chris kaprys' Journal|
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|Saturday, August 23rd, 2014|
(post goonies + walk + history.killer talk)
exploring the old stomping grounds.
walk into a busy bar, service on the left, bar top starting directly in the doorway.
i stay near the entrance and wait to order an apple juice.
five or six people away at the bar i spot charles in a polo shirt. i glance away immediately but i think he's spotted me.
waiting to order.
i hear charles calling my name out now.
i wait a few moments more, then turn on heel and head out.
walking the back streets under less rain.
passing a ghost house, where people live, which claims on the outside in large letters: "ghost house"
i start singing in my head "this place is haunted" by devotchka.
back in my place, or where i'm staying. it's early morning. the rain is back to a steady drizzle.
items in the bay window, on a shelf, that also seem to be outside, because they're getting wet in the rain.
a tall thin metal 'sculpture,' rusted, a small base with a large long screw or bolt sticking up out of it and a few other nuts & bolts type objects welded on to the top of this. also a collection (a box?) of leather squares with small wooden dowels poked through them, similar to leather barrettes.
i'm watching the water wet the leather.
a knock at the door.
i open it to a tall bored looking black man.
he says something like "he wants to say hello," and points to his right, where charles is waiting.
i say a happy hello and invite him in.
then wake up.
|Monday, January 13th, 2014|
|the lonely parade
it seems to be widely understood, accepted, in the parts of the world where i've been growing up, that you may or may not opt into a religion, as you so choose. christianity might come along and request politely that you join, or it may shout and holler and insist, but you are welcome to decline the invitation. buddhism is around, and you can sign up if you want to. islam is plenty prolific. not quite as insistant, but it's there if you're interested. or not. you decide.
why, then, is it so taboo, so unthinkable, so confusing and even obscene, when someone does not wish to opt in to the religion of the almighty calendar?
it's my birthday today, according to that calendar. through social networks and communication devices i get these messages, from family, friends, and strangers alike, wishing all versions of "happy birthday." while i understand the intention, and can make the extra effort to block out all external irrelevant facts and see things purely from the well-wishers' perspectives and take on board the birthday wishes in their simplest form, it is nevertheless the loneliest feeling, as lonely as any national holiday, to be so universally obliged.
i nod, ever polite, saying "thank you" and "awww" and "thanks so much" and every time it hurts. every time i want to say instead, "don't you know me? can you pretend, for just one second, for just one day, that you know me at all?"
every day is precious. i am aware, quite hotly, of my mortality every single day that i wake up and am not yet dead. i feel the breaths in my chest as they happen. i feel the gravity pulling on my blood cells to come back home to the ground. i rejoice in the magic of standing upright, bipedal, balanced, keeping rhythm with the song in my mind while we hold a conversation. i do this, all this panicked rejoicing and wonder, while i'm talking to you. i may seem distracted, and i am, to a certain degree, but it's because i can't stop paying attention. i used an ancient bridge to cross a river tonight. so simple, so easy. three homeless bundled up against the winter sting, ignored by the forests of busy legs around them, and the wrought iron bridge covered in forgotten padlocks of memorable loves. while gauging the speed of the wind from the east on my cheek and keeping track of three brief bites of conversation and plowing through my memory bank to see when and where i'd last seen those same homeless sleeping bags, i wondered how many people were aware of the science and the math that they were walking upon, right then, that kept them, reliably, suspended above the water.
these moments are all precious. i don't take this life for granted. and i don't want to be told i should feel a certain way, or behave a particular way, because the calendar says so. the way i don't mind other people practising their own religions, i don't mind other people belonging to the calendar club. but that's simply not me; it's not who i am. i am a farmer, i am a soldier. i am not an artist, but i do hope that by the time i die i feel everything there is to feel. i don't need a clock or a calendar to do that. the sun rising, the seasons changing, the pace of trees. i can feel all these things, these natural forces, with my body's senses. i can see the soil and the effort within it and breathe it in. i can smell the grass and smoke. i can hear the breeze refreshing the trees. i can taste the sun.
as for people, i have met people my own age who i could never be old enough to know completely. and i have felt a love that never knew what date it was. and besides, in our time among each other, there is more concealed than there is revealed. walking the canal tonight, with the greatest album in the world pouring its rare treat in to my ears -- indeed a reason for living, all its own -- i passed a man who was clearly holding a hard case with an instrument inside: an electric guitar. this music in my head, the most special thing i have ever found on this whole earth so far, and when i pass this music maker we don't meet eyes, we don't touch at all, we simply see and know and walk on by.
