My House
The thing about music is that it has a tendency to completely obliterate my sense of time and space. I'm not saying that it some how opens a wrinkle in time, or that it sucks me through some kind of wormhole and places me in an alternative dimension where only my wits and my wacky friends will help me survive, but it does send me into past times where everything seems to be a bit better. Right now, Hendrix is playing. And, he's going to keep playing until I tell him to stop. The song of the moment is Red House, and it's one of my favorite songs. Actually, most of the songs on the Are You Experienced are favorites. Actually, the album itself has to be on my top ten of all time lists.
I purchased it in the Spring of 2003. It was a few months after I came home from Gallaudet. I was suffering from Mono, and wracked with doubt about my choices in life. Certainly, things seemed to be moving along, but I wasn't sure if the moving along was where I wanted to move along. I was embroiled in conflict with my then girlfriend, and the teachers at the local community college. Life was regulated to the 290 highway, my truck, and Hendrix. I remember putting that CD in while driving to her house and just dreaming the entire way down. The drive itself wasn't too bad, and at times I find myself missing the route. It was simple enough; take Palatine to the 53, south past the mall and a swiggle right to the 290. Jam 290 towards the city, and then Mannheim. Occasionally, the sun would hit the earth just right, and the air would shimmer gold rather than clear and everything would seem just so.
In case you haven't noticed, I'm wallowing in melancholy. I started the day feeling chipper, but walked outside and noticed that the clouds were desperately trying to overtake the blue of the sky. Conflict in the sky preludes conflict in man, and my biology class left sour tastes in my mouth. I walked home thinking nothing but black and wishing terribly that I could just go for a ride. Everyone in my family hates the motorcycles, but at times I think that riding is the only thing that keeps me sane. It's hard for me to describe how I feel when I'm riding. It's a mixture of emotions, that's for sure. There's excitement, as well as a sense of danger, and a whole lot of adrenaline going on. But, when you combine all these rushed feelings, they become some kind of supreme zen. Odd how chaos is actually serenity.
But my family really does dislike motorcycles, and they tell me so at every opportunity. On my birthday, we were in some small town southeast of Los Angeles, headed towards tequila bliss and decent food, when we passed by a downed motorcyclist. I took a good look at the motorcycle. It was a recently shiny and then tattered V-Max, the power-cruiser of choice for old men and one Redneck friend. It was obvious, judging by the fact that there were no cars in the vicinity, that it was a single person accident. The sky was blue, the roads were clear, and there was nothing but shattered motorcycle and shattered man. I think he probably just lost control and nailed himself hard. Later, that night, I suffered through hours of drunken rants on how I shouldn't get a motorcycle because it'll break every heart in my family but mine. I like to say that I'm immune to pure Jewish guilt, but there is a smidgen of Jew in me that listens a bit too much. Even my Uncle, who like myself is a bit of a family troublemaker, told me that motorcycles are bad because then I'd be breaking an obligation to the people who gave me life. I told him that they wanted to give me life and I had no obligation to them for that want. I dont think he bought it.
I'm not trying to make this a downer post, but this has been one of those weeks where I feel like everything eludes my grasp and that I'm chasing spilled and scattered marbles on a downhill incline. As soon as I manage to tackle one marble, another marble rolls by. Eventually, I realize that I've forgotten where most of the marbles have spun off to, and I know that those marbles were pretty fucking important. My senior thesis breathes down my neck and my books emit audible gasps whenever I walk by. Who's he? Why isn't he reading me? Shouldn't he be reading me? I bet he's jerking off to pixilated porn rather than reading me. I have people calling on me, asking me why I'm not dedicating more of myself to them, as if a few hours a day weren't enough.
I'm reminded of a video game from my youth. I believe it was called Rock and Roll Racing. Whenever a car was battered so much that it smoked, a voice would come on and say something to the extent of "X is about to blow!" Yeah. That's how I feel right now. Jon is about to blow! I need a break. Badly. I cut classes today trying to find some modicum of balance, but ended up throwing everything off.
Spring Break was supposed to be my escape from everything central Illinois, but all my plans have fallen apart. I dread going to Phoenix. Well, Phoenix would be nice enough had I my own transportation, but my family works and cannot play Jon's Chauffer. Consequentially, I sit on my ass and watch movies. That's not a fucking vacation. I can watch movies in Central Illinois. I was going to go to Europe, but my pen pal first asked me to rim her, and then asked for money. Certainly I could go and just walk around, but I want more than a week to walk around Europe, and I won't do it with the money I have. The road trips have failed. My options are disintegrating. I will make one last call to a friend out west, and if that fails, I guess I'll just skulk to Phoenix and work very hard at making an ass-impression in the couch cushions.
I'll also get a digital camera. That excites me, and probably only me. I want to just forget all the work that needs to be done, and think only two things: Minotola or Sony. Certainly, Minotola has the name and the perfect SLR cameras, but Sony has better CCR technology. I'm going to try for at least a 4-mega-pixel camera, although I'll go with a 5 if it's cheap enough. The problem with the cheap 5-mega-pixels is that they don't have a lot of options. It's questionable if I really need these bells and whistles, but options are nice. Sometimes I want a quick picture. Other times, I want an artistic shot. You know how it goes.
