Tapestry

3:01AM—and my mind turns!—and it races, and yesterday, did I speak with my aunt, the stern and kind-hearted, open-minded matriarch of her family, and for four hours did we speak!—and the lights grew darker and darker, and the sun set, and I turned not on the lights in my room, but let the screen of my iPad light up my features, and yet, did we discuss everything under the sun.

First, what an incredible haze!—and afterwards, I bumbled about the world aimlessly, driving to my Whole Foods, taking one wrong turn after another, ending up there eventually, no grocery list, but picking up items from memory, wondering and pondering, and turning over ideas in my mind, and I came back and cooked a ground-beef meal—just beef, more-or-less, over my nicest of cast irons, and it is made by the Best, and I had after my beef a banana, an apple, and a bowl of yogurt.

I listened to my music!—and I felt confused, emotions stirring, before finally, did I sleep, only to find myself now, called up, slightly sweaty, here with the salty sting of my thoughts, and let them not be too harsh!

Oh, and where to begin?—but, first did we discuss my heroes, and I named a long list of those in literature, and philosophy, and in art, whom I do respect, and I told her how one moment, or one image, captivates me for a lifetime!—like the portrait of Newton, and those eyes most impressive and fiery, that hold upon me the strength of the smile of Mona Lisa.

And I told her!—how I find in music virtue and guiding force, and I “run by” every idea of mine by Bach, and should it fall dissonant, then do I discard it, for I should have nothing that the master himself could not imagine—and here, shall I mention one to spit upon him, and if Plato said that one with “music in his spirit,” paraphrasing, cannot do “evil,” then do I say he never knew music, and we have overturned his Greek fantasies.

She was so curious about that!—and I, less so, because I find myself not interesting, but a touch pathetic, something to revile, perhaps, and I told her of my politics, and how I find in them the most artistic expression—the conservative ideal!—and develop image of man-as-project, a long-lost narrative that someone must nurture, in this coldest of worlds!

And I love her, so with each idea, did I say, “this, you shall not like,” as my introduction, but yet did she listen and accept, if she disagreed, and it touched me most profound!—for I only know to dislike, and it surprises me, time after time again, that people look upon me and do not spit!—on this image, for I cannot see what is there to appreciate.

So!—to the topic of Newton and his eyes, shall we return, and for the first time in my life, did I watch someone read my work before me, and I could not bear it!—but I took a glance, because I could not resist, and did I see her read carefully, blinking, and blinking again, clearly processing, and in this, did I take a high compliment, for he who turns gears in the mind of intelligent woman, has done something, at least.

Ah!—but I could not stand it, and let us turn away, too bright is that source of light, and I told her of my quirks and eccentricities!—for I am indeed a strange mixture, who thinks of ideas in terms of people, and then once again, in terms of abstract systems, and when I hear an idea, first do I associate it with a hero or villain, and compare it with other people, and do I let these souls and these spirits fight inside my mind!

It is a strange, strange mixture!—and in this, perhaps, am I unique, and once, I told her I have the strongest of emotions, and she agreed I had the “temperament” of an “artist,” and I wondered if I had bipolar?—and now, we shall return to the theme of a man, whom I had mentioned in my work last.

For I thought first of the man, a rapper, and clothing designer, an icon of creative talent—and with him!—do I associate being bipolar, who has fallen apart at the seams, and my friend who had suggested an album of his best paired with my website—I took as a compliment, this comment, and I wondered what to say upon the theme!

But my mind is too organized and well-structured, and my emotions are strong and fierce, but not are they random, so I dismissed am I bipolar, and took instead schizophrenic—one is enough, indeed—and if he should dismiss his art as below other fields, science and physics, then shall I save the tradition, and say that I like both science and physics, and I shall match him engineering, and I shall say art is supreme, nonetheless—for I betray not my craft, and I loath the man who does.

Burn in Hell, fiery demon!—and I shall sell my clothes for cheap, and if they sell not, I shall sell them not, but merely wear them, and my temperament is cold, and too cold, and I should not break, not in one thousand years, and not in public, and I shall withdraw into myself and find a new idea or truth to play with, for I have in me the heart and mind of a scientist.