we are shrinkers of the very planets of our selves, in near-constant collision with all these other worlds.
i suppose we need it to be that way. and if there is something truly worth knowing, worth feeling, worth discovering in the connection between myself and another human being then i of course hope to discover it one day, to know it, to feel it, to wonder over it while it happens, while it is. but for now, i just want my farm, with a bit of land to tend to, and some pets to take care of and keep me company, and all around the pace of nature, with the passage of each day within each season an adventure all its own -- every day an orchestra that requires occasional conducting, a battle that is itself worth fighting for. it's what i've always known and always wanted, beyond my destructive daily wish for death since youth. beyond that veil of surrender back into non-existence, i only want that little farm, out in a plot in the mountains, making a map of stars erased by every dawn. you see, every comment i make about needing coffee, about being late for work, every snide suggestion based on the movement of a woman's ass, every giddy recitation of my favourite line from a film, every time i hang my hat on this unpoetic design of empitness, it smacks me like the taste of a known poison, it hurts as much as "happy birthday." it is a mistake i know i'm making while i make it; a departure. it is, at its simplest, an abomination that would make my old youth -- who was happy, even if so hungry -- simply ashamed.
so instead of wishing me happy birthday, if you know me at all, please just wish me a happy cabin, a happy farm up in the hills. is it lonely living out there? no, not at all. it's fine. but being told that you're a grinch because you don't want to celebrate christmas, that you're a sour old grouch because you don't want to celebrate your birthday, that you're an impossible old fart who only cares about himself just because you don't feel like -- and never have felt like -- joining this massively popular calendar club, that
is the lonely bit. if you know me at all you'll know how selfish i am not, and how deeply and intensely i can care for you. i simply don't want to join the religion of calculated time. it doesn't suit me. i hope you understand. please come visit me in my cabin whenever you wish, and teach me what you've learned. Current Mood: astral
|Friday, September 3rd, 2010|
if youth is research, then i spent my research on dreams.
some nights i return to secrets i didn't know i kept.
a field and a tree, where someone is walking between.
a river, where someone is breathing.
a lie, which hasn't had time to be told completely.
we dream of what we swallow
and we swallow what we crave.
tonight i'll dream inside a bucket
while the rest of the spinning world pretends.
|Thursday, September 2nd, 2010|
nothing was set on fire
no bomb gained release without a plan
no climax pointed its own way home, south
to square one
nothing broken, nothing ventured
nothing ventured, nothing tamed
the children i've not yet had
sit in a patient ring around my coffee mug
and in the evening i come home to a mug
half-drunk and cold
move the earth.
without me noticing.
|Friday, July 2nd, 2010|
|the camel and the bark
there was a drink that was a dream
before we woke we drank each other's skin
there was a wish within the fog
the shape of your dance
your voice in my ear
gave it form
there was a distance between your lips and mine
and suspended there above the night river ink
holding you in my arms like a wordless breath
before the dream dissolved
our desire was born
and the distance disappeared
|Friday, June 4th, 2010|
"...my father was one of the only men i knew who used the word 'beautiful'..."
there is a man on a river side. sitting. being.
there is a candle with two wicks exposed.
there is a great light that neither understands.
there is a tree, on a hill, in a field, surrounded by eternity and blue.
and there is no one there to know it.
there is no caution, curse, nor promise from the river, which speaks without ceasing.
and the light burns brightest
beneath the stones.
|Thursday, April 15th, 2010|
jazz bar. 3 years.
wallet stolen; embassy.
dog is small; female. normal otherwise.
newfoundland = big dog.
visited: paris, norway, russia
can lift a keg.
others: lie-nosh (linos) hungarian
|Thursday, April 8th, 2010|
|michael, junior, the fume, and the evidence
april 8th and we're still dancing.
giving up sacrifice to half-way glances and a chance at stardom.
suckin' on the ancient kool-aid rhyme building points and tempered signs...
what we studied, what our parents never finished
what we believe, until generation next goes undiminished
a swan in the lake, partnered up forever
never a stain of casual love evident in her feathers
we ride the road and it teaches us, preaches need to us
the need for a confession that the travel breeds fear in us
break free from the path of believin' this
riding high above the consciousness that what we see
is the deed that's been and done for us.
just breathe, take big steps, and believe....
you and me
we are free
belong, and be free...