Anyone who knows me knows that these moods of mine don't last long. But, really, on some days, I do feel like a Daedalus Falling.
I purchased it in the Spring of 2003. It was a few months after I came home from Gallaudet. I was suffering from Mono, and wracked with doubt about my choices in life. Certainly, things seemed to be moving along, but I wasn't sure if the moving along was where I wanted to move along. I was embroiled in conflict with my then girlfriend, and the teachers at the local community college. Life was regulated to the 290 highway, my truck, and Hendrix. I remember putting that CD in while driving to her house and just dreaming the entire way down. The drive itself wasn't too bad, and at times I find myself missing the route. It was simple enough; take Palatine to the 53, south past the mall and a swiggle right to the 290. Jam 290 towards the city, and then Mannheim. Occasionally, the sun would hit the earth just right, and the air would shimmer gold rather than clear and everything would seem just so.
In case you haven't noticed, I'm wallowing in melancholy. I started the day feeling chipper, but walked outside and noticed that the clouds were desperately trying to overtake the blue of the sky. Conflict in the sky preludes conflict in man, and my biology class left sour tastes in my mouth. I walked home thinking nothing but black and wishing terribly that I could just go for a ride. Everyone in my family hates the motorcycles, but at times I think that riding is the only thing that keeps me sane. It's hard for me to describe how I feel when I'm riding. It's a mixture of emotions, that's for sure. There's excitement, as well as a sense of danger, and a whole lot of adrenaline going on. But, when you combine all these rushed feelings, they become some kind of supreme zen. Odd how chaos is actually serenity.
But my family really does dislike motorcycles, and they tell me so at every opportunity. On my birthday, we were in some small town southeast of Los Angeles, headed towards tequila bliss and decent food, when we passed by a downed motorcyclist. I took a good look at the motorcycle. It was a recently shiny and then tattered V-Max, the power-cruiser of choice for old men and one Redneck friend. It was obvious, judging by the fact that there were no cars in the vicinity, that it was a single person accident. The sky was blue, the roads were clear, and there was nothing but shattered motorcycle and shattered man. I think he probably just lost control and nailed himself hard. Later, that night, I suffered through hours of drunken rants on how I shouldn't get a motorcycle because it'll break every heart in my family but mine. I like to say that I'm immune to pure Jewish guilt, but there is a smidgen of Jew in me that listens a bit too much. Even my Uncle, who like myself is a bit of a family troublemaker, told me that motorcycles are bad because then I'd be breaking an obligation to the people who gave me life. I told him that they wanted to give me life and I had no obligation to them for that want. I dont think he bought it.
I'm not trying to make this a downer post, but this has been one of those weeks where I feel like everything eludes my grasp and that I'm chasing spilled and scattered marbles on a downhill incline. As soon as I manage to tackle one marble, another marble rolls by. Eventually, I realize that I've forgotten where most of the marbles have spun off to, and I know that those marbles were pretty fucking important. My senior thesis breathes down my neck and my books emit audible gasps whenever I walk by. Who's he? Why isn't he reading me? Shouldn't he be reading me? I bet he's jerking off to pixilated porn rather than reading me. I have people calling on me, asking me why I'm not dedicating more of myself to them, as if a few hours a day weren't enough.
I'm reminded of a video game from my youth. I believe it was called Rock and Roll Racing. Whenever a car was battered so much that it smoked, a voice would come on and say something to the extent of "X is about to blow!" Yeah. That's how I feel right now. Jon is about to blow! I need a break. Badly. I cut classes today trying to find some modicum of balance, but ended up throwing everything off.
Spring Break was supposed to be my escape from everything central Illinois, but all my plans have fallen apart. I dread going to Phoenix. Well, Phoenix would be nice enough had I my own transportation, but my family works and cannot play Jon's Chauffer. Consequentially, I sit on my ass and watch movies. That's not a fucking vacation. I can watch movies in Central Illinois. I was going to go to Europe, but my pen pal first asked me to rim her, and then asked for money. Certainly I could go and just walk around, but I want more than a week to walk around Europe, and I won't do it with the money I have. The road trips have failed. My options are disintegrating. I will make one last call to a friend out west, and if that fails, I guess I'll just skulk to Phoenix and work very hard at making an ass-impression in the couch cushions.
I'll also get a digital camera. That excites me, and probably only me. I want to just forget all the work that needs to be done, and think only two things: Minotola or Sony. Certainly, Minotola has the name and the perfect SLR cameras, but Sony has better CCR technology. I'm going to try for at least a 4-mega-pixel camera, although I'll go with a 5 if it's cheap enough. The problem with the cheap 5-mega-pixels is that they don't have a lot of options. It's questionable if I really need these bells and whistles, but options are nice. Sometimes I want a quick picture. Other times, I want an artistic shot. You know how it goes.
Anyone who knows me knows that these moods of mine don't last long. But, really, on some days, I do feel like a Daedalus Falling.
posted by Jon at 2:08 PM
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