And back to Newton!—but in those eyes most fiery, and a spirit of Hellish will—and once, did he threaten to burn over the heads of his mother and stepfather, the House!—did he also have the grace and temperament of a child at the beach, and once did I write in his spirit!—and the piece is named “Sand Castles,” and Newton was a master with his hand, who drew mechanics in his diagrams, and the most precise of renderings!—and one with his words, who said a phrase most poetic, that I shall not repeat, for I cannot say it better.

Yes, for I am an equal to Newton, and this creative force—that makes music uni-dimensional, is not my equal, nor shall never be—and thus, does his name not deserve mention, but as an idea to consider and toy with, and discard, for I break apart systems of thought and idea like they are works of engineering, some abstract system to understand, and to move away from.

Just like another conservative hero of mine!—and his name, neither shall I mention, for he is too boring, and I told my aunt that no conservative knows how to write!—and it is such a shame, and this one is no exception, whom I have in mind, and in his honor, did I eat a meal entirely of ground beef, but since this is insanity, I had apple and banana, and yogurt, because I am a man who mixes and compromises, even if as an artist, I shall die upon the principles I hold dear.

What, and that in your life you need twelve rules, and half of them, I am sure, nonsense—and I have one rule, and it is love and aesthetic, and I shall spin this world Red in my image, for I am the master of Virtue, and it belongs to myself alone, but this is enough glory-talk, and I shall never dress in a suit, nor shall I debate in public—for I have a touch of Divine Grace, and oh-if-you-could-understand style and flair, to match.

So, let these two equals play in the playground, and I shall supervise, like an adult—and let us return to interesting matters, for I tire and yawn, and if I meant to sleep, I should have remained in bed, not to instead come here to my desk, where I shall write once, and words most profound!

And where were we?—but I spoke to her of a wife, and I told her everything on my mind, and I am sex-obsessed, sex-crazed, perhaps, and should I not have principles and rules to guide me, then I should go insane—and she asked if perhaps, I did not “respect myself”!

And I told her, certainly, I did not—and nor, perhaps, shall I, because these women come and they make things easy, too easy, and throw themselves at my feet, no feat of mine, and what can I say?—but should I indulge in a bit of casual revelry, and lose all myself in one moment?

So, thus do I draw the lines, and I fall upon conservatism as a guiding force to keep the threads of ideas and emotions and intellect separate!—for I learned from a literary figure, and one is wrong to throw out entire categories of writing, may I address a man from the previous section!—in the postmodern tradition, from whom I have learned, because I have created my own style of literature, and made journaling into an art form, and what have ye to say to that?—and this author said that the ill, mentally, tend to confuse opposites and get wires crossed.

And so!—did I come to a more profound understanding of myself from him, and from schizophrenic Hercules, and in literature is there more wisdom than in the medical tradition, and in my writing, the most of all, in I who have read and learned and integrated—and I, who see in a moment of a movie, a reflection of myself for a lifetime, but I shall leave those for a separate day, to discuss actors and portrayals of the human spirit.

But!—I told her I am obsessed with sex, and I like blonde women, and she listened and she heard and she judged not, and I was impressed beyond belief!—and she suggested that I listen to the female mind, and open myself to influence by authors or musicians female, and I told her that I have no female friends, nor find it appropriate!—for I should pursue and hunt, and this man or perhaps-better-beast knows no boundaries.

And I did listen and hear—and the words of hers stuck, and in this shall I devote a brief section to women in art and music—and it takes just a moment, and just a glance, a scene in the brief film of life, and I remember forever!—and it touches upon me, an imprint most dear.

And I like the woman with “good genes,” who walked upon the Earth and looked into the eyes of a camera and captivated the American spirit, for I am American, and this is my spirit, and I think, too, that despite my schizophrenia, I indeed have genes good, too—and behold my 23&Me, and it is flawless, except a touch of Neanderthal DNA, perhaps this brutish behavior explained, and I am slightly shorter, perhaps, but let us turn to the master in Taleb, who came up with the idea—or did popularize it—of Ergodicity, and I shall return to the average in my family, slightly better than I.

What!—oh controversy, but let it be as it is, and for this subject, we shall draw it to a close, and I never drink coffee!—but, no indeed, may I appreciate an Espresso, and what a charming little figure, little indeed, and a fairy perhaps of sexual influence, and very, very arousing!—and I cannot listen to music, or what-have-you-not, for I shall be drawn into the influence and find myself sung asleep, like the Sirens of Greek times old.