|Sunday, October 25th, 2009|
cut my face off with a razor. was trying to be very surgical, very careful. but the hair on the scalp got in the way and i had to do a couple sawing-motion incisions that weren't as clean as i would have liked. i cut all the way around, but then kept running into difficulties peeling the whole thing off cos it kept getting caught on different muscles and such underneath. i could reach up and pull the whole scalp back quite a bit. but half way through getting the whole face to come off i realised that i'd never gone out to get gauze, i so i didn't have anything to wrap my face in while it healed. i was still working at the video store, i think i was offered the position of managing and then owning it, because kamron was going to have another baby and then leave the store to me. but it was sunday so i knew he was coming in, and was trying to fix back up some of the seams and hold the face back on so i could ask him to get me some gauze without raising too many questions.
later on, was playing piano in a white-ish room. big room. tori amos came in and played instead. she fluttered all over the keyboard, just fooling around, and i discovered that i really like her laugh. she left and i tried to play a david gray song but my voice was shot to shit and came out as this pathetic scratchy thing.
|Wednesday, October 7th, 2009|
someone strapped to a chair, and bleeding.
quick zoom out, other side of a fence, late evening, pan up crane shot, with quick glimpse at small sign on fence ("rest is sin"), til the view is an arieal map of the plot, cookie-cutter '70s post-communist abandoned factory fabrications, every building the exact same size and shape, windows in the same place, blood stains visible throught the roofs, all in the same place.
zoom back down to side of a building, where i'm surveying, climbing the building side, lowering myself floor by floor by the attached cables, lucky they still hold. get to the ground and there's a noise behind me. someone rooting around. quick fear while i don't know who's the dog and who's the dinner. they fly into a rage and run at me but i stand my ground. flash and i'm taking down information, like a waiter at a restaurant. "....and in the freezer: peas -- standard weapon -- one toothbrush, blue." and they're looking at my paper in awe. "no, it's not real. .. paper, huh? high stakers in the human resource element, eh?"
that last line echoing as i lay awake in bed.
"high stakers in the human resource element, eh?"
peter sarsgaard is. the most beautiful creature. i have seen in my lifetime.
|Friday, August 14th, 2009|
i dreamt i was inside schrodinger's box, which was made of two-way mirrors, visually impenetrable from the outside by normal eyes, and i looked up and noticed superman filming me, with a projector of the camera's output set up in my line of view just behind him. i tried meowing to him that, although he could, even in the camera lense, see through the normal visual barrier of the box with his x-ray vision, the camera was recording only the superposition of the fact that i was alive and dead at the same time, and every time i looked at the projector behind him to observe my unverifiable consciousness, i was everywhere and nowhere at the same moment. in the meantime, he was creating my existence by being able to observe me, as i was doing for him, and we would cease to exist if we both closed our eyes, while the camera would continue recording definitive uncertainty of my dual-existence. but superman didn't speak cat, and i opened my eyes and looked out the window at the wet rain.
it's amusing watching quantum mechanics and philosophy bleed on each other over such a civilised dinner banquet where everyone eats and no one seems to get full. the persuit of yes-or-no black-and-white definition, and philosophy, the practise of making a lifestyle and lifetime out of exaggerating instances where black-and-white cannot apply, has always baffled me, and never been attractive. i still "observe" that all new life, starting from void -- a void which scientists and philosophers alike seem intent on containing and defining, or at least probing relentlessly, as if it could respond in any way other than whatever the world is to any given person -- is the beginning of the end of infinity. when a child is born, it's as close to infinity and void as it will ever be until it dies, its lifetime the very process of becoming definitions while creating them from the realm of perception up to communication. same with a flower. it's born, it becomes a math problem, a beautiful math problem, a beautiful thing, and then it returns to beautiful infinity. instead of persuing philosophy within the realm of science-of-the-mind, i wish quantum mechanics would wipe the grease from their lobes and just come play volleyball with us on the underbelly of the flea that's caught in the volleyball that's trapped in the wind. using infinity in math problems is like pissing in the face of god and telling him he looks better with a wet beard.
plus i enjoyed the implications and vocabulary battle inherent in the extension in the wiki stating "..prominent physicists have gone so far as to suggest that astronomers observing dark matter in the universe in 1998 may have "reduced its life expectancy" through a pseudo-Schrödinger's Cat scenario.." if you put a philosopher in a box and never think about him, will he live forever?
