was all she left.

True Story – Conclusion – 7/27/2003

I took a long drag from my cigarette, tipped my head back, and blew it into the maple trees above. My coffee was getting cold but it didnít matter, just made it easier to slam the caffeine. An old Johnny Cash song floated into my head, pushing out Mazzy Star. ìOn a Sunday morning sidewalk… Iím wishin lord that I was stoned… cause thereís somethin in a Sunday, that makes a body feel alone…î I remember loving Sundays. Loving getting up on my day off, going down to the cafe to read the paper and have a cup of coffee. The world was new to me, I was a fresh adult, and I reveled in being a part of the working class community. But back then I had everything figured out, now Iím not so sure. I wonder if it shouldnít be the other way around, but understand that the only difference between then and now was that before I was blind to how complicated things really are. I was living in a dream world, one where all your fantasies come true if you just have faith in them. I had aged ten years in only one yearís time. With the help of a girl that never existed I learned how to love, hate, and accept responsibility for my actions. Never again would I throw caution to the wind and put so much faith into something that would just betray me. I stood up and flicked my cigarette into the wind, only to watch it pause in the air and blow back past me. ìWuss,î I mused as buttoned up my coat and slipped my hands into my pockets. Bracing myself for the wind and turning towards it, I pushed on towards my house.

A line allows progress, a circle does not – 7/29/2003

Sitting home, no work today, try pacing to keep awake. Sitting home, no school today, just drink until the clock is circled all the way. Late afternoon, as you walk through the rooms of a house that is quiet, except for unanswered tellaphone’s. Stand at the sink, you’re mixing a drink, you think you don’t want to pass out where your room mates will find you again. Stumble ’round the neighbor hood, nothing to do, you’re always looking for something to sniff, smoke, or swallow. Callin’ over next door, see what they got, you’ll settle for any

thing that will make your brain slow down or stop. Break this circle of thoughts you chase, before they catch back up wth you. And your parrents noticed your thinning face, all the weight you lost, all the weight you’re losing… You said "I’m done feeling like a skelleton, no more sleep-walking dead" you’re gonna wake from this coma, you’re gonna crawl from this bed you made. Stop counting on that camera that hangs round your neck, cause you won’t ever remember what you choose to forget as you Try to find some source of light, try to name one thing you like, used to have such a longer list. Light, you never had to look for it. And now it’s so easy and so easy to, So easy and so easy to, Second guess everything you do, until all you want, until all you want, is to Finish this half empty glass, before the ice all melts away, This feeling always used to pass, seems like it’s every day… Seems like it’s every night…

The Experiment – 7/31/2003

"When I was eight, my father locked me in his darkroom for an entire day. I screamed and begged to be let out. My mother wouldn’t dare go against my father. I wore myself out screaming, and no longer had the strenght to make any noise. It got quiet. So quiet. I thought I was going to die…"

Jumping out of the System – 8/4/2003

"It is an inherent property of intelligence that it can jump out of the task which it is performing, and survey what it has done; it is always looking for, and often finding, patterns. Now, I said that an intelligence can jump out of its task, but that does not mean that it always will. Of course, there are cases where only a rare individule will have the vision to percieve a system which governs many peoples’ lives, a system which had never before even been recognized as a system; then such people often devote their lives to convincing other people that the system really is there, and that it ought to be exited from." -Douglas R. Hofstadter, "Godel, Escher, Bach: an Eternal Golden Braid" Pulitzer Prize-Winner

Leo Reisman, 1929 – 8/8/2003

Once I built a railroad, made it run, made it race against time… Once I built a railroad, now it’s done… Brother can you spare a dime? Once I built a tower to the sun, brick and rivit and lime… Once I built a tower, now it’s done… Brother can you spare a dime? Say do you remember, they called me Al, it was Al all the time… Say do you remember, I’m your pal… Brother can you spare a dime?

The Paradox of "Pop" Culture – 8/9/2003

To begin, let us take a little step back and take a look at a few trends of the past. We’ll start our pattern analysis with the mid fifties and proceed in ten year intervals.