Well then!—these discussed and appreciated, let us move forwards, and I spoke to my aunt of my fears I should never marry, or have difficulty, because so much, must I ask a woman in my life to sacrifice!—but, I have trouble traveling, or watching movies, and I withdraw deep into this oh-so-poignant-neurological-condition, and I draw inspiration from the world most profound, that I am so delicate and sensitive and must from it protect myself!

How much to ask of her!—how much, indeed, and it seems an impossible labor, American spelling, not British like my hero—for I copy not the heroes, not completely, and let us turn quickly to another topic, before I get distracted!

Oh, but to speak of woman!—and my tongue ties up in a knot, so let us move on, and this is of a man, a master, and I mentioned him before, and his name is Girard, Rene, French philosopher and something-more, but I know not what categories humanity creates, nor where they place him—but to me, a man and a master is enough!

But, he says we humans behave according to a “mimetic theory” and from those we admire, do we copy traits!—and I say, I am the worst of all, who looks at his heroes and copies his flaws!—or, did I use to, for those are easiest to see, and easiest to adopt, and bit by bit, does one merely become a bad person!

So instead, do I try to lay bare my mistakes and principles—that another may read and interpret, and find in himself, or herself, the profound truths and ideas that guided humanity long, and those instead, may serve as influence—for with some light upon darkness, may one rid himself of nightmares and terrors sticky and persistent!

One more note here, that I shall play, and I listened to Bach and for a moment, did I think that I felt lonely!—for he wrote the notes, and Glenn Gould did interpret, he the eccentric and greatest of Pianists, and I merely wrote!—but I realized that I write the music in sheets, and does upon them the reader play his own tune, and draw from my rich experience and imagination something in his own life!

And life is merely applied philosophy, and I am not even philosopher but lower, and merely a “journaler,” for the humble cannot fall much lower, and I created this own category, and I wish to make a statement, that journaling can be noble!—indeed, and one should learn and reflect, but this is meta-commentary, for my work speaks high and proud, and it speaks for itself.

Once, did a master say!—and his name is Benjamin Franklin, and he said that a man should “to be remembered,” paraphrasing live either “a life worth writing about,” paraphrasing still, or to “write” things to learn and know!—and I wonder, why cannot I do both, at the same time, so great am I in cosmic arrogance, not to-be-matched?

Well!—the ego strives and strains, even in this most humble of pursuits, and so I make at least no pretense, but I show it in its blazing glory, for I am a man, as I told my aunt, in the prime of my life, and I am full and flush with sexual desire and tension, and it should run me!—should I not lay down a law or two, and follow them dear, and connect them with every other idea in my mind.

Thus!—did we speak of this topic, and then another, and this other was violence, and I told her I am “done” with it, my time served, my violent pieces written, and I should find no more expression in it—and I made a promise to a woman, and this promise shall I keep.

What graceful feminine touch, does she have!—and a quick detour, and my men in my life, and in my friends, but do they only flatter me, and the woman, this one, does not flatter, who like a sponge absorbs my ego, and offers me ideas new, and touches the soul and spirit to break and rejuvenate and let it come together harder and more whole!

Wow!—and I am impressed, indeed, and I told her of my appreciation for her daughter my cousin, and I wrote one piece so provocative and offensive!—and I sent it her knowing, and she has not responded, my cousin, and in her silence does she wound me most profound!—but I shall let it be, and let this heart take a lancing, for it has known one in its time, and since we introduced one French master, let us complete it with another!

And I mentioned, in my long list of influences, Dumas—whom I have properly dispatched in an earlier work, and did he have noble Athos, who knew pain-by-woman like no other, and did he yet survive!—so, shall I find a way, or let him down, and I should not do the latter!

Full of ego, was that man Dumas, and so am I, but slightly more artistic and controlled—should I flatter myself to say so, and let us move on quickly, and return to the theme.

So!—did we discuss everything, and I told her my fears, and finished the sentences that I leave open in my writing, for the reader to understand, and in this did I find therapy, and this shall I leave alone, for the matters of the inner heart are too raw, too unrefined, to share with the world outside!

Find a friend, and a friend she is indeed!—and the world shall be a touch gentler and kinder, and shall spin a soft and delicate tapestry of humanity, one thread here, and another idea, and the entirety of our thought and emotion combined into one majestic image!