|Friday, July 17th, 2009|
|in between the stitches of stereotypes
when i was young
i very much enjoyed
taking my head
on top of my neck
throwing it backward
and slamming the rear
of my skull into
the nearest available wall
and now i am accused of age
am meant to divulge
my appetite for shiny vehicles
and the shapes of passing women
who apparently wish to be teased
onto the imaginary
cocks of my eager equals
but i'm neither amused
as i respect their hunger
for other flesh and to fit in
but can't invoke
the words to count the madness
the music for the sin
the dispositioned urge
borne of youth enmazed
can i help it?
tired, potent, disbelieving
and charming all desire anyway?
|Wednesday, July 1st, 2009|
|adventures in molex-when-sata's-all-you-have
well, just wrote this whole thing out, then hit backspace when i (APPARENTLY) shouldn't have, and lost the whole entry. restoring the autosaved draft restored the blank entry page that was saved after the mistake, so, yeah, great job autosave. glad to have you on my side, pal. (but seriously, wtf is up with all that latin in the image link preview box in LJ rich text?!?) if you try to highlight it and press backspace, prepare to see the last page you visited, and say good bye to your entry.
anyhoo, long story short, i suppose. got an asus en9600gt pci-e graphics card, after researching in great length to make sure it would work in my computer. as it's essentially my first time buying a graphics card, i'd no idea that they require their own power supply. (wha?). and that some pc power supplies don't support standard leads like molex 4-pin. my power supply only has sata leads, and one floppy lead. (only picking up these terms after
finding out the bad news, and googling for nearly an hour for what the hell do you call the lead that i don't have?
i wondered if there was an adapter that would allow the 4-pin molex to plug in to the sata power. some threads said yes, some said no, some said they shouldn't
exist, which is interesting. turns out they do exist, but are highly un-recommended. so now it's a hunt for a proper power supply that provides both sata and molex 4-pin leads / technology. *sigh* yet another lesson in Why One Should Build Their Own Computer, Especially If One Plans On Upgrading or Changing Internal Components in the Future. *clicks tongue and pets Affordable Dell Machine*
but wait, if this graphics card needs its own power supply, and that in the form of a molex 4-pin that provides 300 watts, then, hey!, i have that upstairs. i took down an old dust farm of a stripped-out pc, took out the power supply (which was rife with molex leads), plugged it in, and, presto!, it didn't turn on. ... of course it didn't. needs to be plugged in to the motherboard and then use the power switch. so i did that, but of course the computer had been stripped of its cooling fan so while providing power for the graphics card i sat with this beast of a disembowled pc box at my feet, the smell of cooking motherboard wafting up from time to time. it got incredibly hot, but kept my feet warm!
(after i found a 'better' solution.)
found a video that explained the 24-pins of the motherboard power lead, shorted the green cable to a black ground, and voila! no more motherboard or box getting in the way. just the medusa-looking power supply sitting on top of the chassis:
(note the brown copper jumper. works like a charm!)
then threading the cable down the back, through hole by the sound card, and connecting it to the molex 4-pin from the graphics card:
now i just wish a had a nerd buddy who could appreciate how, when asking, Hey what's that switch on the power lead for?...
... i shrug and reply, My graphics card.
note to hobbyists: this is what's known, in the OWORP (official world of random projects), as a Bad Idea. if i don't take the appropriate steps and get a suitable power supply that provides both sata and molex 4-pin, the pretty little graphics card will probably suffer and melt and die. but for the time being, in my osx86 10.5.6, core imaging is hardware accelerated and quartz extreme etc. is all fully supported! woo hoo!
|Sunday, June 28th, 2009|
growing up is a choice.
music is a blessing.
mosaics are a cure.
one head strung like a puppet
set to purify on every pulse.
instincts honed to the hunt for mistakes.
the woods alone.
from the moonlit branches
kissing the water
which is ice
which is water
which is kisses
which is ice.
never a photograph was stolen and born
in which this beast was at peace.
there's a journey in the stars tonight
to be threaded on the ground.
there's a loss that fainted years ago
and never made a sound.
|Thursday, June 25th, 2009|
strange to see your two untouched loves in a film together, fighting and falling apart. you just want to step between and be the glue that holds them both together... with benefits.
|gomes went mezz
who invented farewell?
knives that follow like a shadow confused.
i will miss caroline.
|Sunday, June 7th, 2009|
but there's a tunnel in the tune
(after all the years in blind advances, the sculptor's gauntlet still lays in the eyes)
(and in a land with next to none, you must never say Fuck the Sun)
|Sunday, May 31st, 2009|
we used to rhyme
now we spill time like ink
|Wednesday, May 27th, 2009|