1960 – Upbeat music, leather jackets, hot autos, excessive hair and dress styles. Pro-action, fist fights, "honer." Rebel without a cause. Tight cloths. 1970 – Downbeat, melodic, "trippy" music. Earth toned, low-excess, clothing. Baggy shirts. Peace, love, and harmony-(aka, conformity). 1980 – Upbeat, excessive-electronic, disco type music. Dark leather attire. Angry music gains popularity. Rebellian comes back into style. Stark political differences. Tight cloths. Hot autos. 1990 – Lilith fair movement begins. Grunge gains popularity. "Feel good" and love music come back into style. Loose, downbeat, dress style- baggy cloths, large shirts, etc. 2000 – "New metal." Angry music regains popularity. Stark political differences. Upbeat, excessive-electronic, hip-hop. Tight cloths. Hot autos.

Now let’s go over what we’ve just laid out, picking out key words from each listing that match.

1960 – Upbeat, leather, hot autos, excessive, REBELLIAN, tight cloths. 1970 – Downbeat, loose, LOVE, baggy shirts. 1980 – Upbeat, leather, hot autos, excessive, anger, REBELLIAN, tight cloths. 1990 – Downbeat, loose, LOVE, baggy shirts. 2000 – Upbeat, hot autos, excessive, anger, REBELLIAN, tight cloths.

These are just a few small examples of one of the many patterns in the history of pop culture. Other patterns can be assessed and the patterns listed could be further broken down into smaller axioms, but the core motive for each transition must reamain in two seperate theorms at the fork of one core axiom. I, however, lack the perception and knowledge to see what that core is.

Where the Wild Roses Grow – 8/9/2003

From the first day I saw her, I knew she was the one She stayed in my eyes and smiled For her lips were the color of the roses, That grew down the river all bloody and wild When he knocked on my door and entered the room My trembling subsided in his sure embrace He would be my first man, and with a careful hand He wiped up the tears that ran down my face On the second day I brought her a flower She’s more beautiful than any woman I’d seen I said ‘Do you know, where the wild roses grow?’ So sweet and scarlet and free. On the second day he came, with a single red rose He said ‘Give me your loss and your sorrow’ I nodded my head, as I lay on the bed ‘If I show you the roses, will you follow?’ On the third day he took me to the river He showed me the roses and we kissed And the last thing I heard Was a muttered word As he knelt above me with a rock in his fist On the last day I took her where the wild roses grow She lay on the bank The wind light as a thief And I kissed her goodbye Said all beauty must die And I let down and planted a rose ‘tween her teeth "Where the Wild Roses Grow" by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds

"…but I can think of something worse still. Writing a great play and offering it for tonight’s audience to laugh at. Letting oneself be martyred by the kind of people we saw frolicking tonight. So why do I do what I do? Power, Dominique. The only thing I’ve ever wanted. To know that there isn’t a human being out there that I can’t force to do anything. Anything I choose. The person I couldn’t break would destroy me, but I’ve spent years finding out how safe I am. They say I have no sense of honer, I’ve missed something in life. Well, I haven’t missed very much, have I? The thing I’ve missed–it doesn’t exist." -Gail Wynand of "The Fountainhead" by Ayn Rand

Locker Room – 8/15/2003

"No locker room could have a more pungent air that Devon’s; sweat predominated, but it was richly mingled with smells of paraffin and singed rubber, of soaked wool and liniment, and for those who could interpret it, of exhaustion, lost hope and triumph and bodies battling against each other. I thought it anything but a bad smell. It was preeminently the smell of the human body after it had been used to the limit, such a smell as has meaning and poingnance for any athlete, just as it has for any lover."

Jumping in to the System – 8/15/2003

Being a person who sees anything "weird" to merely be an object or an idea that my brain is ignorent to, has an over tendency to recognize patterns and assign names to those patterns. I consequentially end up banishing myself from those recognised formal systems; that is to say, conciously banishing myself from being involved in them. There are, however, a few formal systems that I enjoy playing i

n very much; the conservitive Christian country system for example, or the reckless lybral ghetto thug system. I find that the more formal systems I recognize, the more distain I have for formal systems in general- and equally for the people within the systems themselves. It seems, the more in touch with realty I become, the less in touch with reality I become. A person who seeks intelligence or integrity is showing an obvious lack there of. What of a person who seeks reckless abandon and foolishness?