Friday, September 18, 2009
i am expecting a visitor this afternoon. so what do i do? i do what anybody else would do—clean the bathroom. clean the kitchen. vacuum.
take out the garbage.
i extract garbage bags from the various trash cans around my apartment. i put on my shoes. i exit the back door of the building to the back parking lot, where the dumpster is located.
i ascend the steps from the lower level. and as i hit street level, what do i see? i see a homeless man picking through the dumpster into which i was about to deposit my trash.
i was only steps away, and so was committed to the act.
and the fact that i was accomplishing this in the unnerving presence of a homeless person—desperately looking for food and clothing—was nothing short of humiliating.
i approached quietly, with the gravest of faces, and tried as gingerly as i could to throw my garbage away.
as i turned to go back into my apartment, he wished me a good morning, and ravenously tore open my garbage bags.
i have never felt so undeserving in my entire life.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
moments ago i may as well have been mute. but now ive so much to say. about so little. with no words. and no time.
and so i will be blunt: with the changing of the seasons comes the changing of the sun. it is now shining through the kitchen window into my basement studio apartment in a way it has not done in the almost-four months that i have been living here.
and i really like it.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
welcome back ryan.
welcome back to reality.
you have slept long.
and you have slept well.
you have awoken from a 24-hour dream.
you have experienced many wonderful things in your dream.
and it is hoped that you enjoyed them.
go, now, and return to you life.
it has been patiently waiting for you.
but worry not:
you will sleep again.
you will dream again.
if the above was truly spoken to me in a thundering voice from the clouds as i crossed the albany city limits, i would not have been surprised in the least. and i would not have disagreed.
the past 24 hours have been as surreal as a dream, as only experiences as wonderful as those can be experienced in dreams—at least thats what i believe, now.
i will not share with you the electronic recreations in my brain. suffice it to say, the hypothetical decree above is a satisfactory substitute for any detailed explanation i may offer.
just know that the dream was as good as any dream that makes you never want to wake up again.
and i lay my head down. and i close my eyes. and i go to sleep.
but i do not dream.
if you were hoping for something remotely coherent, then i’d stop reading right now, if i were you.
if youre up for a trip, then keep reading. because this will be nothing short of that—one hell of a trip.
the young—they cannot possibly comprehend where we—the elders—have been. what we’ve done. where we’ve done it.
they can only be told and make images in their minds. but thats all that memory is anyway.
i am currently writing under the influence. most importantly is not the state of mind in which i am writing, but the location—always, the most important quality of anything is where its taking place. everything else is irrelevant. mostly.
i am currently sitting on a couch. i am in my underwear. and gym shorts. and black socks. i am comfortable. but i look up from my computer screen and am simply in awe of my surroundings in such a way that i cannot possibly be comfortable but such that i cannot possibly be uncomfortable.
so what do i feel?
your guess is as good as mine.
i am in a house, of course. a house in the city of oneonta. which is a mindfuck in and of itself. this is the first time i have been here since i so cloudily graduated from here a mere 4 months ago. it is a dream. really: i will wake up tomorrow to a waking dream. i will float through more dreams of seeing friends—loved ones—and i will only awake from it when i enter the albany city limits. i am sure.
more about the house: i am currently sitting on a couch in a house located at 27 church street. 3 years ago—which may as well be a lifetime ago—27 church was where anybody who was somebody went to party in the city of oneonta. like all things long gone in my life—they are not long gone—so long as i remember, because memories are simply electronic recreations of past experiences. which goes without saying—if my mind can recreate something, then it must still be happening. which is to say—all moments occur indefinitely.
right now—i am still being born. my father still loves my mother. and the world is at least slightly welcoming to a newborn baby.
happy birthday, ryan—baby boy.
i see ghosts about me—because thats what my electronic recreations appear as to me. i can see myself walking into this place—many years younger. i am 18. damn. i am dressed so peculiarly because in my young age i cannot possibly know how to dress. but it must have worked. i am surrounded by my entourage. i am drinking keystone. it tastes fine now but little do i know—i’ll learn that there are far better alcoholic beverages out there to consume. i am dancing like a fool but totally enjoying myself. and thats the way to do it. in this day and age—when i feel like it—i still do the same thing. for the same reason. and its all justified by the same reasonings.
human beings moving in ways that cannot explain due to stimuli they cannot possibly comprehend—this certainly is a beautiful thing.
i see this all—but then i blink my eyes several times and im returned to the present. it is quiet here. it is cool. there are fans. there is no party. no beers cans strewn everywhere. nobody is getting laid in the shower, and there is no loud music. i am 3 years older. and i am about to lie my head to rest in this party haven of years gone by. it is now a quiet little home to my dear friends.
and i just cant get my head around that.
walking the streets tonight was unreal. ive been away from here—as ive said—for 4 months. a small amount of time. but considering the change in my relationship with this city—which is to say, i am no longer a resident of this city—it was nothing short of a dream. as ive said.
i have run out of brilliant things to say. that is—of course—if anything i have said was remotely brilliant to begin with.
the point of all of this is: i dont want to grow up.